The Jaguar

The mind of man is a bird in a cage That never stirs, sinks and flutters Each feather caught with the dust of loss. But if a man moves within it, Its bars will fall, its bars will open, Its nails will crumble. The jeweled eyes and the rows of fangs Will capitulate. The rhinoceros Will come bellowing to the altar, Mad, ignited. Into the puddles, Will pour their lost jewels of color.

The forest is real The jaguar stiff and dark Moving in its coils, This is the only image that matters. Vino will graze on reed beds, A windbird will rise Flames of cure, wisps of legion, Within the box’s knees. If it bows, it lives. If rises… It all floats, rattles like an empty jar. The colors of man pouring inside— And yet they will not capture their image in plants. The allgull, the wailed whale, Thick down I can hardly walk in—

The jaguar enters.

• Ted Hughes