Wednesday, 4 June 2014

FLYING CROOKED by Robert Graves

The butterfly, a cabbage-white,
(His honest idiocy of flight)
Will never now, it is too late,
Master the art of flying straight,
Yet has- who knows so well as I?-
A just sense of how not to fly:
He lurches here and here by guess
And God and hope and hopelessness.
Even the acrobatic swift
Has not his flying-crooked gift.


Of this poem Robert Graves said (to my father): "that's about me - not the butterfly" - but I reckon it's not so bad on the cabbage white either.

 

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