They never greatly flew. Did they wish to?
Here is a wonderful poem from John Berryman. It is redolent of November, and the Americans’ Thanksgiving Day holiday on the 24th November.
I feel sorry for all the turkeys raised merely to be slaughtered to stuff fat Americans, as they overeat notoriously on that holiday. I suppose that Brits do the same with their Christmas turkeys. Poor turkeys.
The wild turkey is a noble bird and very sagacious. It was greatly admired by the founding fathers of the USA. Just look at what we have done to the mass-bred turkey!
Dream Song 385
John Berryman
My daughter’s heavier. Light leaves are flying.
Everywhere in enormous numbers turkeys will be dying and other birds, all their wings.
They never greatly flew. Did they wish to?
I should know. Off away somewhere once I knew
such things.
Or good Ralph Hodgson back then did, or does.
The man is dead whom Eliot praised. My praise
follows and flows too late.
Fall is grievy, brisk. Tears behind the eyes
almost fall. Fall comes to us as a prize to rouse us toward our fate.
My house is made of wood and it’s made well,
unlike us. My house is older than Henry;
that’s fairly old.
If there were a middle ground between things and the soul or if the sky resembled more the sea,
I wouldn’t have to scold.
                                          my heavy daughter.
{This poem is in copyright and used under the fair use doctrine. The layout of this poem is deliberate.}
