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The white-tailed hornet lives in a balloon
The white-tailed hornet lives in a balloon That floats against the ceiling of the woodshed. The exit he comes out at like a bullet Is like the pupil of a pointed gun. And having power to change his aim in flight He comes out more unerring than a bullet. Verse could be written on the certainty With which he penetrates my best defense Of whirling hands and arms about the head To stab me in the sneeze-nerve of a nostril. Such is the instinct of it I allow.
Yet how about the insect certainty That in the neighborhood of home and children Is such an execrable judge of motives As not to recognize in me the exception I like to think I am in everything, One who would never hang above a bookcase His Japanese crepe-paper globe for trophy? He stings me first and stings me afterward, He rolls me off the field head over heels, And will not listen to an explanation.
That’s when I go as visitor to his house. As visitor to my house he is better. Hawking for flies about the kitchen door, In at one door perhaps and out the other, Trust him then not to put you in the wrong. He won’t misunderstand your freest movements. Let him light on your skin, unless you mind So many prickly grappling-feet at once. He’s after the domesticated fly To feed his thumping grubs as big as he is. Here he is at his best. But even here—
I watched him where he swooped, he pounced, he struck. But what he found he had was just a nail-head. He struck a second time. Another nail-head. “Those are just nail-heads. Those are fastened down.” Then disconcerted and not unannoyed He stooped and struck a little huckleberry The way a player curls around a football. “Wrong shape, wrong color, and wrong smell,” I said. The huckleberry rolled him on his head. At last it was a fly. He shot and missed. And the fly circled round him in derision. But for the fly he might have made me think He had been at his poetry comparing Nail-head with fly and fly with huckleberry: How like a fly, how very like a fly! But the real fly he missed would never do. The missed fly made me dangerously skeptic.
Won’t this whole instinct matter bear revision? Won’t almost any theory bear revision? To err is human, not to animal. Or so we pay the compliment to instinct, Only too liberal of our compliment That robs someone of what we want to keep, I mean our cherished fallibility. Our worship, humor, conscientiousness Went long since to the dogs under the table, And served us right for having instituted Downward comparison. As long on earth As our comparisons were stoutly upward With gods and angels, we were men at least But little lower than the gods and angels. But once comparison was yielded downward, Once we began to see our images Reflected in the mud and even dust, ’Twas disillusion upon disillusion. We were lost piecemeal to the animals, Like people thrown out to delay the wolves. Nothing but fallibility was left us. And this day’s work made even that seem doubtful.
The white-tailed hornet lives in a balloon That floats against the ceiling of the woodshed. The exit he comes out at like a bullet Is like the pupil of a pointed gun. And having power to change his aim in flight He comes out more accurate than a bullet. Poems could be written about the certainty With which he breaks through my best defense Of spinning hands and arms around the head To poke me in the sneeze-trigger of a nostril. Such is the instinct of it I accept.
Yet how about the insect certainty That in the area of home and children Is such a terrible judge of motives As not to see in me the exception I like to believe I am in everything, One who would never hang above a bookcase His Japanese crepe-paper globe as a trophy? He stings me first and stings me again, He rolls me off the field head over heels, And will not listen to an explanation.
That’s when I go as a guest to his house. As a guest in my house he is better. Hunting for flies around the kitchen door, In at one door perhaps and out the other, Trust him then not to put you in the wrong. He won’t misinterpret your freest movements. Let him land on your skin, unless you mind So many prickly gripping-feet at once. He’s after the domesticated fly To feed his thumping grubs as big as he is. Here he is at his best. But even here—
I watched him where he swooped, he pounced, he struck. But what he found he had was just a nail-head. He struck a second time. Another nail-head. “Those are just nail-heads. Those are fastened down.” Then confused and not unbothered He bent down and struck a little huckleberry The way a player curls around a football. “Wrong shape, wrong color, and wrong smell,” I said. The huckleberry rolled him on his head. At last it was a fly. He shot and missed. And the fly circled around him in mockery. But for the fly he might have made me think He had been at his poetry comparing Nail-head with fly and fly with huckleberry: How like a fly, how very like a fly! But the real fly he missed would never do. The missed fly made me dangerously doubtful.
Won’t this whole instinct matter bear revision? Won’t almost any theory bear revision? To err is human, not to animal. Or so we pay the compliment to instinct, Only too generous of our compliment That takes away from someone what we want to keep, I mean our cherished fallibility. Our worship, humor, conscientiousness Went long ago to the dogs under the table, And served us right for having established Downward comparison. As long on earth As our comparisons were strongly upward With gods and angels, we were men at least But little lower than the gods and angels. But once comparison was yielded downward, Once we began to see our images Reflected in the mud and even dust, It was disillusion upon disillusion. We were lost piece by piece to the animals, Like people thrown out to delay the wolves. Nothing but fallibility was left us. And this day’s work made even that seem doubtful.