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Top 10 Best Chicken Poems

By Will Willingham

Top 10 Chicken Poems

10 of the Best Chicken Poems

It’s hard to say whether it was Tweetspeak’s peculiar love for chickens (and, therefore, chicken poems), or whether our inner Emily Litella was over-eager to make an April 1 showing. However it happened, while the rest of the world launched  National Poetry Month with resounding stanzas of well-clipped iambic pentameter, we dove off the top of the coop right into a mound of chicken feed with National Poultry Month. The nation’s poultry producers may be curious about the unexpected connection with poems, but we were delighted with the chicken poems our community produced.

And while the demand for poultry may be exploding beyond what the lowly chicken can bear,  we find the also burgeoning demand for chicken poems to be encouraging:

Did you know Google turns up 1,850,000 results for #ChickenPoetry @tspoetry #NationalPoultryMonth for #NationalPoetryMonth

— Maureen Doallas (@Doallas) April 1, 2015

With that in mind, we’ve decided to make the search for chicken poetry easier for those scratching around. Here are 10 great chicken poems we saw in response to our chicken poetry prompt last week (in no particular pecking order):

1.

Beware the Vital Approaches

The number 2 is “Bring it home”—vital
for me, deadly for you. See, I am

a chef, full of pluck, using only
the freshest of ingredients.

If I bring you home, it will be
straight to the kitchen.

My grocery list says tamari sauce,
cilantro, and, worst of all,

garlic, all of which spell
a poem you may not want to read.

—Monica Sharman

 
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2.

A chicken whose name was Chantecler
Clucked in iambic pentameter
It sat on a shelf, reading Song of Myself
And laid eggs with a perfect diameter.

—Richard Maxson

3.

feathers ruffled
morning glowers
mad as a wet hen

—Kathleen (@everettpoetry)

4.

Saturday afternoon whilst shaking
loose produce scraps I
tumbled into the chicken yard –
(a flailing surprise
for the squawkers). They
clamored and clucked and
ran like the chickens
they are. My dog and
my son came running. One
growled. The other yelled. I
moaned a bit then mended fence
with bailing twine and foul
words. As the cluckers shy-picked,
cautious-pecked at their buffet, I changed
my smashed tomato, squishy
cucumber, and burnt crust clothes.

—Simply Darlene

5.

how to tackle this chicken poem

(a jealous poem stack)

chicken fingers (even though chickens have feathers)
roasted chicken with a side of mac and cheese
chicken cacciatore (a little spicy with baby bella mushrooms over a pile of penne)
chicken francese marsala angelo and parmesean
chicken parmesean with a side of penne and a glass of wine for lunch on Thursdays
chicken cutlets (breaded, not the kind you stick in your bra to make your boobs bigger, thankfully i don’t need those at all)
i just wrote “boobs” in public, thanks Anne Lamott
i’m sweating a little because i wrote “boobs” in public
popcorn chicken
chicken a la king
chicken pot pie
buffalo chicken wings
buffalo chicken wrap
broiled chicken sandwich
grilled chicken, with bacon on a roll,
and some avocado.
what would julia child say about all this chicken??

—Michelle Ortega

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6.

Last Night I Dreamed of Chickens – A Found Poem

Do you remember, I held empty hands to you
without a thought of eggs and bacon?

Stupid in candlelight, hearing rain,
waiting fulfillment. . .

It was all very simple:
Last night I dreamed of chickens.

—Maureen Doallas

(Punctuation/capitalization added by the poet)

Credits:

Title: Jack Prelutsky, “Last Night I Dreamed of Chickens”

Carl Sandburg, “Potato Blossom Songs and Jigs”
Lewis Carroll, “Lays of Sorrow”
Philip Larkin, “Wedding Wind”
Amy Lowell, “Thompsons Lunch Room – Grand Central Station”
Richard Brautigan, “Trout Fishing in America”
Jack Pretlusky, “Last Night I Dreamed of Chickens”

7.

Chicken

“are you chicken, ”
he taunted.
squint-eyed and red cheeked, with all
those freckles splashed across his pug nose
i look from his leering grin to my
yellow flip-flop, bobbing in the pool
like a duck in azure water
just beyond my reach.
do I stretch out to retrieve it, risk
the shove i know is coming
or go home, shoeless
and face the wrath of mom?
everyone is watching as i stand paralyzed
by indecision and then, suddenly
he’s gone. submerged in a splash of water
his fat arms pumping, mouth yelling
my sister shoved him in
and the tidal wave of his humiliation
brought the yellow flip-flop to my
waiting hand.

—Erica Hale

8.

