(Dubious) Polar Bear Sestina

April 16, 2009

It’s another bear poem. It’s a sestina. Not sure it works. I think it should be something else. Like a sonnet. Comments welcome..

Polar Bear Sestina

Mr Polar Bear, I’ve fallen in love
and every Saturday I’m there for you.
I bring my lunch inside a paper bag
brown and crumpled, like for feeding birds
and I sit in our usual place,
my sandwiches, like snow provisions.

And as they go they’re good provisions
so I hold back half out of love
leaving them safe in our usual place
just so you know that they’re there for you,
their Asda bread and their thin brown bag,
like this is a park and you are the birds.

And I like to ask you about the birds –
because I worry, they won’t get provisions;
still in the arctic, no children with bags,
no bread to be scattered by people in love –
did you both go hungry, both birds and you?
When you were still there, in that arctic place.

Are they here Mr Bear, in your inside place,
like a forest of wings, of ice carved birds.
Are they curled up frozen, like a picture of you,
like ice holed provisions,
or photographed love,
are they ice hard stones in your memory’s bag.

And in this circle of space that’s like a bag,
this warm and wooden museum place,
can love still be felt, can you still feel love,
it’s sudden rush like lifting birds.
And since you have left, have you made provisions?
for those who loved you –

and who were loved by you
back – for your young and your birds without their bags.
Or was there no time to make provisions,
when they cut you like paper away from that place
when they silenced the birds
and stripped away love.

Mr Polar Bear, you – and I may have provisions
and at least this bag round place, but I wish you could travel
back to the birds. I’d send you with love, if I could.

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