Birds and poetry (1 Viewer)

These are not new but perhaps are still worth posting?

regards
Merlin


A Birder’s Lament

When I was young, so long ago now it seems.
Wide eyed, full of life and with more than my share of dreams.

Over the years I have lived, many of those dreams that I had.
Wandered through wild places, met many people, both good and bad.

Now I am much older and no longer always the last to stay awake.
And some days it feels that every bone in my body, takes its’ turn to ache.

I struggle to read without my glasses, when once I had eagle eyes.
And now I can hardly hear a goldcrest, just to add to my demise.

My memory is not quite as sharp as in the past it has been.
But still, not a single day goes by without having a new dream!





A Non- Breeder

Still looking out of the same old garden
Still looking at the same old view
The trees full of the same old birds
And still no sign of you

I keep looking out for anything
That may tell me that you’ve arrived in town
I scan all the parks and hedgerows
Just checking to see if you’re around

I sing with fervour in the springtime
With my best plumage on view
Watching lawns and bird tables
Just in case I can attract you

Still looking out of the same old garden
Still looking up at the same old moon
Wherever you are from
Please fly in and find me, soon

A birder's Lament, "Ahh", that's me these days.

I know it's been sometime but thinking of the 100th anniversary of the Battle of the Somme on July 1st this year, I thought of Edward Thomas and submit one of his poem.

regards
Merlin
The Owl

DOWNHILL I came, hungry, and yet not starved,
Cold, yet had heat within me that was proof
Against the north wind; tired, yet so that rest
Had seemed the sweetest thing under a roof.

Then at the inn I had food, fire, and rest,
Knowing how hungry, cold, and tired was I.
All of the night was quite barred out except
An owl's cry, a most melancholy cry.

Shaken out long and clear upon the hill
No merry note, nor cause of merriment,
But one telling me plain what I escaped
And others could not, that night, as in I went.

And salted was my food, and my repose,
Salted and sobered too, by the bird's voice
Speaking for all who lay under the stars,
Soldiers and poor, unable to rejoice.


Edward Thomas

A Little Bird

In alien lands I keep the body
Of ancient native rites and things:
I gladly free a little birdie
At celebration of the spring.

I'm now free for consolation,
And thankful to almighty Lord:
At least, to one of his creations
I've given freedom in this world!

Aleksandr Pushkin

'The Peregrine' by J.A Baker is a must read for a birder who enjoys poetry. Its is poetic and beautiful, entwined with a sense of melancholy throughout. It is definitely my favourite book!

It isn't poetry (it is prose) , but a nature diary that is written in a very poetical style. Here is one of my favourite parts of the book -

'I came late to the love of birds. For years I only saw them as a tremor at the edge of vision. They know suffering and joy in simple states not possible to us. Their lives quicken and warm to a pulse our hearts can never reach. They race to oblivion. They are old before we finish growing.
The first bird I searched for was a Nightjar, which used to nest in a valley. Its song is like the sound of a stream of wine spilling from a height into a deep booming cast. It is an odorous sound, with a bouquet that rises to the quiet sky. In the glare of day it would seem thinner and drier, but dusk mellows it and gives it vintage. If a song could smell, this song would smell of crushed grapes and almonds and dark wood. The sound spills out and none of it is lost. The whole wood brims with it. Then it stops. But the ear hears it still, a prolonged and fading echo, draining and winding out among the surrounding trees. Into the deep stillness, between the early stars and the long afterglow, the Nightjar leaps up joyfully.' - J.A Baker, 'The Peregrine'.

Time this thread came to life again. The poetry within has occupied my time with pleasure, now that I am in the throes of recovering from cancer and not able to walk far into the countryside. Sadly there is one member whose contribution and information helped me tremendously, I am referring to Skampo who's last posting was in November 2014. I shall look for you mate on the other side.

OWL.
Travelling in the early hours before light had claimed the day,
I saw a beautiful tawny owl along our journey's way.
She drifted like a shadow, her flight briefly revealed,
Haunting the morning darkness low beside the field.
To see the beauty of her form filled my soul with awe,
Her loveliness etched in my heart to keep for ever more.
The Creator of our universe, from whom all beauty springs,
Made too the beauty of the owl with starlight on her wings.
Daybreak touched her gently with pale, unhurried hand,
As she flew in silent mystery across the open land.
Enid Pearson.
17 April, 2004 Peoples Friend Magazine.

Dead as the Dodo (Raphus cucullatus)

The Dodo used to walk around,
And take the sun and air.
The sun yet warms his native ground-
But the Dodo is not there!
The voice which used to squawk and squeak
Is now forever dumb,
Yet you may see his bones and beak.
And never see him run.

Hilaire Bellock's poignant ode.


What is thought to have been the only complete stuffed bird in existance
originally shipped alive to England in the early 17th century and exhibited to the public,
was eventually bequeathed by a collector to Oxford's Ashmolean Museum.
It was so badly neglected there that it began to rot and eventually ended up on a bonfire,
though a dedicated curator managed to rescue the head and foot,
which remained in the museum's possession, guarded like the crown jewels.

