The Gull
Below in his courtyard the poet writes
but knows nothing about me
or my flight from the sea,
my holding pattern over Rome,
a feathered tourist leagues from home.
He scratches, oblivious in his verse,
ignorant of the ache of wings or worse—
the inefficiency of a beak, or claws
that clutch but cannot pause
to stroke the skin of only one,
and my loneliness oh my loneliness.
He hears my cry,
thinks it’s
cackled mirth—
complaint, commentary,
cajoling, critique—
doesn’t know I’m calling,
calling,
calling.
8 thoughts on "The Gull"
Leave a Reply
You must be logged in to post a comment.
There’s so much to love about this poem, Greg. First of all, the speaker watching the poet. Then there is the rhyme, making the speaker into a poet, and then the C-sounds of the gull’s calling. Wonderful poem!
This works so well. I can really feel the gull and it’s longing.
check the evening tide.
he might just call you
back..
This is a great poem. I love the conceit of what the gull knows/doesn’t know and “He scratches, oblivious in his verse,/
ignorant of the ache of wings…”
perhaps the poet was a court poet having to legitimize the monarch. great persona poem, effective scattered calls. who would have guessed such longing in the fearless seagull
Different view with this poem being from the perspective of the gull. Nice!
Love “He scratches, oblivious in his verse,
ignorant of the ache of wings or worse—”
Echoing Nancy. This is gorgeous!
Wonderful voice you gave the sea gull!