Tuesday, January 18, 2011

Escape is a cage

Escape is a cage, but only a tiny one;
the sound of a horn that warns of nothing,
bleating its own indifference —

and out I fly, for the hinge between ribs
has broken, and my wings scatter
seeds to the floor.

Give me an ocean;
a basement;

the last blind expedient;
a subway’s flash and roar;
fists against glass;

mountains lost in love;

strange disciples;

the gallows;

a puppy from my childhood.

Between pillars that keep the sky from falling,
sense is dead on the step —

as if someone says, “Mom! Birdie is gone!”

and I wish how I wish, how I wish how I wish

to be back in.

“Escape is a cage” added to Poems, Slightly Used.


Old 333 said...

Zow. Thanks, William.

Two Tigers said...

Zow indeed. Me likes.

William Michaelian said...

Bam! Thanks, Peter. Thanks, Gabriella.

Elisabeth said...

Such a powerful poem, William. to me a poem about life and death, life as being caged, death as in freedom. When we realise death is on offer we most often prefer the imprisonment of life.

My interpretation only, William and not necessarily meaningful to you but it comes to me now. A splendid poem.

William Michaelian said...

Thank you, Elisabeth. Of course your interpretation is meaningful, and I love to know what people find in these crazy poems and drawings of mine. And even if I don’t happen to see it, that doesn’t mean it isn’t there. Often I’m just glad to learn that something is.

Anthony Duce said...

Wonderful… the quest for freedom, when there is no were to really go… Is freedom really just a state of mind?

William Michaelian said...

Or is it a cage inside a larger cage? Hmm... Thanks, Anthony.

rahina q.h. said...

this is no cage William... and going back in, well, that made me realise this 'thing' was only human afterall... thank you for that glimpse and the movie which filled my brain;)

William Michaelian said...

And thank you, Rahina, for making a cameo appearance....

Woman in a Window said...

I don't know where I am going. I feel as though I am flying out of myself and flying into myself at the same time while reading (and trying to understand) this one. The only thing I know is that I am lost inside of poetry.


William Michaelian said...

We all are, Erin. Or if not lost, adrift. And if not adrift, there is still no sight of shore.

And what of it? I haven’t tried that hard to understand this one myself. I claim no special knowledge as its creator; in fact, in all likelihood, it created me.

Does what we write reflect change in us, or does it bring about change in us? Both, I think. Even when we don’t know it. Even when we write the same things over and over and slowly turn to stone.