The wounded angel on the koel’s wing’s
Carrying the dregs of Shakuni’s spring;
Spilling tears for the processing dead,
All reclining in the wake of the lead.
The soundless fall of the crashing tree,
A bed of arrows for a costly fee,
Whispered words of good intent
Squeeze-drying all the energy spent.
And in the end a poem pure,
Sung like a chant both clear and sure,
That even to this day resounds
From the depths of the deep heart’s fertile grounds.
I seem to remember that I wrote the first eight lines of this poem sometime in 2010. The last four lines were added some two or three years later to ‘complete’ the poem, as it were.
This poem was, in large part, a response to the poems I used occasionally to come across at the time; poems that seemed, to me, deliberately obtuse and cryptic. Maybe it was my involvement with Yeats’s sublime lyric poetry at the time or maybe it was my discontent at what I considered (and still, to some extent, do consider) the ‘unpoeticness’ of modernist free verse – in any case, I’d say annoyance played a part in this poem’s creation.
In any case, I must confess I’m not sure what, if anything, the poem means.