ManicDDaily

Blackbirds, Horses

I was of three minds
like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.
–Wallace Stevens,  Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird

I was of three hearts
like a wooden horse painted red;
I trotted him about the floor
and kept him by my bed.

Gave one heart to my mother,
another to my youth’s love,
but oh the last it carried me
to places I knew nought of.

There, I saw a horse a’heave
legs painted high with red
as it stepped right fearsomely
over bloats of limb and head.

The rider said, call me Captain,
but my voice had flown away;
it perched upon the crooked pitch
of what had been tree one day.

There, it joined its fellows,
birds of ebon wing
and if they knew what I might do–
of this, they did not sing.

Just so, my last heart slackened,
sank in a stew of trench
where horses can only founder
unmanned by rot and stench;

where what was wood inside me
melted equal with the flesh;
where captain’s curse can’t find me
no more can any breath.

Three hearts were painted on the horse
I trotted about the floor–
I rue the one whose beating
saddled me with war.

I’ve no more mind for blackbirds
who caw but cannot sing
for what was me no longer
can hear a single thing.

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Agh.  Draft poem of sorts for the wonderful Hedgewitch’s wonderful prompt on Real Toads to write poetry raised to the power of three.  I think this is 19th for April.