Free As A Bird was the song with which The ‘Threetles’
Revived John Lennon in the Beatles Anthology Project,
Circa 1994. I stare at a branched blackbird now,
Framed by a neighbouring tree to my garden. It forms
A perfect image of freedom: an interesting concept
Which I seem to recall from before. Or from whenever
That dates, no doubt the days of my childhood,
In which another energy crisis, for a while at least,
Cut the week
to three working days.
I was too young to know what that felt like.
And yet now I feel close to reduction, and to
Subtraction, too, as funds leak
And the abandoned ship starts to sink, while
Staying docked in the harbour. The October Crisis,
And its incoming cloud, presses down
On the somewhat shambling decks, where those
Without a commission, or comfortable cabin,
Will feel further reduced in their quarters,
And from where even those in a crow’s nest,
May inescapably start to drown. Yet still the bills
Escalate as they have here already. For Persons
Unknown have decided to aggravate the slack rate
And tighten it as a bind, as society seeks suffocation,
With one governmental hand on the wind-pipe,
While the other, on the ever loosening wheel,
Navigates. So, which is worse: sea, or sky? Only one
Of those you walk into. The other remains
Just as distant, whether in a plane or a lounge.
The bird in the tree knows what’s best, as it can
Claim both in a moment. It needs no chart, or charge
For survival. Instead, it sails simply, flying, free,
And yes, homeless, the representative of a spark
And spirit which will always have a land-lubbed cost.
That’s profound, We might say that all birds are poets,
Perhaps, carrying one word, or idea to another,
Skirting cloud, they lift image close to the ascent point
For space. And pass their private language between
The late night call and dawn chorus, gossiping about man,
Or, forewarning us about the inevitable threat
We can’t trace. Soon, we will be straining for gas,
And for the electric spark which allows us to connect
To each other and distract us as well from dark’s place.
Meanwhile, the birds write escapes. Perhaps this is why
They crap on us, daily; messy marks of white punctuation;
Hints on how to ransack past prisons and to stop serving
The sentences written for us, which, increasingly,
We can’t face. And now, this bird has flown. Another
John Lennon lyric. By the time that I type this,
My energy will be slipping. It will also be colder.
So, someone please tell me: which is the correct curse
to embrace?
David Erdos 1/9/22
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