Scarecrow Sings the High Lonesome
Nothing about me shines or sparkles. If asked,
I would place myself among the discarded —
remnant cloth and straw, worn, inedible,
useless, if not for packaging intended to
convey a certain message, which I of course
have subverted to “Welcome, corvids!” Even
my voice lies stranded in the refuse, silent
yet harmonious, clear yet strangled, whole
and unheard, dispersed, like tiny drops of
vapor listing above the ocean’s swell, enduring
gray skies and gulls and those solemn rocks
bearing their weight against the white crush.
Why do I persist? What tethers a shadow
to its body? How do we hear by implication
what isn’t there? Bill Monroe hammered
his mandolin, chopping chords, muting,
droning, banging out incomplete minors
to expectant ears, constructing more than
a ladder of notes climbing past the rafters
into the smoky sky. What I sing is not
heard but implied: the high lonesome, blue
and old-time, repealed. Crushed limestone
underfoot. Stolen names, borrowed sounds.
Dark words subsumed by light, yellowed,
whitened, faded to obscurity, to obscenity.
“Scarecrow Sings the High Lonesome” first appeared in Crannóg, in June 2017.
O at the Edges 
I love the way Scarecrow expresses himself.
What inspired you to write the scarecrow series?
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Thank you, Tami. A few years ago I bought a book on corvids (crows, ravens, jays), thinking I might write a few poems about them. But when I started writing, Scarecrow’s voice popped out. I’m not sure how or why – just one of those little mysteries.
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“Hear by implication” – that stirs up a LOT!
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It applies to a bit more than music, doesn’t it? I believe that we also see by implication, that we often see only what we expect.
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Yes, and many “expect” what they fear, so find evidence of doom everywhere they turn. Such an imprecise existence we humans embody! Good thing we have poetry to keep us guessing …
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Imprecise and often illogical. Poetry has taught me to “read between the lines.”
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Would that I could spin my own, sallow notes into such sweetness as the ache of Scarecrow’s high lonesome! If “Welcome, Corvids!” were all we knew on earth, what more would we need to know? 🌎🌽🐦
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For an inanimate being lacking a central nervous system, Scarecrow feels a lot. And yes, who knows how great we might become simply by welcoming!
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You know I always love your poems, but sometimes I just have to stop and say I LOVE THAT PICTURE!
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Thanks, Gary. I wish I could take credit for the photo, but it came from morguefile.com, where the bulk of the photos I use originate.
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i want to plant— what i hope has already taken root in your mind: a book of Scarecrow poems.
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Thanks, Daniel. I’ve thought about this, and have come to believe that Scarecrow works best in small doses. Thus in my full-length manuscript, which has been ripped apart and started anew, Scarecrow plays a prominent role (even opens the book), but is otherwise spread throughout, a poem here, one there. The voice seems more effective that way.
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i’m glad to hear that.
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Lovely imagery. Scarecrow AND shadows
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Thanks, Derrick. I never know where Scarecrow will go…
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😳absolutely fantastic.
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So glad you liked it, Anita. Thank you.
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“stolen names, borrowed sounds”–well that’s storytelling, isn’t it? (K)
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It certainly is!
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