Sunday, 27 January 2013

I’m going to start this day with a poem about a daffodil

I’m going to start this day with a poem about a daffodil,
an easy yellow trumpet poem you’d be an ass to hate.

Who’s going to trample on the daffodils? That’s like saying
a dandelion is a cheap and easy metaphor for the sun,

That’s like saying snow is just frozen sky water and if
we lived in the turret of a castle of ice, we’d get cold.

And have you noticed we never see seagulls anymore—
just crows? Have you noticed we never launch ships?

I bet if we’d lived three hundred years ago, you and I
would have spent our Sundays summoned to prows,

You and I would smash a bottle across the figurehead,
cackle like cheap street gutter Glaswegians, hah-HAH!

We’d take a buckled leather bag and stuff it with words like
maraud and rampage and berserk and amok.

And have you noticed how the daffodils nudge out? I think
that this winter is going to end one day and we’ll be waiting.

You’ll have a quiver of seal pelt and your arrows nocked,
if need be you’ll take aim at the dogs and the moon.

I’ll have a flower for dowsing and if the trap is sprung,
I’ll bite. I’ll eat through your leg to get free.

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