I find this poem enigmatic, which is not to criticise it. There may be good
reasons. But how enigmatic was it meant to be?
That is a stunning series of images from start to finish and I like the
sound of the poem too.
The last part alludes to the end of a relationship. Starlings flock in the
autumn contributing to the autumnal mood, the end of summer. Somehow I think
that the life processes of the birds embody something about the
relationship, but I found myself distracted too much by the virtuosity of
the images to develop much sense of what that was. Perhaps the starlings
stood too well in their own right to carry much else with them.
Colin
> -----Original Message-----
> From: grasshopper [SMTP:[log in to unmask]]
> Sent: Friday, December 06, 2002 6:30 AM
> To: [log in to unmask]
> Subject: New sub: Starlings
>
>
>
> Starlings
>
> Words are translated into a tingle of wire,
> faint jazz in the starlings' toes.
> They perch on paragraphs, pleas,
>
> punctuations, twanging on the taut lines.
> Sometimes they splash-bomb the grass
> or hack the air with harsh music.
>
> They are the beat birds, vagabonds,
> swaggerers, loud as peacock feathers.
> ragged black and drab, swinging
>
> between poles, rainbowed like oil on a wet road.
> In the evening they rise and fly to secret roosts,
> bearing messages. The wires are lighter
>
> in the dark. Your voice sounds different
> on the phone without the weight
> of beaks and hollow bones.
>
> grasshopper
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