December 2018
I'm a retired English Professor spending my time writing, taking the occasional photograph, trying to follow the Dharma. For more about me and my musings: http://www.michaelminassian.com
Author’s Note: This is a fairly early poem, and went through several revisions including trimming down the first stanza to about a third of its original length. But the basic inspiration was the short quote I found in Hamlet which always intrigued me. I’m not sure how it fits into this month’s theme, but it is about a woman (or an owl).
THE HILLS OF MEMORY
They say the owl was a baker’s daughter.
Lord! We know what we are,
but not what we may be. - Ophelia
In the evening with the sun gone
I could see the stars appear
one by one, then in pairs—
trees deep dark green
stark against the disappearing gray,
silhouetted like the hills of memory.
There, near a row of pines,
feet cushioned by the dewing grass,
I thought of the owl
that was the baker’s daughter—
was she chaste as a bird,
the heat of hunger in her breast
chasing prey at night, the push
and rush of wings as currents
of wind stroked back feathers,
talons out, sweeping low to the ground,
striking and feeling the last frantic
beats of some creature’s heart,
beak parted, eyes so wide
she could almost fly backwards
through her sight—
at that moment, did she remember
all the way back to her other life,
the smell of bread, the taste of sweet cake.
*Previously appeared in Connecticut Writer, 1988.
THE HILLS OF MEMORY
They say the owl was a baker’s daughter.
Lord! We know what we are,
but not what we may be. - Ophelia
In the evening with the sun gone
I could see the stars appear
one by one, then in pairs—
trees deep dark green
stark against the disappearing gray,
silhouetted like the hills of memory.
There, near a row of pines,
feet cushioned by the dewing grass,
I thought of the owl
that was the baker’s daughter—
was she chaste as a bird,
the heat of hunger in her breast
chasing prey at night, the push
and rush of wings as currents
of wind stroked back feathers,
talons out, sweeping low to the ground,
striking and feeling the last frantic
beats of some creature’s heart,
beak parted, eyes so wide
she could almost fly backwards
through her sight—
at that moment, did she remember
all the way back to her other life,
the smell of bread, the taste of sweet cake.
*Previously appeared in Connecticut Writer, 1988.
© 2018 Michael Minassian
Editor's Note: If this poem(s) moves you please consider writing to the author (email address above) to tell him or her. You might say what it is about the poem that moves you. Writing to the author is the beginning of community at Verse Virtual. It is very important. -FF