I teach poetry. I write poetry. I organize and participate in poetry readings. Most everyone I've ever talked with has at least one favorite poem or poet. Let's clear our heads a little and turn to the literary. Please share a poem you like. I'll start us off with a piece by Kim Addonizio. Kim was born in D.C. in 1954 and now lives in Oakland, CA. Of "Chicken," she says: "Sometimes I look at jokes and riddles as a kind of poetry: alternate universes of compressed narratives and lyrics where one is in a state of uncertainty, mystery, and expectation. They're structured for surprise, the aha! of revelation or sudden laughter. Like the riddle of the lightbulb, the simple, familiar riddle of the chicken has generated its own literary tradition, responsive to culteral changes (Why did the punk rocker cross the road?) and further elaborations of meaning (Emerson: She didn't cross the road, she transcended it; Mark Twain: The news of its crossing has been greatly exaggerated). The original, ur-chicken riddle has such an obvious answer that the answer fails to satisfy. Instead, it propels us into a deeper consideration of existential realities and of our inherently conflicted relationship to poultry. Why did she want to get to the other side? Is there a goal, a destination, a place to go? What about free-range chickens? Maybe this little riddle is a secular koan which could free us from our cages, from the maya of materiality."
Chicken
Why did she cross the road?
She should have stayed in her little cage,
shat upon by her sisters above her,
shitting on her sisters below her.
God knows how she got out.
God sees everything. God has his eye
on the chicken, making her break
like the convict headed for the river,
sloshing his way through the water
to throw off the dogs, raising
his arms to starlight to praise
whatever isn't locked in a cell.
He'll make it to a farmhouse
where kind people will feed him.
They'll bring green beans and bread,
home-brewed hops. They'll bring
the chicken the farmer found
by the side of the road, dazed
from being clipped by a pickup,
whose delicate brain stem
he snapped with a twist,
whose asshole his wife stuffed
with rosemary and a lemon wedge.
Everything has its fate,
but only God knows what that is.
The spirit of the chicken will enter the convict.
Sometimes, in his boxy apartment,
listening to his neighbors above him,
annoying his neighbors below him,
he'll feela terrible hunger
and an overwhelming urge
to jab his head at the television over and over.
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