A man and his brother, a poet; a note

(I found this scribbled in my backpack on a note. I don’t remember who wrote it or if i got it exactly right. I’m going to the library later today and I will look it up. I wanted to share this right now because as I wake up for a new day it was (I think) what I was dreaming about. It’s a simple poem but says so much about the artist and well, just human relationships in general, and how far apart from each other we really are, but how much we often mean to other people.)

A local man estimates what he did for his brother who became a poet and what his brother did for him

I shot a chicken in the tree above

where her body stood howling after I’d shot

bitterly he cried so loud of feathers love

itself became involved lord, lord, the fit

he threw was terrible. He said his head-

his sacred head- was daubed for poetry

He said cruelty would make him mad

He said it was a ritual catastrophe

Herbert was spattered with old chicken blood

and feathers from eyes to knees

He said later, twelve years later, that he was sad

He’d frightened me. Within a month he died

on his deathbed he reached out for my hand

and said we come from where we get

the wound.

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