Summary

"Pigeons the Second" is a poetic reflection on the cyclical nature of existence, the interconnectedness of life, and the inevitability of change.

Abstract

The text "Pigeons the Second" by Harold De Gauche is an evocative piece that delves into themes of life, death, and rebirth. It opens with a vivid image of a "big crunch," setting a tone of cosmic events and the end of a cycle. The poem then transitions to earthly metaphors, comparing the movement of celestial bodies to caravans of camels and the music of the universe to the grinding of molars. It speaks to the uniqueness of each species and entity, all striving for individuality yet inexorably drawn back to a universal origin, the "Allthing." The narrative voice mourns the loss of pigeons, symbolizing the transient nature of life, and calls out for connection and understanding in the face of mortality. The poem concludes with a plea for protection and sanctuary, as the speaker seeks to merge with the earth and find solace in the undergrowth.

Opinions

The author conveys a sense of awe at the vastness and interconnectedness of the universe, likening it to a grand, rhythmic procession.
There is a palpable melancholy in the depiction of life's transient nature, particularly in the mourning

Pigeons the Second

Big crunch.

Down big blue sad.

Cracks million miles off somewhere else like caravans of

Camels chewing and spitting and moving to drumbeats

That are best made by molars and at the back of the throat.

Dirges and marches and molariphic music grinding voluminous

Across the hump of time.

For them to give away what for no thing can ever be taken.

No species one and the same and no thing quite like the other

As all swim away to find their own private slice of thingness

And that be the very thing that brings you back to Mother

— From the thing to the thing of thing to the Allthing.

Let us swim away to swim toward,

Only to be gathered up by entities now looking back

And sweeping up the bits and bits

And flotsam and jetsam

And sole solitary quantum of wantum

That fits forever like a glove.

My heartstrings and feathers and blood-splattered corpse

Beaten down now to deep hollow hum

— flesh-metal machine heart.

Cry for dead pigeons with the wail of excommunicated consonants,

Devoweled and imprisoned in the diaphragm,

Where they will not curse

Nor breathe their best or worst

Nor regurgitate

Their prison cell.

Cry to me with big belly sounds.

Cry to me to cry to you.

Cry to me with the sound of a bird crushed

By a wheel on a road in Moscow.

Cry to me with the sound of a second bird

Shivering its life away.

Call and cry but please hide me from predators

As I grow into the ground.

There you are, I see you

Hiding in the undergrowth

Covered under leaves.

Coverunderleaves.

Leave says you.

Leave says I.

Leave says you.

Just tuck me nice snug down deep

Into undergrowth

As I snooze myself

Into sanctuary.

Irish Writer