Thursday, May 16, 2013
The Dead Penguin (Magdalene Island, Punta Arenas, Chile, 2010)
On Magdalena Island walking up a narrow path I come on a dead penguin, he blends into the earth like a log. I stand and look at him, there’s a hesitation in my live flesh: my God, a penguin is crying side to side—he’s mourning his mate! What is this I think: grief to God for the dead—a funeral song? Heavy breath comes out of me; my stomach feels as if the sky is going to fall.
His head is arched back, its small eyes half closed, and he’s dying little by little, also.
Wind blows cold ice through the air, here at the end of the world. His little flippers look like dwarf arms. There’s a 140,000-penguins here, all in tuxedos, moving about. I want to reach out, touch the mourning penguin, but that’s forbidden; I simply move on.
#3854 (4-18-2013) Poetic Prose
Note: Figurative language means words used to something that you don’t really mean, such as “Tuxedos,” which describes the penguin’s black and white frames: skin or hides. And “flippers like dwarf arms” for the penguin they are nearly useless and are not arms but flippers; Darwin called them wings, how silly could he be.