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sublinqual appetite

around the table
empty seats
some have no feast

there is no cautionary tale
for any bird
sentenced to die
underneath it all

a murder of crows breaks up
the grey,

a hoopoe is not
a legend
only the Simorgh can light the horse's
head and speak with the dead to expunge
their bones

dinner is served promptly at seven
bring your calculated monotony home
leave your insignificance at the door
do not wipe your feet with their blood,

ancestors leak into the poet's page
poor Horatio,
he was a friend.

Last few words: 
Happy Thanksgiving! Any questions? ;-) ~A
Editing stage: 

Comments

... where did you learn about the simurgh (I'm not sure, but I think my spelling is the correct one though I suspect it can be spelled both ways)? Ancient Persian mythology is not exactly a common subject even of poets.
This poem is a kick. Mysterious and inscrutable enough to vex the mind. I love the last lines.
wesley

W. H. Snow

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. Percy Bysshe Shelley

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Bless your heart, Wesley.

Someone actually wanting to know something; how I know what I know (or at least use in the poems). Lord, if you only knew how often I googled. In this particular case, my knowledge of the Simorgh is from reading a book of poems called the *Conference of Birds* by Farid ud-Din Attar when I was young. I also saw a play some 25 years ago here in Cleveland Public Theater. Fabulous because the audience had to climb stairs to listen to the *birds* at different heights of the tree.

There's always something to be learned, from someone, if only one decides to.

Glad you liked the last lines, I did too. When I start a poem I almost never have an idea how it will end. I like the way this ended.

~A

author comment

I am sometimes flabbergasted by the final outcome of a poem. I start with a particular idea and somehow through all the chaos an utterly different idea is finalized. I'm on my way to check out good ol' Farid. And... Google is my god. wesley

W. H. Snow

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. Percy Bysshe Shelley

Learn how, teach others.
The NeoPoet Mentor Program
http://www.neopoet.com/mentor/about

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