the raven
struts in the night
blue-eyed white
inside my head
beak
invisible
until it pecks me
the bird shines
lustre
on gloss feathers
shines
how can you call that
black
when the gleam
is pure
there it is
then gone
the wind
of what I’m dreaming
turns a feather
upside down
a hackle-ruff
it tolerates
while checking roadkill
my
roadkill
left behind
somewhat déshabillé
by a passing bout
of turbulence
can you see
the way it walks
stepping like
some sort of jazz-cool
is driver
yeah
but no
it’s only me
what I’m thinking
and the raven
blinks
a blue-white eye
closed
opened
pecks
at an unmentionable
an un-
speakable
that
is the night
that
is my mind
© Frank Prem, 2017
September 2017 Poem #13: snow blossom
220318
Frank Prem Poetry 
Love the Raven Frank, we have a tame crow/raven at home and I draw them a lot.
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Hi Pam. Thank you. I love the crows and ravens on roadsides – the way they walk is just too school for school.
Glad you enjoyed Pam. Hope your travels are going well.
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Really enjoyed the way this worked through with twists (your roadkill, pecking at your mind) from beauty to darkness of the soul. I am sure you’re not surprised. 😄 Guilt and regret, such wonderful things. 😄 Great work, Frank.
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Steve, thank you. I enjoyed the darkness that ended up in the piece. Probably inevitable if a raven is what I use for my vehicle, hey?
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Very welcome Frank. Funny that, birds mean different things. “Late one night, I heard a deathly quacking at my door.” Doesn’t quite cut it. Mmm I have an idea (a bad one) 😜
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The duck of death calls at the quack of dawn!! No, no, it’s count duckula! … ahahaha ahahahaha …
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That is the problem with ducks.
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and as for the peeking …
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Have to admit I’ve eaten quite a bit of raven, crow that is. 😃
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Yoiks! Get out of my head, you!!
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Awesome! Reminds one of a Wallace Stevens poem that is a fav of mine.
From Wallace Stevens:
I
Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird.
II
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.
III
The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.
IV
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.
V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.
VI
Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.
VII
O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?
VIII
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.
IX
When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.
X
At the sight of blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.
XI
He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For blackbirds.
XII
The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.
XIII
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs.
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Thanks very much Tom. That’s a very powerful poem from Stevens.
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