Thursday, January 5, 2017

A poem for the new year - Some Call Me Raven

If you are subscribed to the blog via email you would have already received this poem as a Christmas present ( lucky you).

This poem was one of my experiments in having more fun in my poetry.  I have this tendency to think that Poetry is all very, very serious (a pattern of thinking I am endeavouring to change) so I tried to be a bit more theatrical ? in my approach this time.  You'll notice this particularly if you listen to the audio below.

I have made a tentative agreement with myself to publish more poems on the blog this year so...

Please enjoy.


Some call me Raven


others Crow.
A god before the slow decline
to memory and thought. I brought
good omens before bad.
Will I rise again? No.
Nevermore.
All things must
fall.


You judge.
Unkind or murderous,
which is worse?  Forever cursed;
bearer of unwanted news
or to be thought unkind
for all I’ve done?


This unwanted guest
has cleaned the mess of a thousand
bloodied fields. Is that it?
The mud and gore sticks? Am I
the fetish for your hate
and foolishness?


Confess,


the vulture does the same -
perhaps you pity his ugliness?


I don’t sing
sweetly.  I’m harsh. Frequently
I disappoint you but to say
I lash you with my screams? An obscene
reaction to my call.  Straight spoken truth
never suited you.


Call me cruel?
You pluck the eyes of lambs.


Hypocrite -
their ribs were mutton chops,
lips and arshole spam,
before I came along.

Those muddy squatters under your eaves,
those cooing vermin that breed
and shit everywhere. Nothing to say?
No one ever thought it romantic
to feed the crow.
No.
I’ll build my nest in trees
as far from you
as I can go.


Is it the colour?
The villain always wears black.
If I had a golden bill, I’d be more
pleasing to the eyes? No?
No.
As I recall they ended
up in pies.


I will never lead a nation.  March
golden at the head of men.  Grace
stately coats of arms again. The
harm’s done.


The best I can hope
settled here on this branch
is to herald the oncoming
autumn and the darkness
of things.


All fall.


All fall -
more so those of us
with wings.



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