April 27, 2007
Come, the croaking raven doth bellow for revenge.
William Shakespeare
Clever Ravens - Masters of Deceit
Don't forget your Poe
Text and recitation by Christopher Walken!
No bird flu for London ravens
Many thanks to HawthorneWingo for the Masters of Deceit inspiration from his link.
Yeah, blame it on him.
Hah! The Aussie Raven's call sounds a bit like a siamese kitteh.
I'm a raven lunatic.
Lots of raveny coolness, there. I'll have to see if I can dig out the pictures I took of the ravens in the Tower of London when I was there.
My favorite telling of Poe's "The Raven" is, of course, Lisa Simpson's. (via Youtube)
Forgotten Lore: Volume II. Instant classic.
I'm very glad the Queen's ravens are safe.
Thanks.
To thrive at the bottom of the food chain, to be a scavenger, requires wit and flexibility. At least where 'the food chain' == society & scavenger == survivor. People don't get better in comfortable situations. At least not where better == evolve and people == animal.
I'm a raven lunatic.
*knocks pun down, proceeds to paddle it with a newspaper till it whimpers
BAD PUN! BAD! BAD!
Wander, that is a fascinating article about rook-smarts.
OK, it's a cruddy picture, but here it is.
Neat! That's a hell of a break for a green though.
OOOooooh! I want that for our parrot.
/calls mr. over to see how to build.
"The Vanity of Grackles"
by John B. Lee
the grackle walks
the wet circumference
scribes the wide green oval
of winter water
in the pool
with feet like a vine
plucked at the twig ends
of what makes automn wine
from absent grapes
and he flutters into splashy thirst
couples with the brief illusion
of a second self
slakes a feathered flight
and he keeps the company
of blue-capped starlings
and blood-breasted spring
all come to solve
a grey perimeter of sad cement
the surface sunk four inches from the weight of light
this liquid window set
into a frame of garden ground
holds out the weed bouquet
that courts the deeper damp
beneath where mayflies swarm in clouds
like casual conversations
exhaled by blurs of human smoke
what vanishes
when he is gone
pulls at the threadbare hem of thought
lets out the length of things
the soul
that fills the fool
like blowing gloves
to fit the hand
or shaking socks for feet
we are become the windy washline
of ourselves
we fill our clothes by drifting past
we are what happens to the darkness
when you fill the vase
we wait
the blooming blue
the spray of stars
the nest beyond the water tree
I don't really like grackles. But I like grackle poems!
Bad poem by anon. WebPoet
The Raven Nevermore
by Who???
Nevermore?!?
I ate the Raven-
His eyes first
With current jelly
Then I plucked him
& roasted him
& served him up
with Hollandaise
Don't ever tell me my limits.
sorry Pete, should have blessed your post with my crackle grap
and fine crackle grap it is, GramMa.
CAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAWWWWWWWWWW!!!
And the raven that I saw, he still is gnawing, still is chawing
On the wipers of the windshield of my Chevrolet four-door;
And his beak holds all the rubber which my wipers used to cover,
And my headlights o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And that bird that eats the wipers of the car that I adore
Shall be lifted - nevermore!
Raven
by J. Allyn Rosser
She can't believe this jag-winged majesty
really wants a piece of her small cold life,
godless and cold, and yet it circles her
on shouldery black wings, blacker than dried blood,
now holding still against the sky like a slit
opening into somewhere else, now half-wheeling,
the charred remains of dark thoughts flown...
But not gone. It reappears and shadows her,
calling, calling her quick steps weak, weak,
bored and exposed for those of a woman
trying too hard to get lost in the woods,
clearing her throat as if for company,
snapping twigs, pretending to seek -- to need --
what mitigated solace there may be
in the leatherish creak of new snow.
It's no use. She can't get lost,
can't even fear death with any decency,
seeing there the unmistakable glint
of sun off a window through the landscaped
brace of trees beyond these, these unplanned.
And because beneath her creaking boots
comes the unsoothing hum and wheeze
of not distant traffic, a muffled laughter
at the hungry anachronism overhead.
Oh, she'd like to believe she could die;
it would give her an edge,
a key to open the steely manmade gate
of reason's garden, let her into the wilderness
of fear and belief, where she could really freeze
to death and be eaten quickly by a big
black bird, and die consciously in the snow,
which would begin to feel delicious, like
a slow transfusion of warm sake,
and to taste unspeakably
like the saliva of a hungry god.
Only the indifferent raven...
by Erling Friis-Baastad
Only the indifferent raven
and his shadow...
Make of that
what you will
Some of us
want to keep it simple
a fragment of bone
among knick-a-knick—
gnawed bone
Once upon time
there was a skinny fist
raised against wind
OOOOOOoooooooooooh, GramMa! My spine can't stop shivering!
Menacing Bird at Large: Raven Detained for Stalking Woman Escapes Police
AWAAK!
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