I am lived. I am died.
I was two-leafed three times, and grazed, Cockspur
but then I was stemmed and multiplied,
sharp-thorned and caned, nested and raised,
earth-salt by sun-sugar. I was innerly sung
by thrushes who need fear no eyed skin thing.
Finched, ant-run, flowered, I am given the years
in now fewer berries, now more of sling
out over directions of luscious dung.
Of water crankshaft, of gases the gears
my shape is cattle-pruned to a crown spread sprung
above the starve-gut instinct to make prairies
of everywhere. My thorns are stuck with caries
of mice and rank lizards by the butcher bird.
Inches in, baby seed-screamers get supplied.
I am lived and died in, vine woven, multiplied.
See more poems in Sabio’s Poetry Anthology
About the Poet:
- This is my second poem by Les Murray, my first post has info on Les.
- Sources: Pic from Wiki and Poem from here
My impression & thoughts:
Do we live or are we lived? This question has often added an odd, vibrant perspective to how I view both all life around me including my own. Murray’s poem strum those chords again for me.