A Pheasant Calls Poem by Martin Swords

Martin Swords

Tiglin, Wicklow, Ireland

A Pheasant Calls

Rating: 3.2

A pheasant calls its pleasant pheasant call
Beautiful to its Lady
This peasant peacock
Struts its stuttered strut across the garden
Steady stepping slow measured steps
The Lady Hen moves meekly mildly after

This strangled Pavarotti of the long grass
Crowcalls his pompous self
Importance, magnificent bumptious bird.
Napoleonic sense of style,
In cockade coloured collar
Like barricade badge on such a noble neck
Your Lady Hen follows out of sight, as your Royal commands

I know you Mr. Pheasant, I meet you every day.
You are the Office Bully
You are the Club Bore
You are the Chain of Office
You are the Blazer Bugger
You are the Fourpenpocketperson
You are the Badge Bearer
You are Through the Chair
You are Out in Front
Is that your wife behind

I see you Mr. Pheasant, I know your pompous play
In you we see ourselves,
You make us all look stupid everyday

Across the garden now beneath the birdfood
You peck your lordly selfish portion,
Chest out, head back, all colours blazing.
Your Lady Hen still follows meekly to the fare
Lady Marian to your Will Scarlett, humble,
Dressed in the muted magnificence of Motherhood.
Loud Lord and Lovely Lady, a salutary pair

Martin Swords, September 2007


You need to be familiar with the poise and mannerisms of
Pheasants to know just how pompous and arrogant they
appear, and how they look like people we all know.

There are many many Pheasants, and pheasant-people
here in Wicklow, Ireland, and elsewhere!

Indira Renganathan 15 August 2009

I wonder at your great observation....really superb...and your poem brings in a picture in my vision....thank you

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Jasmin Whyte 03 February 2009

Lovely observation. You have them to a tee!

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Loyd C Taylor Sr 18 February 2008

Very interesting, Marrtin!

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Martin Swords

Tiglin, Wicklow, Ireland
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