Stuff & Nonsense: April Is For Poetry: On the Day of Nixon's Funeral

06 April 2012

April Is For Poetry: On the Day of Nixon's Funeral

While we were admiring daffodils at a park this afternoon, I spotted some ferns all tightly furled and I remembered this poem by Ira Sadoff. Well, I didn't remember it was by Sadoff, but I remembered "embryonic / fiddleheads, fuzzy and curled" and Google worked its usual magic.

Furled Ferns

                                                                 You can see why
I'd want to bury this man whose blood would not circulate,

whose face was paralyzed, who should have died
in shame and solitude, without benefit of eulogy or twenty-one
gun salutes. I want to bury him in Southern California
with the Birchers and the Libertarians. I want to look out

my window and cheer the remaining cedars
that require swampy habitats to survive. To be done
with shame and rage this April afternoon, where embryonic
fiddleheads, fuzzy and curled and pale as wings,

have risen to meet me. After all, they say he was a scrappy man,
wily and sage, who served as Lucifer, scapegoat, scoundrel,
a receptacle for acrimony and rage — one human being
whose life I have no reverence for, which is why I'm singing now.
Extract from "On the Day of Nixon's Funeral" from Grazing by Ira Sadoff. Click here to read it in full.

Furled Ferns

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