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fire Aug 23
00
black birds songs long when midnight meets two zeros
freedom’s hard to feel in cages, defeated heros
from the distance, a free bird listens

left to lose,
tied, denied dreams
black bird cursèd
broken wings

tied
and broken feet
with a broken voice sings

sings of freedom

new dawn
new song
canticum novum
flight might come soon
i wrote this on a beach in san francisco, impulsive urge to go, caught a ride with a stranger. was a mess, crying, reading 'i know why the caged bird sings' by maya angelou.
Knut Kalmund Aug 1
all my blackbirds sing for me
and all my friends arrived
roses bloom above my head
a fine place to reside

lacrimal gush under vails will remedy
promises always lie
pain will tell the journey
trenched the soil to reach the sky

all my blackbirds stopped to sing
for they are no more
all my friends left the same
and all the roses wilt in dirt

I've been reckoned as a coward
they will never see what I saw
and all my songs will stay unsung
and all my songs will stay unsung
Thank you for reading.
Bewildered by the difference,
the vast, unknown shape of it all

Not moments before,
ensconced in familiar tangles,
routinely fed and tended by parents
who flared and chattered
at the merest prospect of a threat,
met only by bolshy robins
who scoffed at fear
and tumbles of sparrows
who hid in each other

This necessary, Hail Mary leap
sees me petrified
grounded at the foot
of an adulthood full of flight,
song and the weight of freedom

if I can just get through
these cat clawed days and nights
To the boy Elis
by Georg Trakl
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Elis, when the blackbird cries from the black forest,
it announces your downfall.
Your lips sip the rock-spring's blue coolness.

Your brow sweats blood
recalling ancient myths
and dark interpretations of birds' flight.

Yet you enter the night with soft footfalls;
the ripe purple grapes hang suspended
as you wave your arms more beautifully in the blueness.

A thornbush crackles;
where now are your moonlike eyes?
How long, oh Elis, have you been dead?

A monk dips waxed fingers
into your body's hyacinth;
Our silence is a black abyss

from which sometimes a docile animal emerges
slowly lowering its heavy lids.
A black dew drips from your temples:

the lost gold of vanished stars.

TRANSLATOR'S NOTE: I believe that in the second stanza the blood on Elis's forehead may be a reference to the apprehensive ****** sweat of Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane. If my interpretation is correct, Elis hears the blackbird's cries, anticipates the danger represented by a harbinger of death, but elects to continue rather than turn back. From what I have been able to gather, the color blue had a special significance for Georg Trakl: it symbolized longing and perhaps a longing for death. The colors blue, purple and black may represent a progression toward death in the poem. Keywords/Tags: Georg Trakl, translation, German, Elis, blackbird, black forest, birds, brow, blood, grapes, monk, body, dew, stars
To the boy Elis
by Georg Trakl
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Elis, when the blackbird cries from the black forest,
it announces your downfall.
Your lips sip the rock-spring's blue coolness.

Your brow sweats blood
recalling ancient myths
and dark interpretations of birds' flight.

Yet you enter the night with soft footfalls;
the ripe purple grapes hang suspended
as you wave your arms more beautifully in the blueness.

A thornbush crackles;
where now are your moonlike eyes?
How long, oh Elis, have you been dead?

A monk dips waxed fingers
into your body's hyacinth;
Our silence is a black abyss

from which sometimes a docile animal emerges
slowly lowering its heavy lids.
A black dew drips from your temples:

the lost gold of vanished stars.

TRANSLATOR'S NOTE: I believe that in the second stanza the blood on Elis's forehead may be a reference to the apprehensive ****** sweat of Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane. If my interpretation is correct, Elis hears the blackbird's cries, anticipates the danger represented by a harbinger of death, but elects to continue rather than turn back. From what I have been able to gather, the color blue had a special significance for Georg Trakl: it symbolized longing and perhaps a longing for death. The colors blue, purple and black may represent a progression toward death in the poem. Keywords/Tags: Georg Trakl, translation, German, Elis, blackbird, black forest, birds, brow, blood, grapes, monk, body, dew, stars
Nadia Jun 2019
Hey guys
How's it going?
Beautiful day!
What's that you're eating?
Oh, you're not planning to stay?
You can leave your pack here
This bench is totally safe
No need to zip it up
There’s no time to waste
Go on, go play
I’m just hanging out
Enjoying the day
Check out this friendly crow smile
Now, off you go
Have fun for a while
And thank you in advance...


NCL 2019
Rowan May 2019
Blackbird, blackbird, whither 'way
Don't come down this way in
Sleek sails of five and six

Hither here, two and three
Come forth and fly in
Through the broken glass

Onyx separations carve
In six wings lost to starve
May the host slight the royalty

Blackbird, blackbird, whither 'way
Don't come down this way with
Sacrificial dust from seven circling

Hither here, two and three
Come forth and fly in
Through shattered self

Onyx separations carve
In six wings to starve
May the way be paved

Blackbird, blackbird, will I?
In the serene sloughs, call
Out from the dusk, ten sails high?

Blackbird, blackbird
Come around, see my gift
And sing your song
Brian McDonagh Jan 2019
Red-Winged Blackbird

Here you are again, in the chain-link fence.
It's the same every day as I pass by
heading home--you perched there.
Are you waiting for someone?
Do you, like me, wonder what's next?

I'm often on the fence, too. Each day
I pray for success for my six children.
I can't rest until they are on their own,
thriving.  My wife is the same.
We keep our eyes on hope.

Blackbird, you neither sow nor reap,
nor gather into barns.  Do you question,
each day, how you will feed your family?

People urge me to write a will.
It's inevitable, but I feel responsible.
I want to be here for them.  I still talk
to my parents and am pretty sure they listen.

I don't know if you, blackbird, contemplate
these things each day like me.
I'll swing by again tomorrow.
Mr. Tom Donlon is a poet in WV and is part of the league West Virginia Writers for the Eastern Panhandle region.  I wish I could say more about him and his poetry, but all of us have our own truths, and it's only right for each to have the liberty to introduce the truth of her or him. Thanks for reading!
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