bird hung by a white plastic thread
sticky from the gutter
intervened, with our humanity
and aluminum ladders and scissors
it bit and flew, petrified
of all the fingers unfurling feathers
[[this was a compulsory poem; something i didn't want to trust to memory. but memory serves me much better. the poem doesn't do it, isn't good enough. i feel as though, perhaps, i should not have published it. it gives me good reason to discuss though. let's discuss:
poetry as a means of remembering. our memory is connected directly to language, to words. we memorize, we learn what things are called, give them names, remember numbers and dates. i have always felt compelled to write the most emotional moments in my life into poetry. however, as compelled and motivated as i feel, the poem never does justice to the event. this leads me to steer away from the event and use it, instead, as a highlight or resource for the poem's venacular.
does this happen to anyone else? something so awesome that you can't write about it? only around it?
maybe i'm the only one.
on the other hand, i could write prose and prose and prose on the same topic; it just doesn't contain within poetic form. today, we found a bird hung from the second story gutter from a string. it's feathered fellow chirping wildly for help; i just don't think it was expecting a guy in his early 50's with a cig hanging out of his lips to turn up on an aluminum ladder. the bird that could flew away. the other bird had no choice but to be held, carried down and prodded. marty held the bird and i followed the plastic thread to the loop formed around the bird's neck. rita got the scissors and we were able to free the bird (who at that point had already bit marty's finger). the chickadee fled for the cover of a bush.
what a horrifying sight. to see a bird swinging from a string from the top of a building. it was as if it had been hung. that was the traumatizing part for me. the image. and the instant human reaction to personify the birds.
we saved it though. am i'm grateful for that. the poem, however, does nothing to disperse any feeling or even provoke thought. it doesn't even
sound nice.]]
sticky from the gutter
intervened, with our humanity
and aluminum ladders and scissors
it bit and flew, petrified
of all the fingers unfurling feathers
[[this was a compulsory poem; something i didn't want to trust to memory. but memory serves me much better. the poem doesn't do it, isn't good enough. i feel as though, perhaps, i should not have published it. it gives me good reason to discuss though. let's discuss:
poetry as a means of remembering. our memory is connected directly to language, to words. we memorize, we learn what things are called, give them names, remember numbers and dates. i have always felt compelled to write the most emotional moments in my life into poetry. however, as compelled and motivated as i feel, the poem never does justice to the event. this leads me to steer away from the event and use it, instead, as a highlight or resource for the poem's venacular.
does this happen to anyone else? something so awesome that you can't write about it? only around it?
maybe i'm the only one.
on the other hand, i could write prose and prose and prose on the same topic; it just doesn't contain within poetic form. today, we found a bird hung from the second story gutter from a string. it's feathered fellow chirping wildly for help; i just don't think it was expecting a guy in his early 50's with a cig hanging out of his lips to turn up on an aluminum ladder. the bird that could flew away. the other bird had no choice but to be held, carried down and prodded. marty held the bird and i followed the plastic thread to the loop formed around the bird's neck. rita got the scissors and we were able to free the bird (who at that point had already bit marty's finger). the chickadee fled for the cover of a bush.
what a horrifying sight. to see a bird swinging from a string from the top of a building. it was as if it had been hung. that was the traumatizing part for me. the image. and the instant human reaction to personify the birds.
we saved it though. am i'm grateful for that. the poem, however, does nothing to disperse any feeling or even provoke thought. it doesn't even
sound nice.]]
2 comments:
Don't know if you're the only one, but it sure is good to save a bird. Dont let Max acquire a taste!
hbeeco believe it or not!
hah, max just introduced himself to our spoilt goldfish (wibble) the other night. they had a staring contest... i think wibble won.
wibble has a fortified ten gallon tank though, so no worries about max taking any chomps at him.
as for birds, i've already got a cat (his name is ra, he's a lovable monster) who lives with my parents a few towns over. ra eats all sorts of critters, birds included. max on the other hand, is afraid of ants.
wdawhx
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