nectarhoff: Crocodile


like a log
long dead,
cloaked in a
pale green gray
mess of cold-blooded scales,
it lies there,
black-beaded eyes opened and
always watching,
always waiting,
always waiting.
But never sleeping, no —
those sharp, closed
jaws rest on a
calm river of 
liquid quietus that 
has just one name: 
Senseless little 
lukewarm lives
loll across the 
steadily drifting
or flit down 
from the faceless
blue above
to touch
the silver water, 
to be crushed,
to be consumed,
to be digested,
and all by the cool,
careless disinterest of 
what might well have been
an old uprooted tree.

This poem was written in imitation of Vultures by Mary Oliver.

by Mary Oliver

Like large dark
butterflies they sweep over
the glades looking
for death,
to eat it,
to make it vanish,
to make of it the miracle:
resurrection. No one
knows how many
they are who daily
minister so to the grassy
miles, no one
counts how many bodies
they discover
and descend to, demonstrating
each time the earth's
appetite, the unending
waterfalls of change.
No one,
wants to ponder it,
how it will be
to feel the blood cool,
shapeliness dissolve.
Locked int
the blaze of our own bodies
we watch them
wheeling and drifting, we
honor them and we
loathe them,
however wise the doctrine,
however magnificent the cycles,
however ultimately sweet
the huddle of death to fuel
those powerful wings.

My poem is obviously distinct from hers, but I wonder...To what extent is my work diminished by having come at least partially from someone else? And is it really that different from any other poem I might write, or any creative work that anyone else does?

- 7/8/14


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