(This, admittedly, is based on an original
misleading of the poem, but...)
Did you ever hear birds whir from the weeds
while being sober, Mr Frost? (The birds,
not you, Mr Frost. Perhaps you wrote
this one after a drink or twelve too many.)
No, I don't think you heard. Because birds
don't really whir in the weeds - we are
not talking about insects here - while
being calm or solemnly coloured,
or not having been at your bottle.
So why, oh why did you have to make
them whir there in their nonintoxicated,
calm bearing and dull colours, instead
of them chirping (or singing) while being
something nailed down with meaning?
My suddenly exasperated night would be
easier if I wouldn't have to mow a path
out of your labyrinth, saving lyrical
(non-ridiculous) meaning from your little
temperance minotaurs whirring in the weeds.
Mr Frost, perhaps I need whatever
you were drinking when you heard
the sober birds whir from the weeds.
21.08.2023
#Poem #Poems #Poetry #Verse
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