Sherry Chandler » Multimedia Crow
Multimedia Crow
When Charlie Whitt sent me this photo his brother took of a crow on the rim of the Grand Canyon, I was reminded of this old poem I somehow never could get quite right. I wrote it maybe a decade ago and nobody ever wanted to publish it. I think it is more fun in performance than on the page and so I’m including a sound file, just for the fun of it. Thank you to Charlie for sharing the photo.
“The Wind Won’t Lift Me”
—Theodore Roethke
I want to stretch out my arms along my hollow bones
and ride the wind
I want to ride the trades with the albatross
I want to stretch out my wings and sail the seven seas
I want to sail the seven seas for seven seasons
without the smell of land
But the wind won’t lift me.
I want to glide the mountainous coasts with the condor
I want to glide up, up, over and down the Andes
I want to ride the Andes like a roller coaster
I want to ride the liquid ancient music of the flutes
as it rises from the canyons and the crags.
But the wind won’t lift me.
I am too well grounded
too solid in my flesh.
On the rim of the Grand Canyon
I want to spread my wings like the eagle
and ride the drafts that rise from the deeps of time.
On the rim of the Grand Canyon
the wind batters and whips until
I must twist like the stunted pines
but the wind won’t lift me
won’t companion me to that crow.
The wind won’t make me comrade to that crow
that soars and chatters aimlessly below.
I want to stretch out my wings along my hollow bones
and ride the wind
but the wind won’t life me.
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2 Comments
1. Georgia replies at 23rd September 2005, 9:55 am :
Well, fie on the editors who rejected this poem. I like it! “The wind won’t lift me” - yes, I know that feeling -
2. Charlie replies at 23rd September 2005, 10:30 am :
Obviously, you are already flying. That is my metaphysical take on your very nice poem. And here is my proof of that. Written about the same time as yours. Charlie
EVERYONE CAN FLY
Lazy, brown, pelican
Sailing low over the surf,
We share nothing,
Save this lonely stretch of beach.
You lift your breakfast free from water
While mine waits in some plastic thing.
I would not be you,
Presenting ragged wings to all
On such a fine morning.
You ignore my presence,
No doubt, thinking I am held captive
By your wide, stretched wings.
But I know the secret of feeling free,
And, I too, might fly when the wind is right.
Charles M. Whitt
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