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The Parrots by Andrew Boobier The blue parrots are not indigenous to these cages, son, and the red parrots are not contagious. Go now, feed them the buckwheat and sunflower seeds stooked in your hand. Do not hesitate though you do not understand. Like the Classics, parrots are more talked about than read. (Words, you see, like God, are difficult.) In their conflagration they sit at the other side of the world's honeycomb while silence dances round them like raindrops glancing off a granite tomb. Siddhartha, Jesus, Socrates - they who do not write - how lucky we are to have them now, having never heard their whiny screeching voices miming the parrot's mimetic art. © Andrew Boobier « Home | Contributor Notes » Please comment on this poem. |
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