I was the birdling
deep inside the egg
nestled down in mud.
Wind blew against
the misshapen shell—
so ugly and spotted it was beautiful.
Stirring, I set to work—
tip, tap, click, clack—
a bruised spot forming
from the egg tooth
before the gaping hole revealed me.
No song, just sweat and grit,
shell splattered with shit,
but in the midst of it—
ugly and alive and beautiful.
© 2023 Jennifer Wagner
Desperate Poets: Desperate Voicings (Creative Method)
And that is how that is done!
ReplyDeleteEgg-zactly! Makes me think of how Merlin went mad and fled to the woods where he built an esplumoir atop a tree where he moulted into the singing bird he became. A lovely, lively and crisp articulation of where the singing comes from.
ReplyDeleteWow...brilliant. Love it!
ReplyDeleteBeautifully said.. and accurate too. It comes from hard work and ugliness and splatter and shatter.
ReplyDeleteClever and original!! JIM
ReplyDeleteBeautiful as always!!!!
ReplyDelete