A Very Dove
A very Dove will have her love
ere the Dove has died;
the spirit, vanity approve,
will even love in pride;
and cannot love, and yet can hate,
spirit to fulfill;
the spirit cannot watch and wait,
the Hawk must have his kill.
There is a Gull that rolls alone
over billows loud;
the Nightingale at night will moan
under her soft shroud.
East Harlem, July 1948
I find in my notebook, no poetic response to this poem on July 9, 2003…just a jot in the bottom left corner of page 7.
– all symbolism aside, I think about the new variety that I’ve found at my pond – the birds with the orange heads. I think of the white pelicans, like boats on the river, moving downstream.
I was flying to Ottawa to enjoy Mom and Dad’s 50th anniversary party. It was a surprise, and a wonderful one at that. I did not begin my poetic responses again, until I returned home and began again with Ginsberg’s poem, Vision.