Dr Paul's Poetry Pages

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Hunting for the Po-o-uli

Two of them banded females, we hunt the third.

We hunt the third every day.

We hunt the third through the thornless dying jungle.

We hunt the third, our arms sweating, every pore opening,

Every ear at attention for some sound of this dull plumed bird.

We hunt the third; call it to us with taped sounds.

Two of them females we hunt the third.

We hunt the third every day.

On the radio we hunt the third.

In the citiy we hunt the third through the thorned dying jungle.

Po-o-uli, Po-o-uli.

That bird opened up, vulnerable to the rats and pigs.

In the city we are hunted, Po-o-uli, Po-o-uli.

Pieces of the jungle, we are hunted.

We are hunted through the streets;

We are hunted through the grey courts:

Po-o-uli, po-o-uli seeking to open our eyes,

Po-o-uli, seeking to open our ears,

Seeking to open every pore, open our nerves,

Wanting us to trust where there are no rats and pigs; Po-o-uli.

We are the third Po-o-uli.

Copyright 8/15/2000 pgd