I love this poem, this vision, don't know if my interpretation of "Feathers painted before their birds arrive" is like our fate, it is already painted before we arrive...
have a wondefull day William, full of inspirations
I imagine feathers painted with feathers. The thought makes me giggle. I don't know why. Perhaps because it tickles. Wings spreading in a rib cage, rising toward life.
Your poems often draw the reader into pleasant wonderings, William. With this one I saw dawn touching sleeping pigeon, iridescent sheen upon grey bird in grey city, just before the clamourous, glaring day begins.
It is said that souls have wings. Since birds come in many colors...are they really the auras of past souls flying about until they find another fledgeling to inhabit?
perhaps the soul is always trying to tell, always engaging in disambiguation, painting itself some corporeal sense, failing, painting, a shadow of success, a capitulation of ash, more.
or so it told me this morning.
it's startling how different our paint palettes are, isn't it? i see your paint, or i should say, the colour of this poem, as oil based. curious.
14 comments:
I love this poem, this vision,
don't know if my interpretation of "Feathers painted
before their birds arrive" is like our fate, it is already painted before we arrive...
have a wondefull day William, full of inspirations
Beautiful!
You too, Laura. Thank you. I love your interpretation.
Thank you, Monika!
I imagine feathers painted with feathers. The thought makes me giggle. I don't know why. Perhaps because it tickles. Wings spreading in a rib cage, rising toward life.
It's beautiful, William.
Feathers painted, in anticipation of a bird? Carts before horses? Sometimes they appear the fools errand, and other times, capital HOPE.
Thank you, Andreas. Or, feathers painted with strokes so light, they appear as sound.
All of that, Annie, simultaneously, when it’s least expected.
Your poems often draw the reader into pleasant wonderings, William. With this one I saw dawn touching sleeping pigeon, iridescent sheen upon grey bird in grey city, just before the clamourous, glaring day begins.
Thanks as always, William - inspirational stuff.
Delighted you find it so, Peter. With these grey lines of yours, you open doors yourself.
It is said that souls have wings. Since birds come in many colors...are they really the auras of past souls flying about until they find another fledgeling to inhabit?
Beautiful words William...
Thanks, Jan. I don’t know, but I think there are times when they try to tell.
perhaps the soul is always trying to tell,
always engaging in disambiguation,
painting itself some corporeal sense,
failing,
painting,
a shadow of success,
a capitulation of ash,
more.
or so it told me this morning.
it's startling how different our paint palettes are, isn't it? i see your paint, or i should say, the colour of this poem, as oil based. curious.
xo
erin
Interesting. I see it (now that we’re looking at it in this way) as being comprised of rainbow and mist.
I think there are times when they are purposely vague; also when they’re uncertain; and playful.
What were we talking about again?
Wow, two back-to-back gems.
Thanks. Still, to be on the safe side, you’d better not hold them up to the light.
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