Sinister: The Poetry Parrot Drank My Liquor and Shit on my Library

[Michele Waggner]

Well List...  I prefer the lurking thing.  I hear Martin Robinson has made
it safely back to the shores of Britain -- we were sorry to miss him in New
York.  But, we toasted him with a glass or two and after a bit it seemed he
was with us anyhow.

Before leaving the UK, Martin sent the Poetry Parrot on ahead.  It arrived
bedraggled and forlorn at my door, really no more than a sodden bunch of
feathers.  I picked it up gently and wrapped it in a fluffy towel.  When I
felt how it was shivering from the transatlantic flight I gave it a tiny sip
of brandy.  It seemed to perk him up so I gave him a bit more.  How was I to
know he had a weakness?  Well, before long my booze was all gone and the
Parrot was hanging off the curtain rods reciting the most vulgar and rude
limericks I've ever heard -- that is when he wasn't singing maudlin songs or
shouting at the cats to "haul on the bowline."  (I suspect he has a past,
this Poetry Parrot, and it wasn't in the halls of academia.)  It was a long
few weeks.

I asked for his help in choosing a poem, got down a stack of books and tried
a few out on him.  His comments ranged from "fucking drug addict can't write
for shit -- damn hippie" in a HopkinsVoice -- to what sounded like
"she'sawhore" in a croaky imitation of a raven when I suggested Emily
Dickenson.  It didn't help that he'd landed on my neighbor's head when he
said the latter, and then apologized to her by bowing in that drunken formal
way, saying, "scuse me lady, I thought you had a bust."

Finally, I packed him off to rehab.  He should be getting out about now and
I've instructed them to send him along to Damon Seils who hopefully will get
better guidance from him than I did, now that he's sobered up.  The Parrot,
not Damon.

So, in any event, this is the poem I chose... it is by Jane Kenyon who lives
in New Hampshire.  It isn't much, but I like it.

Insomnia

The almost disturbing scent
of peonies presses through the screens,
and I know without looking how
those heavy white heads lean down
under the moon's light.  A cricket chafes
and pauses, chafes and pauses,
as if distracted or preoccupied.

When I open my eyes to document
my sleeplessness by the clock, a point
of greenish light pulses near the ceiling.
A firefly . . .  In childhood I ran out
at dusk, a jar in one hand, lid
pierced with airholes in the other,
getting soaked  to the knees
in the long wet grass.

The light moves unsteadily, like someone
whose balance is uncertain after traveling
many hours, coming a long way.
Get up.  Get up and let it out.

But I leave it hovering overhead, in case
it's my father, come back from the dead
to ask, "Why are you still awake?  You can
put grass in their jar in the morning."




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