poet Sheena Blackhall

Sheena Blackhall


A bat flew into my room... and I recoiled,
My arms shielding my head instinctively.
Blind, winged, blundering, mole,
It clung by a sliver of claw to a far corner.
Vile stain of a grave umbrella!
Repulsive! A gibbet-rag — inert, inert and ugly;
A sack of foulness. Sudden, a searching moonbeam
Picked it out. Two leaden flames its ears,
Perfectly formed. The furry beat of its heart,
A feather on a pagoda, pattering soft as rain.

Poor pipistrelle, in your pauper's membrane,
Wafer-thin as gauze... the huddled wings
Coiffing the small collapse of your
Smokey, ash-bud face...
Lean monk in perpetual Lent,
Your brothers are swooping, fat,
In moon-milk lappings of flight!
Hermit, your dim, round eyes
Are begging bowls of beads. I cannot tell,
As you lamprey-cling to your ache in the niche of the night,
If you are a Jinn, a Jonah, malignant troglodyte, —
Kaleidoscope of feeling, —
A peeling, shriven sprite,
Or a hurt, gone quiet, healing.

Poem Submitted: Saturday, August 29, 2009

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Comments about Bat by Sheena Blackhall

  • Naseer Ahmed NasirNaseer Ahmed Nasir (8/30/2009 3:41:00 AM)

    Wonderful poem, really enjoyed the reading.


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  • Tim Caton (8/29/2009 11:13:00 AM)

    I warm to your poetry. Fine work.

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