The Rabbit

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April is National Poetry Month, and I plan to post one poem per day, every day this month (If you have a favorite poem that you'd like me to share, feel free to email it to me).

My poetry suggestions are starting to run dry, which means I will start posting my own favorites (but you've seen many of those already) or you can send me your favorite poems, which I probably haven't read before! Today's poem was suggested by Tina, a fellow ornithologist who studied Florida scrub-jays. Tina writes; "I saw the poem project and had to submit this one (hopefully you haven't used it yet)...it is 'The Rabbit' by Mary Oliver. I love it."

Well, Tina, although Mary Oliver is one of my favorite living poets, I have never before read the poem you suggested, surprisingly (has it been published in one of her books?), so thanks for sharing!

The Rabbit

Scatterghost,
it can't float away.
And the rain, everybody's brother,
won't help. And the wind all these days
flying like ten crazy sisters everywhere
can't seem to do a thing. No one but me,
and my hands like fire,
to lift him to a last burrow. I wait

days, while the body opens and begins
to boil. I remember

the leaping in the moonlight, and can't touch it,
wanting it miraculously to heal
and spring up
joyful. But finally

I do. And the day after I've shoveled
the earth over, in a field nearby

I find a small bird's nest lined pale
and silvery and the chicks --
are you listening, death? -- warm in the rabbit's fur.

-- Mary Oliver, 1984 Pulitzer Prize Winner for American Primitive [here's a PDF where this poem appears, along with a few others].

More like this

How about e.e. cumming's "Since feeling is first"? You already have a punctuation poem though...

Reminded me of this one:

Myxomatosis

Caught in the center of a soundless field
While hot inexplicable hours go by
What trap is this? Where were its teeth concealed?
You seem to ask.
I make a sharp reply,
Then clean my stick. I'm glad I can't explain
Just in what jaws you were to suppurate:
You may have thought things would come right again
If you could only keep quite still and wait.

Philip Larkin