like a crow on the battlefield

[Salli Shepherd]

I will not anymore peer

through that dim little lens propped
before the French windows, which open

to a garden where grottos hold statues
of mythical wonders and all the world's secrets

are there encrypted in stone, in the vital
songs of water and leaves. I will not,

all hunch and squint, stare
through the blind, rotten eye of it.




.

[GreaterMandalaofUselessness]

Hey Salli,

Thought I was dropping by to see the last one, but I find there's three. Apologies. Not sure how that happened.

All from want -- the focus is on how unprepared the N is on a practical level, but the subtext seems to speak also of unpreparedness on emotional and psychological level. "The amputation is coming like a great, slow slap" is a great line and sets the mood for what follows. The list of items builds well, although I wonder if the cats and children stanza should come after the freezer one? That stanza seems to hint at death, as if the mother will be leaving them completely and rather than going into hospital and returning -- which I think is very effective, and most likely what part of her is thinking about and planning for, but as such it may be better placed as the culmination of the list. Good word-play at the close.

Stage 3 A prayer to Santa.Thishas a very bleak humour to it.

I will not anymore peer I like, though I don't wholly get, because I'm not quite sure what the lens is. Unless it is her eye? Or more generally, her consciousness -- as after all, we don't generally experience ourselves looking through individual eye, but simply seeing: the world appears where our heads should be. This speaks to me of death -- or a denial or retreat from life. The garden seems to be life in its vitality (vital songs of water and leaves) and life's wonders and mysteries. It's strong poem.

Great to see you back here for Sevens, hope to see you here in 2018.

Matt

[5th column]

I will not - se the world as I once did, through a narrow focus and looking only at my immediate surroundings at things that are frozen, unmoving. Nice

[Salli Shepherd]

Thanks, guys! So here we go, with January's 7's.

Who's in?

Oh go onnnnnnnnnn. You know you want to.

edit; I have to post two today as tomorrow is full of dr's appointments, guaranteed to suck the verse right outta me.

Along with half my blood, probably. There will be 'I hate needles' poems, oh yes there will.

[Salli Shepherd]

The Thing With Feathers

The silent owl that roosts on the amygdala
dreams of murder. A limbic rabbit

thumps and runs-- the owl descends
like a hammer, and misses. Relentless, it

narrows, forging itself
into a terrible spear-- a falcon's shadow,

fleeter than the falcon, ripples
dark on convoluted hills. The rabbit leaps--

forepaws, raking the air, abruptly
plumed. A swift darts

over the tongue and is swallowed by the sky.
Somewhere, a vulture,

glutted with souls, waits for the hunter
and the hunted-- its neck

a naked question left to twist,
unanswered, below the sun's awful, yellow stare.


.

[Salli Shepherd]

And On the Seventh Day

-- for Willow

We cut the grass. We cut the grass, and cut.
And where we go, the grass behind springs up.
Its grasp is strong. Its vigour is obscene.
The Devil is-- despite all rumour-- green.

The lawn, we say, the lawn-- as though that name
absolves an evil despot from all blame.
Our neatly bordered beds are daily rumpled.
The stuff God makes is great-- but this, He bungled.

We rip, we pull, we fill the bins. This curse--
with its million, billion fingers clings to Earth
in guise of perfect backyard emerald plains--
but turn our backs, and off it sprouts again.

We rake and feed, and edge, and weed, and mow--
we slaves to grass, who toil so grass may grow
while mindless, heartless lawns recline at leisure--
and tell ourselves it's all for garden pleasure.

Get wise! Rise up! And join the revolution--
armed with spades, be part of the solution!
For while our Masters lie in winter's sleep,
let's dig the bastards up-- be Men, not sheep!





.

[Seremba]

Hey Salli

The Thing With Feathers is really good - The silent owl that dreams of murder (excellent)
The movement descending like a hammer sounds too heavy for the owl but resonates so well with the thumping of the rabbit it's forgivable
And I would dispute an owl ever being faster than a falcon - There are so many lovely phrases and delicious scenes unfolding here, my favourite line;
'a vulture, glutted with souls'
Great sonics throughout - my kind of poem!

