The Crows
A.J.M. Smith
Over the pines the crows
Are crying and calling out
With a hollow brazen throat
In a tongue that no man knows;
Yet it may be that they cry
Their bitter unspeakable tones
To the cold air where they fly
As a man might mock the bones
Of a joy that has come to death,
Railing with ragged shout
And pitiful eager breath
Against the crapulous sky
And all that is beneath.
Are crying and calling out
With a hollow brazen throat
In a tongue that no man knows;
Yet it may be that they cry
Their bitter unspeakable tones
To the cold air where they fly
As a man might mock the bones
Of a joy that has come to death,
Railing with ragged shout
And pitiful eager breath
Against the crapulous sky
And all that is beneath.
The Crow
by P.K. Page
By the wave rising, by the wave breaking
high to low;
by the wave riding the air, sweeping the high air low
in a white foam, in a suds,
there
like a churchwarden, like a stiff
turn-the-eye-inward old man
in a cutaway, in the mist
stands
the crow.
high to low;
by the wave riding the air, sweeping the high air low
in a white foam, in a suds,
there
like a churchwarden, like a stiff
turn-the-eye-inward old man
in a cutaway, in the mist
stands
the crow.
Late Summer Crows
by Glen Sorestad
Field upon field of wheat turns
in its cycle of green to gold
as I drive through summer's dying.
in its cycle of green to gold
as I drive through summer's dying.
Above grain that sends waves
in slow measure shore to shore
a still sky glazed with sun.
in slow measure shore to shore
a still sky glazed with sun.
Against this duo-toned day
erratic unexpected movement:
black rags on the sky, a shout of crows.
erratic unexpected movement:
black rags on the sky, a shout of crows.
Harbingers of summer's decay, crows
read the season's cryptic message,
muster their numbers in the gathering gold.
read the season's cryptic message,
muster their numbers in the gathering gold.
Black flakes drift against August sun,
somber and sure as obituaries, sound
grave edicts across the sky.
somber and sure as obituaries, sound
grave edicts across the sky.
Moselle Crow
by Glen Sorestad
Dawnlight creeps across vineyards
along the Moselle's chalky slopes
and the heady scent of ripe Riesling grapes
drifts through the window of the hotel
and into my semi-consciousness when
I am yanked to wakefulness
by a familiar raucous cry.
along the Moselle's chalky slopes
and the heady scent of ripe Riesling grapes
drifts through the window of the hotel
and into my semi-consciousness when
I am yanked to wakefulness
by a familiar raucous cry.
It is Crow--no mistaking
this unmelodic voice, the same here
in this little German village
as anywhere Crow flies. I can't
believe Crow's followed me all this way
just to grate my dreams at German dawn.
this unmelodic voice, the same here
in this little German village
as anywhere Crow flies. I can't
believe Crow's followed me all this way
just to grate my dreams at German dawn.
Bird of myth and legend. Crow
crosses oceans and mountains,
flies beyond language, through time,
beyond humankind's history of strife.
Like sun, wind and rain Crow is there,
its harsh voice inevitable as death.
crosses oceans and mountains,
flies beyond language, through time,
beyond humankind's history of strife.
Like sun, wind and rain Crow is there,
its harsh voice inevitable as death.
Bibiography:
A.J.M. Smith. Poems, New and Collected, Oxford University Press, Toronto, 1967.
P.K. Page.The Hidden Room, Collected Poems, Volume One, The Porcupine's Quill, Erin, 1997.
Glen Sorestad. Leaving Holds me Here, Selected Poems,1975-2000, selected by John Newlove. Thistledown Press, Saskatoon, Sask., 2001
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