Sunday, February 27, 2011

Your Sunday Poem

    With all that's going on in the world, this one seems pretty apt and especially applicable, even for the U.S., which mistakenly considers itself to be "exceptional" and hence, exempt.  It isn't. 
   From Kay Ryan's new book, The Best of It, New and Selected Poems.

Home to Roost

The chickens
are circling and
blotting out the
day. The sun is
bright, but the
chickens are in
the way.  Yes,
the sky is dark
with chickens,
dense with them.
They turn and
then they turn
again.  These
are the chickens
you let loose
one at a time
and small --
various breeds.
Now they have
come home
to roost -- all
the same kind
at the same speed.


Alon Perlman said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
Alon Perlman said...

Los Osos Backyard

A white seething cluster
Opening, closing, unfolding.
From the killing stump
It looks like a flower.
A central core,
a dark spot in the center,
swaying in the still ocean breeze.
It parts some;
they are fighting over the neck entrails of a departed head.
Perhaps I will flap down
and scatter them
to peck for protein,
perhaps not.
I am only a chicken myself,
Cock o’ the walk.
Perhaps it is my head down there.
What will I see,
staring back with unseeing eyes.
The cackle re-forms,
and the chickens are in the way.
Yes, now they have
come home to roost.

Anne R. Allen said...

Ooooh. Chills. Dark and darker. Two great poems. Thanks Ann. And Alon.

Spectator said...

Chickens do not fly unless they are game chickens that have been exercised on a see-saw for weeks. It is the game chicken that can fly higher than its opponent that wins the fight.

Maybe both the poems are about buzzards or vultures. Makes me think of progressive Marxists.