Philip,
I loved the story of this poem, but felt it could be trimmed a bit. For
instance, S2 I think is Showing, rather thanTelling (hehehe).
Also I'm not sure about preternatural, -it's a bit of a la-di'da word, and
the poem is going to tell us what sort of day it turned into, without you
imposing this sort of loaded description upon it.
As one who has always bought home wounded waifs and strays, this poem really
struck a chord with me.
Kind regards,
grasshopper
----- Original Message -----
From: "Philip Burton" <[log in to unmask]>
Sent: Sunday, October 06, 2002 9:04 PM
Subject: THE HERRING GULL
The Herring Gull PHILIP BURTON
When days were young
I'd rig a hide, out on the rocks
at the heels of the ebb tide
and be with herring gulls.
Summer years
were given to the task
with no return but the ocean
and finding my calmer side.
Unwinding from the bobbin sky
the birds threw off
high tuba calls
without sacrifice of altitude.
Forty shades of green meat
failed to feed a single beak.
Gulls dipped and rose as though
a glass floor kept them.
Then, one preternatural day
in the mid oven of noon
tamely on stiff skin legs
a herring gull came.
A vestige of line strayed
from the loud sunshine beak
and, no question mark,
a fishing-hook
had snared her craw.
Something must have said,
Go to that man down there -
he's mad, but means okay.
I didn't ask the vet
what procedure had to say
but watched the claws ease
as the steel was drawn away.
When I'm down or ill
I stretch my arms and hear
a trumpeting of skies
and strong wings rising.
_________________________________________________________________
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