The Bear | Galway Kinnell
I noticed that I weave myself in and out of the narrative of poems as the protagonist depending on my level of comfort. The lower the comfort, the more I remove myself from the immersive experience. With The Bear, it was an experience of extremes.
Would I…
cut a ravine in his thigh, and eat and drink,
and tear him down his whole length
and open him and climb in
and close him up after me, against the wind,
and sleep.
No. So I picture Kinnell doing so.
Would I…
digest the bone itself: and now the breeze…
blows across
my sore, lolled tongue a song
or screech, until I think I must rise up
and dance. And I lie still.
Mmm, I could see it. Certainly, the lolled tongue with the song or screech, and the rise to dance. I have not actively chosen to digest any bone, but when I think of survival, the discomfort seems worth it, especially if among all the turmoil is the call to rise to dance. I dance to survive on the daily.
You can find the full poem here.
[Book of Delights pg. 237 | No.89 Scat]