The Sacred Ibis by Edita Pahor

Edita Pahor reads her poem 'The Sacred Ibis'. 

This poem appears in 34-37 Degrees South 2025 - An Anthology of Poetry from members of the South Coast Writers Centre. 

Fresh words brought to you by the South Coast Writers Centre

Transcript

The Sacred Ibis

Lands

Soundless 

In the garbage bin.

The wings spread in grey authorcraft.

Thoth!   

The creature of the sickle,

The inventor of the hieroglyph.

What’s that beak you have, I cry.

I press my stylus into clay

Black to suit the underworld.

And what dread feet!

Yes, my feet are clawed and nibbed

I hone them into pencillos          I keep them under wing.

Your feathers, they are smudgy, grey and stained!

I trade my feathers for a bone      and dip them in my ink.

Thief! 

Your head is vulture-like and cracked 

You have an ugly balding patch!

That, my dear, is my tonsure

The sacred vellum on my head

I need it for my nightly letters

For my grateful dead.

He sorts the papers one by one,

A small inkling in his eyes,

Turns some scraps in sacred wrappings 

Scraping, scratching, dicing

Before alighting. 

I say Nothing in this dust-up. I

Dare not fathom deep, 

Into his writing.