April 27, 2007

• Many thanks to HawthorneWingo for the Masters of Deceit inspiration from his link. Yeah, blame it on him.
• THE REPENTANCE OF FEMSH
• Membury rooks.
• 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!
• *grumble, fuss*
• 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!!!
• Har har! They may always get their man, but the Royal Canadian Mounted Police are thwarted by windshield wiper stealing ravens.
• 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!