Macaw And Little Miss

In a cage of wire-ribs
The size of a man's head, the macaw bristles in a staring
Combustion, suffers the stoking devils of his eyes.
In the old lady's parlour, where an aspidistra succumbs
To the musk of faded velvet, he hangs in clear flames,
    Like a torturer's iron instrument preparing
    With dense slow shudderings of greens, yellows, blues,
        Crimsoning into the barbs:

    Or like the smouldering head that hung
In Killdevil's brass kitchen, in irons, who had been
Volcano swearing to vomit the world away in black ash,
And would, one day; or a fugitive aristocrat
From some thunderous mythological hierarchy, caught
    By a little boy with a crust and a bent pin,
    Or snare of horsehair set for a song-thrush,
        And put in a cage to sing.

    The old lady who feeds him seeds
Has a grand-daughter. The girl calls him 'Poor Polly', pokes fun.
'Jolly Mop.' But lies under every full moon,
The spun glass of her body bared and so gleam-still
Her brimming eyes do not tremble or spill
    The dream where the warrior comes, lightning and iron,
    Smashing and burning and rending towards her loin:
        Deep into her pillow her silence pleads.

    All day he stares at his furnace
With eyes red-raw, but when she comes they close.
'Polly. Pretty Poll', she cajoles, and rocks him gently.
She caresses, whispers kisses. The blue lids stay shut.
She strikes the cage in a tantrum and swirls out:
    Instantly beak, wings, talons crash
    The bars in conflagration and frenzy,
        And his shriek shakes the house.

by Ted Hughes

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