A Girl's Guide to Feeding Birds
This poem was originally posted on my blog and got some love, so I’m reposting here. I didn’t intend to write this poem in blank verse (unrhymed iambic pentameter) initially; many of the lines just ended up that way so I decided to go for it. It may be because iambic pentameter is supposed to most closely resemble the patterns of human speech, or it may be because I grew up helping my dad run lines for his parts in the local Shakespeare festival—either way, blank verse sometimes just happens to me.
I tend to write mostly free verse, but often writing in form helps me refine and pay a lot of attention to what I’m doing. (Sometimes it’s annoying to have to find words to get the syllable/stress count right.) I particularly like writing in form when I’m dealing with a big emotion; it gives structure to what’s unwieldy and creates a kind of productive tension between chaos and control. In this poem I used form and metaphor to help give some shape to frustration that needed processing. I’ll leave it to you to figure out what that means!
A Girl's Guide to Feeding Birds
An old man feeding crows at Willows Beach
tells me they're fine, he's got them satisfied.
In this delusion I'm well-versed. You think
they've had all they can pack within their hull
of hollow bones; you think that matte black beak
won't grate its call against your heartstrings 'til
they break. But crows don't know the meaning of
enough. They have no substance in themselves;
they have no shape but need. Invisible
until you look at them, they use your light
to cast their shadow form. Seagulls are plain
and clamorous; no one would mistake them
for sophisticates. But crows admire the look
of ravens' garb and wear a knockoff take
so well their caws on sidewalks and in lots
begin to resonate with mystery
like throaty songs dropped down from cedar trees.
What raven's ever begged fries from old men?
True ravens keep their council in deep woods.
The crow comes without summoning; it pecks
whatever scraps you offer it, its eyes
so clever they feel almost wise. You'll quick
forget they just see food you hold and won't
recall your face unless you injure them.
I passed a dead crow in the gutter once,
then had its two friends follow me in blame
to wait an hour outside my house, their cries
strung from the hydro wires 'til I emerged
again. You've seen the ladies in the park
who hold their arms out like a crucifix,
their sleeves all sewn with seeds, and wait until
the pigeons ruffle down and cover them.
But these crows hold no rainbows in their wings.
You can't numb their endless appetite.
They'll trail you down the street presenting bills
for breadcrumbs and revenge. And then, do what
I did: get on a bus and let them guess
how best to feed themselves. There'll always be
somebody lonely on a beach who serves
free lunch in hopes they'll all be satisfied.