Marianne Moore(1887–1972)
The Mind Is an Enchanting Thing
is an e n c h a n t e d thing
like the glaze on a
katydid-wing
subdivided by s u n
till the nettings are legion.
Like G i e s e k i n g playing Scarlatti;2
like the apteryx-awl3
as a beak, or the
kiwi's rain-shawl
of haired feathers, the mind
feeling its way as though blind,
walks along with its eyes on the ground.
It has memory's ear
that can hear without
having to hear.
Like the gyroscope's fall,
truly unequivocal
because trued 0 by regnant 0 certainty,balanced / authoritative
it is a power of
strong enchantment. It
is like the dove-
neck animated by
sun; it is memory's eye;
it's conscientious inconsistency.
It tears off the veil; tears
the temptation, the
mist the heart wears,
from its eyes—if the heart
has a face; it takes apart
dejection. It's fire in the dove-neck's
iridescence; in the
inconsistencies
of Scarlatti.
Unconfusion submits
its confusion to proof; it's
not a Herod's oath4 that cannot change.