Kate, Boy at the Window is the only poem, of all the poems I've insisted on reading to my poetry-hating husband, that he's utterly enjoyed. I was surprised then, but had forgotten about it -- and you've reminded me of it, so I thank you. (A thread on why so many intelligent readers thoroughly dislike poetry might be a good thread for future. (Just a seed Alan might consider planting when things are slow around here.)) A sort of "Can Poetry Matter" in practical terms might be interesting.
Meantime, since this thread is dwindled and is sort've turned into a Wilbur love fest of sorts, and since somebody mentioned the most lovely Barred Owl, and since it does contain, coincidentally,(?) rhyming couplets, and since it will give me great pleasure to type it out, I'm posting it for those who haven't purchased Mayflies. If anyone can tell me how he brings L6's repetition to an actual change in pitch, I'd give them fifty cyber dollars. If rightly listened to, indeed. Let it be noted that I am NOT reduced to groupie behavior and tugging on Alan's sleeve to ask, WHAT WAS HE LIKE ???
A Barred Owl
Richard Wilbur
The warping night air having brought the boom
Of an owl's voice into her darkened room,
We tell the wakened child that all she heard
Was an odd question from a forest bird,
Asking of us, if rightly listened to,
"Who cooks for you?" and then "Who cooks for you?"
Words, which can make our terrors bravely clear,
Can also thus domesticate a fear,
And send a small child back to sleep at night
Not listening for the sound of stealthy flight
Or dreaming of some small thing in a claw
Borne up to some dark branch and eaten raw.
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