This is the fifth assignment for the MOOC, “Whitman’s Civil War: Writing and Imaging Loss, Death, and Disaster“, through the University of Iowa.
This assignment is as follows:
In words and/or images, compose a piece in response to a memory of conflict, war, loss, or trauma that includes two or three central sensations: perhaps a sound that corresponds to or contrasts with a sight, perhaps the feel, noise, and smell of a place.
I was walking one evening last week, through a nearby park used in the evenings for dog exercise. Out of apparently nowhere, a chicken appeared in the middle of the park. All hell broke loose. I’m pretty sure the chicken jumped the fence from a nearby house owned by an elderly Italian couple, who keep chickens in their back garden.
I’ve killed two birds with one stone here (pun intended) – I was meant to write about my trip to Mildura Writers’ Week last month, to share with fellow travellers Heather Taylor Johnson, Gay Lynch and Louise Nicholas. They all managed to write about Mildura, but I cheated and wrote about a chicken instead. Thanks to Heather, Gay and Louise for reviewing this poem. The version here is 2nd draft.
Incident at the Exercise Park
Blue Heelers, Poodles, Terriers, Retrievers,
all bustling eagerness, romping,
rolling, off leash on cold evening grass.
Drenched air, lemon scented gums,
a yellow glow from the old-folks home washes
over the iron fence. Cars sweep by, headlights
beaming, wipers swishing.
Above the smell of rain, of overcooked greens
and thickening gravy, of grass and gums:
the sudden presence of chicken.
Bemused, disoriented, strayed
from some backyard run into foreign territory.
A madness grips the animals,
a predatory reflex: chase, kill,
taste flesh. Everything is bark and bite,
hunter and hunted; a churning
of legs, ears, teeth, a helter-skelter
of fur and feather. The panicked bird
fleeing the snap of teeth.
In the cacophony, owners bark orders, call
hounds to heel. A man leaps into the whirl,
whips the stunned chicken from the chomp
of jaws, shields it under his jacket.
The clamour subsides in a fug of wet fur
and drooling maw. Charges are muzzled,
collars clipped to leads; a smear of blood
wiped from nose, a feather plucked from lip,
warnings delivered against ever again behaving
Copyright Mike Hopkins 2016