THE ONLY WAY OF LOOKING AT A BIRD
(for Glyn Pope)
she looked at the bird
with all of her self
as if by some alchemy
of thought
she flew into
its shape
as it became the air
her mind opening
its wings
to the sky
the house now
a little blue egg
far far below her
her voice curving
into a beak
that flung its being
into the song
of self
scrawled across
a sky
becoming sunset
so that
becoming human
again
was a grief
that could only be
expressed
in birdsong.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Lovely imaginative write.