Guest poem sent in by David Mckay
(Poem #1577) The Owl Downhill I came, hungry, and yet not starved; Cold, yet had heat within me that was proof Against the North wind; tired, yet so that rest Had seemed the sweetest thing under a roof. Then at the inn I had food, fire, and rest, Knowing how hungry, cold, and tired was I. All of the night was quite barred out except An owl's cry, a most melancholy cry Shaken out long and clear upon the hill, No merry note, nor cause of merriment, But one telling me plain what I escaped And others could not, that night, as in I went. And salted was my food, and my repose, Salted and sobered, too, by the bird's voice Speaking for all who lay under the stars, Soldiers and poor, unable to rejoice. |
Here's a holiday poem of sorts. There are a few poems by Edward Thomas on the website, but not this one. I once read "The Owl" in an anthology and then lost track of it for years, but every once in a while one of its well-turned lines would come back to haunt me: "An owl's cry, a most melancholy cry". Reading the poem again, I was especially taken with the rich, ambiguous image of the owl's cry "salting" the narrator's food and repose. Throughout, the economy of language is exceptional -- consider the phrase "soldiers and poor", which says all that needs to be said and no more. Best regards, David McKay
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