sequindaisy's Diaryland Diary
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more magpie poems:
Magpie Poem
One for sorrow.
Two for joy.
Three for a letter.
Four for a boy*.
Five for silver.
Six for gold.
Seven for a secret never to be told.
MAGPIES IN PICARDY
W. D. Eaton
THE. magpies in Picardy
Are more than I can tell.
They flicker down the dusty roads
And cast a magic spell
On the men who march through Picardy,
Through Picardy to hell.
(The blackbird flies with panic,
The swallow goes like light,
The finches move like ladies,
The owl floats by at night;
But the great and flashing magpie
He flies as artists might.)
A magpie in Picardy
Told me secret things--
Of the music in white feathers,
And the sunlight that sings
And dances in deep shadows--
He told me with his wings.
(The hawk is cruel and rigid,
He watches from a height;
The rook is slow and somber,
The robin loves to fight;
But the great and flashing magpie
He flies as lovers might.)
He told me that in Picardy,
An age ago or more,
While all his fathers still were eggs,
These dusty highways bore
Brown, singing soldiers marching out
Through Picardy to war.
He said that still through chaos
Works on the ancient plan,
And that two things have altered not
Since first the world began-
The beauty of the wild green earth
And the bravery of man.
(For the sparrow flies unthinking
And quarrels in his flight.
The heron trails his legs behind,
The lark goes out of sight;
But the great and flashing magpie
He flies as poets might.)
TWO MAGPIES ON THE MOTORWAY
nina whitefield
Jay-walking the fast lane
For a road-kill in the rush-hour,
Two magpies match the wagons,
Blur for blur, with wing-power,
Dodging each wheel case,
Each soft rubber re-mould,
With a hop, skip and stumble
On oiled asphalt, fresh-rolled
And marked out in parallels;
Black tar, white lines, curve
Towards infinity. It smells
Like a factory.
To watch the swerve
Of a Jaguar in the fast lane
Is almost poetry. Two magpies play
Chicken; drive drivers insane,
As they pluck without delay
The tasty morsel that's been spread
For their repast. Eat and run
Is their motto, or you're dead;
Torn, squashed, baked in the sun.
4:11 p.m.. - 2007-03-31
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