a baby fly drowned today
in my breakfast milk.
it moved its many legs
leaving the stage
with a tiny dance,
having lived its life
paid its dues.
I feel a strange sorrow
wondering
where are its parents
who taught it to fly,
what was its favorite food,
was it old enough
to have loved.
maybe I chased it away once
from cheese or jam
with an irritated wave.
now it has joined
the immense daily dying.
life is a perpetual
funeral.
-
Author:
Berthold Lippel (
Offline) - Published: May 30th, 2016 14:38
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 38
Offline)
Comments3
The dying fly is a popular dance move in the UK ! One lies on ones back and waves arms and legs helplessly in the air ! Over 60's have died doing it ! In the UK flies are the most despised insect and children are taught to say "Shoo Dirty Fly". Under the microscope they are very beautiful and they have compound eyes so they see a thousand of us. I admire you for devoting a whole poem to the death of a baby fly. Like writing a poem about Adolf Hitler. Well crafted poem which asks many unanswered questions. Thanks for sharing. BRIAN
Sounds just like the Dying Cockroach position we did in Army Basic Training. Mainly as a way for the Drill Sergeant to humiliate us. Anyway, nice poem. Somewhat morbid and gross, but a nice attempt to humanize a creature we normally don't care much for. Thanks Berthold!
Thanks for your comment. I learned another mad thing about the UK! And by the way I admire your energy in commenting so well about many poems--a vital encouragement to budding and seasoned poets.
The grey plane sprayed the black fly
The black fly poisoned the white milk
The white milk rinsed off the yellow bones.
Life is indeed a perpetual funeral, my friend.
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.