Tuesday, April 20, 2010

Tuesday Poem

Last Rescued Bird

Enough. Take your feathers

dead or alive and flutter into oblivion.

I’m done with the fractured wing,

the punctured lung, severed spine.

I will not weigh your soul

and account for all its cherished works.

Though your nest lies ruptured

and broken at my feet, all my remedies

are used up, finished, expired.

Mud no more, dear downy love.

Burn the twigs, the riffraff rags.

Let the cats loose.

Fetch the axe.

I’m cutting down the tree.


copyright, T. Clear
originally appeared in Crab Creek Review


  1. Oh yes!!! FANTASTIC in so many ways. I'm going to print this out and put it on the fridge. The last fledgling of a number I discovered outside our house set off similar feelings in me - but my brother told me to put it back near where I could near a nest and the parent birds would find and feed it til it was ready to fly. And yes - it worked - but it wasn't too tiny ... But then, your poem isn't just about birds is it? The exhaustion of caring ... There is a marvellous Australian novel called The Spare Room by Helen Garner which addresses the same issue - there are those who find it subversive for this reason. So thanks T.Clear for your subversive Tuesday Poem. Can you email me to put you on the email list for Tuesday Poets? marymac21ATgmail.com Cheers Mary

  2. Thank-you, Mary! I dropped you a note in your gmail account. I must admit it's rather amazing to imagine my poem on a refrigerator on the other side of the planet! (And I've reserved The Spare Room at the library. Thanks for the recommendation.)

  3. wow, T. that's a great poem. I didn't see it this morning.

  4. The power of this poem gave me goosebumps, T. Clear. L, C x