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Stealthy
the sound of a cat’s foot
like the ground in flight
a little fire whispering up
the bat in the church
so light a wing to polish
the bone of the ear
Poèmes sur le thème : bat
Poèmes sur le thème « bat » sur Poets.by.
Wings
a bat in the church
they light candles
for the new year
Rehabilitation
A bat is ill, since
my chimney smokes.
I quarter him in my hands—
a bat bed.
Solicidal
I find a man talking
of murdering the sun
like a bat in the palace.
He went to London
to hang like a picture,
all gilt and ash.
Afternoon of a fawn
I watched an indigo bunting on
the topmost branch silhouetted
against the sky: blue
& still more blue. If I told you
all I could see was the yellow of
his bill, would you believe me?
In the bare crown of the elm tree
where a porcupine gnawed all winter,
a hummingbird perches with his back
to an indigo bunting. How odd to see him
sit so still so long, I think, though
his head pivots back & forth the whole
time. The bunting calls & calls.
Could this battered tree with
its foliage like a crazy woman’s skirt
hide two nests? A crow flies sideways,
Suspended
No stir out of half skirts
and false lace—
an evening bat.
Night from the inside
flickering
through skeletal trees
the bat’s back story
sunset
lava
on all screens
swamp tree
parodied by
its reflection
holding it
under
fire trucks
one after another
into the sunset
porcupine
grazing at dark
The Waiting
Through the cracks in the roof
shafts of sunlight
like arrows piercing my heart.
In the beam, specks of dust turn golden.
I hear the doves' wings flapping
and the cooing of the lovers -
I remember him.
Bats hang motionless, waiting for the night -
how docile they look, like he did,
before he savoured the sweetness of my blood!
The wind has died.
Fallen leaves do not chatter.
The doves have left.
Bats are stirring in their sleep.
Night approaches-
I wait - listening for his footfalls...
Thirst
There is a bird that hangs head-down and cries
Between the mango leaves and passion vines.
Below, a spotted serpent twines
And blunts its head against the yellowing skies.
Along the warping ground a turtle scrapes,
And tortured lie glazed fishes in marsh grass.
Across the sky that burnishes like brass
A bat veers, stupid with the yeast of grapes.
William Goode
To all in the village I seemed, no doubt,
To go this way and that way, aimlessly.
But here by the river you can see at twilight
The soft-winged bats fly zig-zag here and there—
They must fly so to catch their food.
And if you have ever lost your way at night,
In the deep wood near Miller’s Ford,
And dodged this way and now that,
Wherever the light of the Milky Way shone through,
Trying to find the path,
You should understand I sought the way
With earnest zeal, and all my wanderings
Were wanderings in the quest.