Blue Bird Concept Piece

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Dull blade of language,

From blue shard beak,

A flat sonnet

For one who cannot speak

Beneath the bell jar,

Vowels prising leaden

A once morning song;

Abraded letters caged

From petrified tongue

Run aground

From the grinding sky

Mouthing mimicry and

Rejecting the helpless things

That can no longer fly

In fast falling notes

My bird is violent cyan

Within the glass;

Sentinel plummeted

From manic nest

Criss-crossing clipped captive

Not fit for cleverness

With each beat of dull wing

Dragging feathers low

The slow words,

The slow aching words not arriving

As they did to Plath or Poe;

My bird is blue,

Lacking the grim poise

Of a crow rasping

Its bloody prose

From gnarled yew tree

Too close

To sombre headstones

It lacks the horror

Of weathered bones

In repose;

No terror from screeching owl

No frantic yellow

Of a full moon’s blare

Creeping morose

My bird is blue,

From languid eye

To shrinking foot

One colour exposed,

And its song which never comes

Is dull

As all sorrows

Are when fixed undone

First Bird

Summer time, and being the first one to wake up to the warmth of sun.

 

The day was hot,
A heat not forgotten;
I woke in the morning,
A first and only bird,
Golden form framed,
Face curtained;

I whistled your name;

From the branch of sleep
My hands were wings

To sing you awake