No Time to Lay – A Found Poem

I hate to admit this:
I am nude as a chicken neck.

I’m in the backyard on a quilt
beyond the coop.

Yes, a real-life chick—
white as the snow that never falls.

Red sun is burning out.
The dog lets out a howl.

I think I’m going to die.

—Maureen Doallas

(Punctuation/capitalization added by the poet)

Credits:

Title: Jane Finch, “No Time to Lay”

1 Linh Dinh, “Eating Fried Chicken”
2 Sylvia Plath, “The Bee Meeting”
3-4 Bruce Weigl, “Killing Chickens”
5 Joseph Estes, “My Easter Chick Shang Hi”
6 Kelli Webb, “How to Eat Fried Chicken”
7 Bruce Weigl, “Killing Chickens”
8 Jane Finch, “The Chicken Farm (Part 1)”
9 Tenekia Balfour-Mitchell, “Craving for jerk chicken”

 

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9.

My coop lights burn at both ends,
please let me sleep I beg.
and worse, my foes, and fie, my friends,
you also eat my legs.

—Mil Lay (Richard Maxson)

10.

April is the coolest month, setting
chickens free of the frying pan, giving
free range to the Easter Eggers, stirring
hearts and minds at their roots.

—from The Eggland, Burial of the Egg (Richard Maxson)

Featured photo by Edwinistrator. Creative Commons License via Flickr. Post and illustration by Will Willingham. 

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  • Author
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Will Willingham
Will Willingham
Director of Many Things; Senior Editor, Designer and Illustrator at Tweetspeak Poetry
I used to be a claims adjuster, helping people and insurance companies make sense of loss. Now, I train other folks with ladders and tape measures to go and do likewise. Sometimes, when I’m not scaling small buildings or crunching numbers with my bare hands, I read Keats upside down. My first novel is Adjustments.
Will Willingham
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Filed Under: Blog, Chicken poems, National Poetry Month, National Poultry Month, poetry

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About Will Willingham

I used to be a claims adjuster, helping people and insurance companies make sense of loss. Now, I train other folks with ladders and tape measures to go and do likewise. Sometimes, when I’m not scaling small buildings or crunching numbers with my bare hands, I read Keats upside down. My first novel is Adjustments.

Comments

  1. Simply Darlene says

    April 9, 2015 at 9:54 am

    I’m eggcited to be included. 🙂

  2. Monica Sharman says

    April 9, 2015 at 10:00 am

    Thanks for including me in the coop!

  3. L. L. Barkat says

    April 9, 2015 at 11:40 am

    Love, love, love. From the poignant to the hilarious.

    And that is a wonderful illustration. Chicken over Manhattan. She’s darling!

  4. michelle ortega says

    April 9, 2015 at 2:14 pm

    *wipes brow nervously*

    So much fun! Thanks for posting here!

  5. Maureen Doallas says

    April 9, 2015 at 3:43 pm

    Fun stuff!

    So egg-cited to have received two mentions!

    I realized subsequently I probably should have called those poems “centos” but I guess I could call them “found”, too, since I had to research the phrase “chicken poems” to find lines to use. I was surprised so many people have used chickens in their poems. I know I never imagined myself writing on the subject.

  6. Donna Z Falcone says

    April 10, 2015 at 10:31 am

    Even more fun the second time around! 🙂

  7. Carl Sharpe says

    April 11, 2015 at 10:03 am

    Love this wonderful old poem, always new…

    The Red Wheelbarrow
    by William Carlos Williams

    so much depends
    upon
    a red wheel
    barrow

    glazed with rain
    water

    beside the white
    chickens.

  8. Richard Maxson says

    April 12, 2015 at 9:43 am

    Thanks for featuring my eggs.

  9. Carla says

    January 15, 2018 at 7:23 pm

    The Chicken
    The chicken is a lovely bird,
    despite the things you might have heard.

    Grill it, bake, or saute it,
    roast it, stew it, or flambe it.

    Chopped for salad, sliced for stew,
    or collect an egg or two.

    Their poop has valued nitrogen,
    and helps our plants look green again.

    It really is a nifty bird,
    and useful too from beak to turd.

    From Silly Rhymes for Belligerent Children,
    by Trace Beaulieu

  10. Carla says

    January 15, 2018 at 7:24 pm

    I introduce the above poem to my kids for poetry memorization in kindergarten or first grade. It’s a nice break from the more serious stuff we do. 🙂

    • Sandra Heska King says

      January 15, 2018 at 9:06 pm

      I love it! 🙂 Thanks for sharing it, Carla. It looks to be a fun poem to memorize.

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