It's a grim business of its own, p. It stands uneasily on its scrawny legs, if it can be said to have them at all. It, also, has a beak, pointed indeed; and one with which its possessor seems only too happy to provide himself or herself with the most monstrous self-inflicted wounds. ...beaks which, to prevent their being used to peck other birds, more industrial interests often feel it is necessary to snip off. If the birds were free, the beaks would not need snipping. These are self-caged birds, however, so it is a snipping they have agreed to, though they will deny it.
Well, are the operations of p. so much different really, or for that matter in any way different, from the chicken scratching around and pecking for stray seeds on a dry, hard farmyard? Let us use the word then .. of course, there is no such thing as poetry at all - there never has been; there never will be; there never can be. All humans know this to be true, though their capacity to understand their understanding and offer verbal or any other kind of conscious assent is typically not to be found.
Then again, in the end neither is there such a things as International Law. Yet we will 'sue' for that which we will 'sue.' Language indicates to us it will find a way. We may press on. For some information on poultry welfare you might click: poultry.org. (For poetry welfare you are on your own.) |
