nectar for food

a rabbit speaks:

he wrote poems about me

before i was kitten-born

black ink, no taste, smell

on paper, tree-like, thin

rustles beneath feet.

i did not hear them.

i lived, green fields

slopes

field banks

burrows dark, warm.

but i sensed what he said

he gave us names, lives

singled us to

within our kind.

now i am alone

live lone life.

myxie, he calls me

poem words

rabbits sniff, smell

butt blind, sickened

rabbit from my home.

i will die.

i eat bright colours

garden dark, dawn

petal flavoured scent

i am king, god

nectar for food.

A Room With a View - E.M. Forster

It's a novel I aspire to.  It begins with a babble, Miss Honeychurch at table, her aunt in attendance; and it continues as such - a minimum of Forster comment and all narrative.  Of course, it would have been wonderful if Forster had come out, told life, love as he really saw it.  But he didn't, and we must live with this.  He tells the tale of girl expecting boy, not expecting the boy who turns out to be her true love.  And that is what is fantastic - the eternal love that is proclaimed.  And truth.  The girl belongs to boy.  And boy to girl.  The narrative entertains, and confirms this as it progresses.  Love is wonderful - the best we can get, if we can get it.  Read this, and read it again - if you believe in love (or maybe more so if you don't).  Each reading is an assertion of achievable purpose and hope.

I Sing To The Air - Padraig De Brun

A bird speaks:

I slouch, some beggar starved of hope,

Feasted on the stale discards of past,

Towards dawn. I am wing-tired, slow,

A body, prime-passed, not now dead,

Long dying. I think morning thought,

What birds do, their always living,

Being, since the hour birth begins.

And other thoughts come, as thoughts must:

"Remember soon!" I do no know

As day arrives what this day is.

'Round me - again I do not know -

I live it now - it is just there -

Are roof-tops, grey, acute, spartan,

Dense, green bush, barbed as dwellings are,

My dwelling, my unwelcome hearth.

And then wires, black, unearthed wires

Hum beneath feet, chanting on, on.

Others stand as well - I know this.

No need for thought as I awake.

They wait. I wait. There is stillness.

We watch the ever-present night.

It is tense now, alert, frozen,

The movements of creatures, studied,

Preyed upon. And it is soon dead -

Night must know this - the lamb of dark -

Night risen, always daily dead.

And without a sound, new doom falls,

Rises with seeing, sight of things.

The sun comes from the east, jewelled

Like Juliet - a star of day.

It slaughters what it finds, rest's sleep,

Scavenges the corpse it kills, dark.

And night, recently gloried, fat

Is gone. All dreams, shivering, pass.

And then the song. Others sing first.

I wait. I will remember. Day.

Until a voice - I know that voice.

There is a sweet, butterfly sound,

And notes, bright-coloured, gambolling,

Caressing thoughts as new lambs do.

And there is joy-ordinary

All about. The very air breathes

Delicious life, speaks memories,

High shrilling, not now forgotten.

And I reply, gladly reply,

Remember the known, always known,

And I sing to the air, loudly,

I sing day's coming to the air.