[stylist] How to be a Crow

[Ashley Bramlett]

Hi Jackie,
I know the email catch up feeling. I do it a lot when I get busy.
Anyway, this is neat. Many poems are abstract but this one seemed more 
concrete and well, real. You wrote from the perspective of a crow. I wonder 
what the name of that is called. It seemed like you knew a lot of how crows 
behave. Perhaps you had vision most your life?

I could not write about nature such as birds much, since I cannot see their 
actions or how they look. Most animals you cannot touch. I was lucky to 
touch a deer's head though. It was dead though.

Ashley

-----Original Message----- 
From: Jacqueline Williams
Sent: Monday, May 28, 2012 8:32 PM
To: 'Writer's Division Mailing List'
Subject: [stylist] How to be a Crow

For two days I have been trying to catch up on critiquing and re-reading old
mail. I will not make the end of it today.

Still, I wanted to send you all my news. I have had three poems published in
an anthology called, "Soundings from Granite Reef."

I thought I would attach the first one which they used as the first poem in
the book.

In my class, I was told not to try to write a poem about birds. There was
nothing new, and if was very difficult. That was enough for me.

Let's hope this attachment works

Enjoy, Jackie



In case it did not:



How to Be a Crow



Hey, Man, I strut on strong legs.

Robust is my name.

Gray leather four-toed boots

cover my rugged, curved talons.

Tux of Cadillac black, and satin beak

move with my beat-up, down, side, side.

CAW, CAW, CAW.



Fearless, I fly high, catching currents,

circling, wings spread, seeing far below.

You be nice, don't shoot

or poison me-Here's what I'll do.

Yeah.  I'll clean up your roadkill,

neaten up your Golden Arches parking lots,

get rid of your awful offal. You be mean,

I'll dive bomb your dumpsites,

scatter your refuse like straw.

CAW, CAW, CAW.



Hey, Dude, you call yourself scarecrow!

You don't scare me off that baby seed corn.

Me and my buddies love to wait

lined up on the limbs of old trees.

'Specially I like that roly-poly old man

who litters his yard with leftovers

from fatty meals.  What we're gonna do

is leave our half-dollar creamy-white donations

to harden like cement on his black Cadillac!

CAW, CAW, CAW.



Go ahead, Neighbor, call me scavenger

but sometimes you steal my babies,

slit their tongues; train them to talk like you.

Make no mistake-smarter than you,

wary, cunning, I survive, big-time.

Watch me strut.

CAW, CAW, CAW.











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