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Adrian Rice: This Letting Go
THE CHANCES OF HARM
It arrives like God.
Living killing machine.
Silent hearse of the air
rolling in on no wheels.
Makes perfect weight
between wide wings.
Uttermost branch
of the tallest tree.
All judge and jury.
Lord of No Doubt.
I am species-safe.
So, too, the buried bones
of these fields of death,
whose headstones are tills
awaiting the cha ching
of the last trump.
A big daylight owl
seems unimpressed,
blinking the chances of harm.
A cardinal goes off
like a car alarm.
~~~
MIMUS POLYGLOTTOS
Stock-still in sunshine in the graveyard,
close to a perfectly plump bush,
listening to a northern mockingbird
running the river of its songs
and sounds like it is auditioning
for voicemail salesbird of the year.
Such full-throated impersonation
in a place of silenced mouths.
‘Mimus polyglottos’, many-tongued
thrush, we have them on the evening
avenue, with a shorter playlist.
In an old graveyard, where humans
are hushed, the bird zone is busy,
so the mockingbird is working hard
in call and chatburst to mark its ground,
even falling for fakery
from me, pursing out my whistle stuff,
chuffed to think it sounds like something
worth imitating. And I wonder
what the other birds make of these
marvellous mimics; if they feel mocked,
resent them as flashy showoffs,
secretly envy their wizardry,
just accept them for what they are.
Or do they pity them as ‘Legions’
in their midst, sin-singing out of
their heads like they’re biblically possessed?
Whichever, whatever, our thrush
of many-tongues, may you continue
to channel the best of their songs,
spinning harmless mimicry among
those who know your fake message best.
~~~
THIS LETTING GO
Why wouldn’t we invest
them with such significance?
This letting go of leaves
from the avenue trees
which feels like the deaths
of so many people,
each struggling to hang on
until the very last breath;
all of them subject
to each sudden
mood swing
of wind that sends
showers of them
wending to the ground
every time it lifts.
But we come and go,
they seem to say,
we come and go,
and at least we’re not alone
like so many of you –
just look at us lushing
the dainty driveways
with our leafy selves!
And if we hadn’t have fallen,
how long, in this world,
in your world,
do you think we could’ve
happily hung on?
How long?
~
~~~~~
Copyright 2026 Adrian Rice
Adrian Rice is an award-winning Belfast poet who lives in Hickory, NC, and teaches at Appalachian State University. His poems and prose have appeared in The Guardian and a variety of anthologies, including The Belfast Anthology and The Ulster Anthology (Blackstaff Press), Open-Eyed, Full-Throated: An Anthology of American/Irish Poets (Arlen House), and Crossing the Rift: North Carolina Poets on 9/11 & Its Aftermath (Press 53). Following his previous book, The Strange Estate: New & Selected Poems 1986-2017 (Press 53), he recently released his newest collection, The Chances of Harm (Press 53).
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“running the river of its songs” – these are gorgeous poems and make me nostalgic again for a ‘proper’ spring and our northern songbirds. What a delight. Every line a gem, every metaphor wakening a memory.
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Just back from walking the dog in the said gyard, Rose, and it was like all the songbirds had read VP … x
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Yes, it must be difficult getting used to the seasons near the equator if you come from the northern lattitudes.
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Here in the subtropics it’s either hot, or not so. It can be quite hot (up to 32° perhaps, but that’s rare, this summer the hottest was 26/28° and that only a few days), and it can be quite cold (13° is ‘arctic’). But for the rest nothing much changes. The bougainvillea are with us either way, the poinciana really show off between January and March, but also are around throughout the year. It gets a bit boring, really.
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As I was reading I was also hearing the birds in my little plot of nature behind my son’s inner city home. Song sparrows, mocking birds, the hawks and crows join with the “invasive species” —all welcome in my garden. I love these poems and will read them again today and into the future. This old leaf is still hanging on.
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Made me smile, Barbara. Hanging on with ya x
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Lovely, Barbara! Michael Simms
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I admire these poems and especially love “In an old graveyard, where humans / are hushed, the bird zone is busy,” and “A cardinal goes off
like a car alarm” (what a great last line that is).
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I so agree. I’ve loved Adrian’s poems for years. His strong passions and wild metaphors make each poem an ecstasy.
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Michael, VP is my don’t miss online go-to site of each day, so always a songbird morning when one’s own wee poems appear in it. Cheers, mate x
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Thanks, Adrian. Glad to have you on board as a poet and reader of poetry. Michael Simms
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Thanks, Karen x
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