Now that’s what I call poetry! Izzy


[Debbie] 

Were the chief, the most stunning of sun-eyried eagles

to take up with drab and hapless crows—

shabby, small, squabbling with each other,

living by petty thievery

yet terrified of scarecrows, of straw men in fields—

and if he became a crow

and lived as their servant

wouldn’t that be a story!

Supposing they set on him, pecking with their beaks like chickens

and squawking, raucous:

Think you can change us? We’re happy like this.

Go back to your nest on your cliff in the sky 

Resume your wingspan

and fly where we won’t have to feel the sharp point of your loving.

Go on, soar high and don’t interfere.

Imagine if somehow, by dying a crow

at their hands,    

he made them all eagles,

and they never again feared a scarecrow

or farmer’s stones

or the clang of pie plates

and they viewed the fields from high on a mountain,

navigating the wind in the morning

and their call sent shivers of awe up the spine of the earth

and made all creatures listen.
 

And now, please nobody go trying to map my theology based on an extension or dissection of the above analogy...  

 

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