Poetry and each of the fair seasons go hand in hand, in this blogger's opinion. Poetry and the autumn season, well, they're steady lovers, wouldn't you know, and quite perfectly suited to one another. That's logic. It has been more than plainly stated throughout this blog that I am moonstruck over poetry and what's more, I especially love poetry on a park bench with autumn's captivating whimsy all around me and a sweetly hot beverage to my side. Sigh. Giant lovely sigh. It is time again for some poetic food for thought on East Of and I mean this time to share a poem from one of my favourites - Elizabeth Bishop. I've read several of her poems and have read them several times over and always come back to Cirque D'Hiver as a beloved piece of her poetry. There are several bits of analysis on this poem floating about the wide world, some of which I find somewhat fitting and others I think are just bonkers. I love this poem for what I perceive is a light dusting of innocence, determination and spirit. Beyond that, if nothing else, it creates a perfectly quaint picture in my mind's eye.
Three things to thee, dear reader...a park bench as fall is falling, a thermos with a piping hot beverage inside and Elizabeth Bishop as your read. It seems a grand notion to me, anyway.
Cirque D'Hiver
across the floor flits the mechanical toy,
fit for a king of several centuries back.
a little circus horse with real white hair.
his eyes are glossy black.
he bears a little dancer on his back.
she stands upon her toes and turns and turns.
a slanting spray of artificial roses
is stitched across her skirt and tinsel bodice.
above her head she poses
another spray of artificial roses.
his mane and tail are straight from Chirico.
he has a formal, melancholy soul.
he feels her pink toes dangle toward his back
along the little pole
that pierces both her body and her soul
and goes through his, and reappears below,
under his belly, as a big tin key.
he canters three steps, then he makes a bow,
canters again, bows on one knee,
canters, then clicks and stops, and looks at me.
the dancer, by this time, has turned her back.
he is the more intelligent by far.
facing each other rather desperately
his eye is like a star -
we stare and say, “Well, we have come this far.”
Elizabeth Bishop circa 1946
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