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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
When I was in the seventh grade, we had to do a project: select a poem, create an illustration for it, have the illustration photographed in the schoollibrary media center so that it could be turned into either a slide or a sheet for the overhead projector, and record a reading of the poem which would be played at the same time that the visual would be shown. This was the poem I chose. I think the illustration is predictable, if you take two seconds to think of what it might have been.
Interestingly, I had no idea who de Chirico was at the time, and I thought that Chirico in the poem referred to a place, probably somewhere in Italy or Spain, where the toy was made, or where the hair for the horse's mane and tail came from. It sounded very exotic and luxurious to me.
Also, we have embarked on a strange, sick addiction to bacon in this house. It is NOT healthy.
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
When I was in the seventh grade, we had to do a project: select a poem, create an illustration for it, have the illustration photographed in the school
Interestingly, I had no idea who de Chirico was at the time, and I thought that Chirico in the poem referred to a place, probably somewhere in Italy or Spain, where the toy was made, or where the hair for the horse's mane and tail came from. It sounded very exotic and luxurious to me.
Also, we have embarked on a strange, sick addiction to bacon in this house. It is NOT healthy.