Hyperion And Phoebe (Saturn's Moons) - Poem by Diane Hine
HYPERION THE WATCHFUL
Mimas averts his cyclopean eye
from dewy Enceladus, who weeps salt tears,
tended by Tethys, Dione and Rhea.
I think their vying fondness makes him cry.
Titan's self-absorbed in thick orange sky,
and then (heh heh) , I modestly appear.
I must twist to see who brings up the rear;
that's white Iapetus blotted black I spy.
I know who daubed him kitsch but I won't snitch;
whose cloak has spread a deep red ghostly ring:
You, Phoebe - our captive nomad - dark as pitch.
I see you flying and the dust you fling,
you non-conforming, counter-orbiting witch.
I'd visit if I could, the path you wing.
PHOEBE THE PROPHET
Hyperion, pretender, misfit, chump.
Look at your proud siblings, seven plump moons.
They're solid spheres. You're a porous buffoon.
Show some resilience. Don't cave. Don't slump.
Why, you look like Neptune's old sea sponge.
Is Saturn's elite commune a curse or boon?
You won't see me - dark as a fossilized prune.
You pitted potato. You shrunken lump.
Your siblings never turn from Saturn's gaze.
Why don't you skittle crabwise like the rest?
You tilt and spin in odd chaotic ways.
You show me all your sides. You're self-possessed.
I can't predict your turns. You dance a maze.
Hyperion, I'm obsessed. I love you best.
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