(no subject)
bat
with no warning and only the slightest whishing sound
it was in the room with me, trapped and flying
wall to wall, a wild heart out of its element: flat
black leather wings that never stop, body
bunched as a baby's fist, the tiny head peering
blindly, out of its mouth a piercing
inaudible pulse-scream that sets its course
and keeps it beating, barely grazing the painted
walls, the wardrobe, desk, chest of drawers (all
smelling of outdoors, i suppose- walnut, maple,
oak- and sending it, surely, round the bend)
while i try to keep track of its dodgy swerves,
ducking when it flutters at me, springing after
with my eyes. all this is happening
in a fathomless silence that binds us
to one another for a hypnotized little while,
making me feel as the creature circles and circles
as if i'd been kissed repeatedly in sleep, lips
lightly brushing, gone. in the end, by
luck, it seems, not navigation, it goes
though the window i've scrambled open, leaving
me in another kind of silence
to watch its stuttering flight over bright green grass-
by light afflicted, desperate for the dark. i keep
to myself that other, unseamed silence
in which it went about its woeful task, trying
to find a way to friendly shade, its own
heartbeat keeping it one with an everday world
of intoxicating scents and glimmers, almost infinite
possibilities. gone for good. it's the sheer
stoic silence (to my ears) of the whole operation
that stays with me, teaching me how to behave
in a tight corner: hold your tongue, keep moving, try
everything more than once, steer by brief kisses and
the fleeting grace of dark advances, quick retreats,
until you find lying in your way the window, open.
-eamon grennan, 1991
with no warning and only the slightest whishing sound
it was in the room with me, trapped and flying
wall to wall, a wild heart out of its element: flat
black leather wings that never stop, body
bunched as a baby's fist, the tiny head peering
blindly, out of its mouth a piercing
inaudible pulse-scream that sets its course
and keeps it beating, barely grazing the painted
walls, the wardrobe, desk, chest of drawers (all
smelling of outdoors, i suppose- walnut, maple,
oak- and sending it, surely, round the bend)
while i try to keep track of its dodgy swerves,
ducking when it flutters at me, springing after
with my eyes. all this is happening
in a fathomless silence that binds us
to one another for a hypnotized little while,
making me feel as the creature circles and circles
as if i'd been kissed repeatedly in sleep, lips
lightly brushing, gone. in the end, by
luck, it seems, not navigation, it goes
though the window i've scrambled open, leaving
me in another kind of silence
to watch its stuttering flight over bright green grass-
by light afflicted, desperate for the dark. i keep
to myself that other, unseamed silence
in which it went about its woeful task, trying
to find a way to friendly shade, its own
heartbeat keeping it one with an everday world
of intoxicating scents and glimmers, almost infinite
possibilities. gone for good. it's the sheer
stoic silence (to my ears) of the whole operation
that stays with me, teaching me how to behave
in a tight corner: hold your tongue, keep moving, try
everything more than once, steer by brief kisses and
the fleeting grace of dark advances, quick retreats,
until you find lying in your way the window, open.
-eamon grennan, 1991