Speechless

Like the beak of a severed chicken’s head
opening & closing in the dirt beside
the chopping block
while its former companion goes
through all the motions
of real life, I have
no words.

Filed in Poems & poem-like things. Bookmark the permalink. Post a comment or leave a trackback: Trackback URL.Print Print

14 Responses to Speechless

  1. dale says:

    Oh dear. I’ve been working with anatomy too long: my first thought on reading this was — with the neck muscles severed? How on earth would it do that? And an urgency about understanding bird musculature :-)

    But (self-contradictory as this is, I’ll take it at face-value) maybe you should pick up some random poet and write some imitations, to prime the pump? Someone really unlikely. Pope, say.

    Though it seems to me that you’ve written some particularly good ones lately. I really like the lammergeier one. But I know that these feelings of having fallen mute don’t always have anything to do with whether one has.

    • Dave says:

      Hi dale – Actually, this wasn’t autobiographical. Sorry for the confusion. Usually when the I-voice in a poem is actually me, you’ll see that I’ve assigned it to the Memoir category as well as to Poems and Poem-like Things.

      Chickens flap their wings and move their feet for up to half a minute after being decapitated. Trust me on this.

  2. carolee says:

    on occasion when you come to a poem, it’s an exact expression of something you’re feeling. this is my experience with this piece.

    i’m going to make it the inaugural link in my new sidebar feature “what i would say if i knew how.” it’ll be a rolling shout-out list, kind of like your smorgasblog.

  3. Deb says:

    I liked the truth & the structure (line lengths receding). The simplicity of a graphic metaphor.

    I wish I had said it, too — especially as it turns the “running around like a chicken with its head cut off” phrase upside down.

    And because many days I feel the same way.

  4. Maybe the “I” of this poem is the Republican Party, and its former companion(now chicken liver) is Mr. Wilson. ;)

  5. Kass says:

    …reminds me of my sons winning entry to Salt Lake City’s Deseret News Bad Writing Contest (not that yours is bad):
    “He felt that his life was like a man with no index fingers – pointless.”

  6. dale says:

    Oh, I know the body moves, and I imagine the bird is still conscious for a while. CF Camus re guillotining. It’s the beak being able to open and close without the muscles of the neck being anchored that inspired my anatomical doubts :-)

    Sorry to take it as autobiographical. I know better than that.

  7. [...] video version of my poem from last week. It took about four hours to make, process, and upload a video for a poem that I [...]

Leave a Reply

Your email is never published nor shared. Required fields are marked *

*
*

URLs are converted to links, and three or more links in one comment will cause it to be sent to the moderation queue. Constructive criticism is always welcome. You may use these HTML tags and attributes: <a href="" title=""> <abbr title=""> <acronym title=""> <b> <blockquote cite=""> <cite> <code> <del datetime=""> <em> <i> <q cite=""> <strike> <strong>

  • Smorgasblog

    • Metaphors for the Moon
      Early marriage is a wetland, a marsh
      of co-mingling reeds, breeding birds.

    • Cleaning My Attic
      Cast-iron Royal, weighty and not regal at all but seriously proletarian, ostensibly portable in your anonymous black case: my secret unmusical instrument, which I lugged to cafes before they were wireless or even wired...

    • Clumps and Voids
      The program description, however, devolves into the fey. "The lingam (or linga) is a cylindrical votary object that represents the Hindu god Shiva, and a dispute about its meaning has been going on for many centuries." When a phallus is tagged with the museum label of "cylindrical votary object," I lose hope that the speaker will be introduced as Professor Wendy Doniger: don of dongs.

    • botanizing
      On calm days, the soil swirls and rises in isolated twisters. On a windy day when the wheat is being harvested — a day like today — the soil lifts like a yellow curtain, obliterating the sky.

    • The Twitching Line
      My uncle, gutting a fish:
      removing the fins from either side,
      tipping the knife below

      the little anus, pointing the tail-
      end away, slitting it to the gills,
      then plunging in a hand

      to scoop the organs out, soft
      and scarlet as a litter of kittens.

    • The Ordinary and the Wild
      I had a dream the other night about a tall machine, like a crane or an android giraffe, lanky with angles of metal that reach up to the sky when they should somehow be digging. When I woke I felt taller for a moment, and also deeper, as if the soles of my feet had met up with some spilled honey or errant tar while I walked in my sleep.

    • Busily Seeking... Continual Change
      So the mountain was steep? I threw a couple of windbreakers, yogurts and miscellaneous snacks (really, whatever I could lay my hands on at the last minute), wallet, phone, bottles of water--yes, just the things I thought to grab into a new REI bright yellow daypack--and off we went. That was it. Toss things in a bag and go.

    • Chatoyance
      And on the other side, what I
      set in motion: the open field, the low hill,
      a crease scored in bent blades of grass
      where I forgot the wall stood,
      my footsteps blurring as the
      grass unbends.

    • Velveteen Rabbi
      There are trade-offs: in the womb we knew perfect intimacy, but couldn't meet. Now we are separate, which is at once the source of loneliness (especially for him, I'm guessing) and the source of our ability to connect.

    • Will Buckingham
      My small guide and I then did our double-act of worshipping at the shrine, at which point the monk then declared that, once again, I was not doing it right. There followed another twenty minute lesson in proper bowing -- different from the previous lesson, in fact -- and if I have retained anything it is that one’s feet must be aligned like the lines in the number 8 -- an auspicious number in China.

  • "On the whole I concentrated on things and people that I found charming and splendid; my notes are also full of poems and observations on trees and plants, birds and insects."
    — Sei Shonagon, 994 A.D.

`