Sunday, October 4, 2009

I Never Saw a Wild Thing

after DHLawrence

Clearly out-of-it in some way
a wasp goes through the motions;
stumbles around the rim or
homes in on my sweet beer breath.
Wafted away it stalls, falls off the air
clumsy to the table, too weak to evade;
to programme the usual lines of code
but she walks into a spec of sweet.
And like an idea dawning on a human face,
Babbage’s last tumblers falling into place,
the sweet seems to select a sequence – nest.
She turns, clock-wise, aligns to the light,
rolls a cold sun like a solitary bearing
to shine down the funnel of a compound eye:
checks angle, declination, wind
then casts away on to the wing.

1 comment:

  1. hello, i'm a friend of hannah's and i like this poem.

    i can identify with the wasp (weirdly as i've been up the entire night and it is dawning in california right now) and perhaps this poem is that bit of sweetness described.

    i suppose it shouldn't be strange that a friend of your daughter's from across ocean and land, on the eve of christmas 2009, who is simultaneously in the space between acute alertness and devastating exhaustion can feel a bit nervous about paying compliment to his friend's father.

    perhaps it isn't strange anymore, similar to how hand-written letters are viewed as rarity (but reversed).

    anyway ------- most importantly - i enjoyed this poem.