Peacock Pie, a Book of Rhymes — A Reader’s Guide

Diction and the Unfamiliar

De la Mare frequently chooses words that are slightly off-center, creating a sense of estrangement. In 'Mrs. Earth,' the verb 'whitens' applied to bone is both clinical and poetic, while 'tan my skin, and tire my toes' reduces human experience to physical effects. The poet coins compound words like 'knobble-kneed' for the donkey Nicholas Nye, and uses rare terms such as 'gumption' and 'champing' (for horses chewing). These choices give the verses a texture that resists easy consumption, inviting the reader to pause over individual words.

Dialogue, when it appears, is often minimal and strange. The fish in 'Alas, Alack!' speaks only two words—'Alas, alack!'—before sinking back into the fat. The Cobbler in 'At the Keyhole' addresses his 'pretty Sue' with a request for bones, blending domesticity with the macabre. Such utterances are not meant to advance a narrative but to create a momentary, unsettling intimacy.

Voice and Persona

The poems shift between first-person speakers and third-person observations, often blurring the line. In 'Mima,' the speaker reveals a secret name and a sister's mockery, but the voice remains childlike and vulnerable. 'The Little Bird' and 'The Bookworm' adopt the perspective of small creatures, while 'Tit for Tat' addresses a 'Tom Noddy' directly, threatening him with an ogre's revenge. This variety of personas prevents any single tone from dominating.

Some poems use a collective or anonymous voice, as in 'The Huntsmen,' where 'three jolly gentlemen' are described with detached amusement. Others, like 'The Old Soldier,' present a character through external details—'a ghost, and as still as a post'—without entering his mind. De la Mare's restraint in psychological access keeps the figures enigmatic, more like figures in a frieze than fully realized characters.

Structure and Repetition

Many poems employ refrains or repeated lines to create a hypnotic effect. 'Poor Tired Tim' begins and ends with the same line, framing the poem as a closed loop of exhaustion. 'Nicholas Nye' uses the donkey's name as a refrain, and the phrase 'Would brood like a ghost, and as still as a post' echoes earlier descriptions. This structural repetition reinforces the sense of ritual or inevitability.

De la Mare also varies line lengths within poems to control pace. 'Five Eyes' uses short, clipped lines for the cats' stalking ('Whisker and claw, they crouch in the night'), then longer lines for the miller's snoring. The contrast between the cats' alertness and Hans's obliviousness is built into the meter. In 'Summer Evening,' a series of end-stopped lines mimics the stillness of a fading day, each line a separate observation.

Setting and the Supernatural

Settings are often liminal: the edge of a forest, a mill at night, a moonlit hill. In 'The Horseman,' the landscape is reduced to a hill and a moon, creating a stage for the uncanny rider. 'The Old Stone House' and 'The Ruin' evoke abandoned spaces, while 'At the Keyhole' places the listener at a threshold, hearing a wind 'in the keyhole drones.' These settings are not fully described but suggested through a few sensory details—a 'sullen blaze,' a 'moss-greened house.'

The supernatural appears obliquely: a fish that talks, an ogre who might come, a changeling. De la Mare rarely explains or moralizes; the eerie events simply occur. In 'The Changeling,' the transformation is presented without commentary, leaving the reader to infer the horror. This restraint makes the poems more unsettling than any explicit ghost story.

Readers approaching Peacock Pie should attend to the poems' sonic qualities—read them aloud to catch the full effect of de la Mare's rhythms and rhymes. The collection rewards rereading, as the simplicity of the surface often conceals darker undercurrents. Each poem is a small, self-contained world; taken together, they form a landscape where the ordinary and the strange coexist without explanation.

Years among the stacks, I’ve noticed how Peacock Pie hums with tiny, flickering wonders—a fish that talks, a cat with one eye—and it always makes me think of that other, grander mystery. Milton’s vast silences hold a similar kinship, a quiet awe before the unseen. Their music differs, yet both trust the dark. The Poetical Works of John Milton — Themes and Context lingers beside it on my shelf, patient as evening.