Monday, March 17, 2008

Something outside myself....


Though repeated over and over
they sound equally urgent

as if a mad ventriloquist had placed a hand
in each feathered back, egging them onward,

desperate to pierce air the way
the meadowlark embroiders wind.

Some may be calls for mates, yes,
and some for territory, but I swear

most call because they are birds
and for no other reason.

The birds are mad with joy
but they don't know it.

It takes a human mind to parse
delight behind these repetitions,

each as urgent as the last.


Perhaps if I only wrote about things outside of myself, perhaps if I concentrated only on what is joyful, my mood would be better served than by the long analytical posts about how stuck I am. So I'll give it a shot, starting with today's little poem.



  1. Anonymous6:04 PM PDT

    have you tried having others' do the peanutbutter ona begal for you? serve it QAM - toasted.pref sprouted wheat.

    Myself, I always spend my little time do ing my own messy work, no matter the cost, you know, a slight finger singe here and there a sliced palm halving the begal -- etc.. it's worth it though.. try it yourself, you'll see.

    ... oh, that and mustard greens...



  2. Glad to see you writing again; I hope the result is fruitful.

  3. I like the simplicity and repetition of this poem, and the pun! You still have mastery of your creative powers, and it is good to see you turn those powers outward.

  4. Elise, you are too kind. I should polish up this piece eventually. But what I wanted to get across is how urgently birds call, always urgently, though their need is usually not urgent. The repetition of urgency is like the boy crying "wolf." But a bird won't back down from its urgency, no matter how many times it repeats its song. It knows no other way of presenting it. And then the human point: how much of our urgency is just repetition if we could see it.

  5. Nice to see.

    Something outside yourself: you've stumbled across a solution that has worked for me for a very long time. It pulls one out of oneself, and gives one perspective and overview.

    The further outside myself, the better, usually. To the point where I've become openly allergic to the post-confessional lyric therapy-poem. (Not that I mean to imply that you're doing that here, which I don't think you are.) It's just that it's all too easy to get mired in one's own downward spiral. I work hard on flying rather than falling, especially in my poetry.


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