[Sorella]

For Willow-- so poignant-- and how full of grass (in winter here I am happy to see and chew grass, not so for you!) Superb job, I had it coming out of my ears in this frozen world even!

The amygdala, so primitive, and haunted by birds!
You rock as usual, Salli Shepherd!

Sorella

[Salli Shepherd]

Seremba, so lovely to see you here! And thank you for kind words. I'd intended for the owl to become the falcon, and this was probably cleaner before I backspaced a bunch of stuff, so something to look at later on, there, thanks for alerting me.

Sorella.. poor Willow, pushing the chugging mower through rampant summer buffalo grass.. I thought he deserved some sympathy by the end of it, ha. And how I hate that insidious plant. Glad you liked it! And yes, haunted is a good word.. I'm itching to work on that one, post 7's.

[GreaterMandalaofUselessness]

Hey Sal,

The Thing With Feathers I'm liking the menagerie that haunts the limbic system. No higher cognitive functions here, all is red in tooth-and-claw. Nicely fight-and-flight fear-appropriate. "The silent owl that roosts on the amygdala / dreams of murder" is a great opening line, and pulls me in. Good title too.

And on the Seventh Day So much for a day of rest. The grass is the unexpected villain here. Lolling around doing nothing and forcing us to tend it as it grows relentlessly on. Love the sheep joke at the end, and the grass' "million, billion fingers" and "the Devil is ... green". Nicely turned.

Matt

[Scavella]

Am loving the images in #1, particularly

”it

narrows, forging itself
into a terrible spear”

and

“A swift darts

over the tongue and is swallowed by the sky”

and the entire image of the vulture, that “naked question”.


And as for #2, well. I concur wholeheartedly.

Cheers.

[JFN]

Salli, The Thing With Feathers is a delightful opener for the year. The image of the owl forging itself into a falcon's shadow will stay with me. The vulture's neck as a naked question is nice too.

The songfulness of And On the Seventh Day is great fun, and the rhythm so reminiscent of those working songs (Hi ho, hi ho, it's off to work we go...). The way the grass has been given a character makes it for me.

Good fun. I hope your appointments weren't too arduous.

John

[Seremba]

And on the seventh day - For Willow - the pace of the opening strophe perfect for the swiftness of summer grass growing - I love that pace and those hard and soft vowel sounds - almost matching the lawnmower's back and forth.
I had joined the revolution with 3 acres growing around us, but in recent years we have turned part of the garden to lawn and it's a daily battle to keep it trim - never mind the grass growing in the veg beds - it is the worst weed!
Brilliant work - almost finished, (unlike the grass cutting)
S

[Dunc]

Salli m'dear

The Thing with Feathers ─ This is the landscape of dark dreams, the self as predator, censor, punisher of the self as a parcel of fleeing fears, doubts, terrors, not a little Breughelesque. Paricularly liked your opening line, your swift, and your closing line. Wasn't so sure about S2,2 'and misses' which deflates the tone and tension, and S7.1, 'glutted with souls', which seemed a bit out of the otherwise effective frame.

And on the Seventh Day ─ A most polished cry of fury and frustration, prettily put throughout. (S3.3 or perhaps 'out' it sprouts?) What if you dropped S4? It's blameless in itself, but maybe adds less than the others.

Most enjoyable reading!

(By the way, I notice you use -- for the n-dash. At the risk of telling you what you already know, if you like you can get the real thing ' ─ ' by holding down the alt key and pressing, in order, 196 on the number pad (ie not the numbers along the top row). If it doesn't work, press Num Lock once and try again. If you'd like the m-dash '— ' that's alt + 0151. I suspect there's some other trick for Apple users though.)

Regards / Dunc

[Salli Shepherd]

Thanks so much everyone! As ever, the feedback and very appreciated.. the owl poem was inspired by my being in a horrible mood and happening on Emily Dickinson's sweet 'thing with feathers' -
hope perching on the soul, etc, to which I grumpily responded, 'pfffffft!' and wrote that. So that's why the title, and why the vulture is glutted with souls, heh.

I am thinking, perhaps it ought to be glutted with 'hope'. /grin

Anyway, all much appreciated. And the appointments were not as bad as expected, just very tedious -- more tomorrow, so again I'm posting ahead, just in case.