When life is all topsy turvy it can be hard to focus enough on finishing the things that need to be finished, let alone the things that I might actually want to do. This is a poem that came from a conversation about poetry, the sort of poetry conversation that follows the televised (May 17, 1991) revelation that Lenin was indeed a mushroom.
Poetry is kind of strange,
Like a bird, all feather and tremble, it flutters
as it chooses us.
But there is no mercy,
afterwards. The bird alights,
Grazes upturned faces with her wing tips,
Blesses us...but
flips the salt off her tail anyway.
Leaves us shining fools, recipients of the wrath hurled at decadents
but for ourselves, each and all of us are...
Are... well, yes, hope. Hope and Redemption!
The telecast is on YouTube. If you speak Russian it's hilarious, but you don't lose a whole lot if you can't.
Love this!! Love the fickle poetry bird. So capricious.
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