raven

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

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12 thoughts on “raven

  1. 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.

    Liked by 1 person

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