Friday, May 13, 2011


They are not unlike vultures
Hunched over sad branches
In the gray morning air of my morning commute
Five or six like ill-tempered monks
Who, after drinking to excess, slumped themselves
Over limbs of an oak they wouldn't even look at
Brooding and ghoulish
They are nothing like King Ludwig's cult
All of Linderhof arises and begs them
To spread their tailfeathers
And let the eyes of Argos once more see
And bring mythology back to peacocks
Or at least let forth an unanswerable cry
Like a wounded woman
Once begged of Juno to tranform into
A voice more like the nightingale
But vulture-like they remain
Wrapped in cold April mornings
I use this to excuse too, my own wretched appearance
Were it only warm I would arrange my womanly wiles
About my face, like a fan
But today it is cold and I am feeling ill
You mustn't mind my bare branches and my brooding
The most beautiful birds on earth are doing it too


  1. wet your whistle and wear your wiles. ;-D

  2. Wow! Amazing. Was very moved in how you saw this.

  3. I like.

    No punctuation? Why?

    Is the fact that peacocks are male (as opposed to peafowl) at all consequential for this poem? Or is it a nonfactor?

  4. Superhero: Not sure how to take that. :-)

    Ben: Thanks very much for your kind words.

    Pseude: Thank you. I often don't punctuate. I was sitting here trying to think of a elite and literary sounding reason, but I really don't have one. The peacock/hen thing isn't really too consequential. Although in order to have the mythology surrounding it (i.e. the eyes of Argos; interaction with Juno; etc.) you have to have the bright feathers of the peacock.


Dialogue with me...