Evening Concert

December 25, 2012

The crows still sing to remind us
of time half spent amid half-pleasures.
They sing to tell us we have become twilight
omens and pincushions. You
can scarcely breathe, they sing. Yet you are
as sensitive now to our music as ever,
the way it can seem to forge your life
into talons of grief, striking at maggots
just to make yourself happy.
What if we were to sing
a song so dense and unbraided,
so debonair and dark
that it seems to be like an eddy of
raindrops pooled into puddles,
not lost flowers left floating in the pond?


2 Responses to “Evening Concert”

  1. extrasimile Says:

    Yes, thank you Anna. It occurs to me, though, that this is the kind of poem that drives people who do not ‘like’ poetry crazy. Image upon image. What the hell is he saying? I mean, just spit it out, already. What point are you trying to make?
    It might be best to see it as just that, an evening concert, played out with words. Contrast ‘dense’ and ‘unbraided’, ‘debonair ‘and ‘dark’, ‘an eddy of raindrops pooled into puddles’ and ‘lost flowers left floating in the pond’—and, while the meanings might contrast (increasingly less so) the sounds of the words, I’d like to think, do play a little evening music together. Old crows singing together as they blend in with the darkness…whistling and floating themselves as night comes on…talking to…well, to whom?

  2. Anna Mark Says:

    Wow. I really enjoyed this poem. Crows singing to awaken us, yet it is an evening concert which makes me think of sleep, dreaming. “Pincushions” is such a painful image and one of helplessness…”You can scarcely breathe, they sing.” If the crows’ song is already so awakening they why do they think of changing their song? I’m intrigued by the opposites: “dense and unbraided”, “debonair and dark,” and then continued in the image of the eddy of raindrops that relaxes into a puddle…and then the end is so sorrowful, lost flowers…cast away? thrown aside? Floating…

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