A Graveyard
Example Poem
Marianne Moore, d. 1972
A Graveyard
Man, looking into the sea—
taking the view from those who have as much right to it as you have to it yourself—
it is human nature to stand in the middle of a thing
but you cannot stand in the middle of this:
the sea has nothing to give but a well excavated grave.
The firs stand in a procession, each with an emerald turkeyfoot at the top;
reserved as their contours, saying nothing.
Repression, however, is not the most obvious characteristic of the sea;
the sea is a collector, quick to return a rapacious look.
There are others beside you who have worn that look,
whose expression is no longer a protest. The fish no longer investigate them.
for their bones have not lasted:
men lower their nets, unconscious of the fact that they are desecrating a grave,
and row quickly away; the blades of the oars
moving together like the feet of water-spiders as if there were no such thing as death.
The wrinkles progress upon themselves in a phalanx, beautiful under networks of foam,
and fade breathlessly while the sea rustles in and out of the seaweed.
the birds swim through the air at top speed, emitting cat-calls as heretofore;
the tortoiseshell scourges about the feet of the cliffs, in motion beneath them;
and the ocean, under the pulsation of light-houses and noise of bell-buoys,
advances as usual, looking as if it were not that ocean in which dropped things are bound to sink—
in which, if they turn and twist, it is neither with volition or consciousness.
Publication, 1921.
A Grave
Man looking into the sea, taking the view from those who have as much
right to it as you have to it yourself, it is human na-
ture to stand in the middle of a thing but you cannot
stand in the middle of this: the sea has nothing to give but a but a well exca-
vated grave. The trees stand in a procession, each with an emerald turkey-
foot at the top, reserved as their contours, saying nothing; repression,
however, is not the most obvious
characteristic of the sea: the sea is a collector, quick to
return a rapacious look. There are others beside you, who
have worn that look. People now at their best, whose clothes are
a testimony to the fact, row across them, the blades of the oars moving to-
gether like the feet of water spiders as if there were no such thing as death.
The wrinkles move themselves into a phalanx, beautiful under net-
works of foam and fade breathlessly, while the
sea rustles in and out of the seaweed. The birds swim through the air at
top speed, emitting cat calls as heretofore—the tortoiseshell
scourges about the feet of the cliffs, in motion beneath
them, and the ocean under the pulsation of the lighthouses and noise of bell
buoys, advances as usual, looking as if it were not that ocean
in which dropped things are bound to sink, in which if they turn and twist, it is
neither with volition nor consciousness.
Middle Draft, undated manuscript.
A Graveyard in the Middle of the Sea
The cypresses of experience dead, yet indestructible by circumstance; shivering and stony in the water; not green
but white, surrounding all that is loathsome: inanimate
scavengers guarding permanent garbage; watched over by sharks which cruise between
them—petrine like death yet not so petrine as patient; everything everywhere
yet nothing, because nowhere; infinity defined at last, still infinity because there
where nothing is.
Man, looking into the sea—
taking the view from those who have as much right to it as you have it to yourself, it is human nature to stand in the middle of a thing but you cannot
stand in the middle of this: the sea has nothing to give but a well exca-
vated grave. The firs stand in a procession, each with an emerald turkey-
foot at the top, reserved as their contours, saying nothing; it seems that repression is not the most obvious
characteristic of the sea; the sea is a collector, quick to return a rapacious look. There are others besides you who
have worn that look; people now at their best, whose clothes are a
testimony to the fact; row across them, the blades of the oars moving to-
gether like the feet of water spiders as if there were no such thing as death;
the foam wrinkles itself into a diamond-spotted octagon of giraffe skin and fades breath-
lessly while the
sea rustles in and out of the seaweed. The birds swim through the air at top speed, emitting catcalls as heretofore, the tortoise shell
scourges about the feet of the cliffs, in motion beneath
them. Meanwhile the sea—under the pulsation of lighthouses, and the noise of bell
buoys, advances as usual, looking as if it were not that ocean
in which dropped things were bound to sink; in which if they turn and twist, it is neither with volition
nor consciousness.
Early Draft, undated manuscript.
References:
Publication Copyright Acknowledgement: “A Graveyard” in “First Presentations of Moore’s Poems Published Between 1907 and 1924 That Appear in Observations,” in Becoming Marianne Moore: The Early Poems, 1907-1924. The Regents of the University of California, London, 2002. p. 258.
Early and Middle Drafts: Moore, Marianne. Manuscript. “A Grave.” MML I:02:14. Marianne Moore Library. The Rosenbach Museum and Library, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, United States.
Image Source: “Album: Miscellaneous Sketches” by Utagawa Hiroshige 歌川広重 (1797-1858), National Museum of Asian Art. Creative Commons Zero.