Poems

One of my favorites:

The Raven

I have collections of Keats, Yeats and Shelley on my desk at work, they're excellent for both inspiration and reminding me that I'm a shitty writer.

The bird- George Macbeth
When I got home
Last night I found
A bird the cat
Had brought into the house
On the kitchen floor.
It wasn't dead.
It looked as if
It was, at first.
There were some feathers lying
Against the wall:

The bird itself
with its wings folded
Lay and stared.
It didn't move.
I picked it up:

Quivering like clockwork
Toy in my hand
I carried it out
Into the yard
And put it down

In a slice of light
From the door. I lifted

A long broom
By the handle near to
The head and struck

The bird four times.
The fourth time it
Didn't move.
Blood, in a stringy
Trickle, blotched.

The white concrete.
I edged the remains
Up with a red
Plastic shovel.
Lifting it through

The house to the cellar
I tipped it out
In the dust-bin along with
Snakes of fluff
And empty soup-tins.
When I emptied the tea-leaves
This morning I saw
The bird I killed
Leaning its head
On a broken egg-shell.