Classic Poem

Parrot identical with that
of grandmother, grotesque voice
of kitchen, corridor and terrace.

With the first rays of the sun
the parrot breaks into his cry
and into his bitter song,
to the sparrow's consternation
who only sings El Josefito . . . .

Choleric and gutteral
he makes little of the cook,
apostrophizing as he goes
the pot of hotch.

When the parrot, treading on
my feet, traverses the brick floor,
the black cat, curled up in a ball,
fixes him with amber eye,
glowering diabolic sulphur
at this green and yellow demon,
nightmare of its somnolence.

But treasures of civilization
appertain unto
the voice of this super-parrot
of 1922.

Hum of aeroplane it parrots
and the claxon's stridency. . . .
And squawking seeks to overcome
the Victor pick-up's rival strains. . . .

Golden spotlight on a little stage,
from beams to floor, corner to corner,
a sunray through the kitchen strays,
blinds and nimbs the strutting bird. . . .

But sometimes, when the goldfinch breaks
into the song of April woods,
then the prating parrot's sudden
silence and rapt sidelong gaze
are eloquent of a melancholy
unworthy of his green and plumes. . . .

Perhaps he recalls the mighty forest
and the thicket's shadowy bowl. . . .
To the cook according truce

he suspends his scurrilous chatter
and lapses into a wild gloom. . . .

The parrot is but a tuft of leaves
and on the pate a patch of sun.