TANNY
I left school at the age of fifteen after what I consider a waste of time, I was almost illiterate and just about learned how to count and subtract, All I lived for was to be out down the fields and woods watching the birds through my gran-dads Boar War Binoculars. My first Job was as a trainee bird keeper at Chester Zoo, After fifteen months I joined the British Merchant Navy because I wanted to see the birds in their own environment. Over the years and after various experiences I became interested in reading and then graduated to poetry. I would hate to post those first creations here. One day I found a book on how to write poetry from an old book shop, poetry with rhythm, and the spacing of stanzas. I still consider myself an amateur poet but when I returned to England in January 2003 from Australia and with time on my hands I joined the Bird Forum on Friday 2nd April 2004. Later I joined Christine Redgates Poetry web site and I discovered that she comes from Haverigg where I was posted in the Army and where I met my first Wife and lived there for a while until emigrated to Australia in 1966.
I posted many poems and welcomed comments from the experts, the best of them all was SCAMPO, Steve Campsall who was an English teacher to 14-19 year old children. Sadly Steve stopped contributed to the Bird Forum
Yesterday I went through the early times of this site and discovered other members who seem to have disappeared. Elizabeth Bigg, Birdman, Robin robinm Charles Harper, Nerine, AnnieW, Tom Charles Tracker, pduxon, Mickymouse, Brambling - Vonnie Pearce, Tyke,
I dread to think where they have gone, but fate is inevitable and I'me also fighting to stay and enjoy the poetry by the new members.

Before Christmas while drifting through the different web sites on Bird Forum I went into the blog section to check on my blogs, when there, I found a blog by FRANCIS DUGGAN, and was delighted to find he has posted hundreds of poems about Birds in his blog. Francis joined the forum 28th April 2009, his last blog entry was on 22nd May 2011
Francis never posted any of his poems in Christine's Poetry web site.
Francis was like me, a migrant to Australia and some of his poems are about the Australian birds, as are some of mine. He also wrote, "Homesick" poems about his time in Ireland where he was born, again like some of the poems I wrote. Expats invariably yearn for their lost homeland, I find I have an affiliation with Francis and am saddened never to have had contact with him. I will be posting many of his poems as long as no one object's because they might be under some copyright.
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A World Without Birds

I loved them their beauty and songs as a young boy
And learning of their ways i still do enjoy
Due to habitat destruction, climate change it seem sad to say
That bird numbers are dwindling in the World by the day

Some birds quite familiar to you and to me
The children of the future may not hear and see
The Wildlife of the World face an uncertain fate
That seem a sad thing for us to contemplate

Their beautiful colours the songs they sing
To those who love Nature such joy they bring
Of us they do live independent and free
A World without birds how sad that would be

Distinct from each other,colours chirps and song
The freedom of Nature to them does belong
But it's sad to think they are becoming rare
A World without birds is a thought hard to bear

by Francis Duggan

Hi Tanny

I hope you keeping as well as possible?

It's good to hear from you and great to see this thread alive again.

I am a fan of Francis Duggan and in the past I have posted some of his poems on this thread, he seems to write with great ease and is very prolific.

I often birdwatch at Tittesworth Reservoir near Leek in Staffordshire, it is not the most exciting of places to watch but it is just below the moors which makes it quite a beautiful place. The weekends/half term are predictably busy but during the week you can find yourself alone there, which also can add to the charm .
I was sat in the hide just before Christmas and wrote the below.

Best regards
Merlin

East Bird Hide - Tittesworth

With the sky not much different between
The still grey waters of the lake
The low clouds draped over the moorland in a fog
The Sun's light appeared to have woken up late

Mid morning on dark, dank and dreary December day
Old saturated branches laying in the flooded, muddy creeks
With gnarled and raised contours with lifelike eyes and tails
Looking like a family of crocodiles asleep

They never moved but I could not help
but watching them out of the corner of my eye
The prehistoric cormorants just perched without movement
With ease the few ducks that were there silently glided by

The air was damp but very still
And although it was a tranquil scene
The dreariness and lack of life
Made it a place where I did not want to be.

"Oh", I am so pleased to see you with me on this thread again, Merlin, and I enjoyed your poem about Tittesworth.
This week I have been housebound, not just by the weather, but as you know, the other problems.
With nothing to do I looked back on my time in Australia and in my notes I found some memorable moments. I was then inspired to write a poem about some of my exploits, but now on reading it I think it might shock some of my readers. Never mind, I will post it anyway, so enjoy, or hate it.


THE OUTBACK SWAGMAN

This is the story of an Outback Swagman, a loner who drifts in the wild Australian countryside,
He carries his swag for sleeping, a battered pan for cooking his tucker, and an old army water can,
small items like the old battered hat, scarf around his neck and a sharp knife strapped to his side.
Slung over his shoulder a pole with other items of dried food, like weaveld flour and a frying pan.

Shoes also tied to the pole to preserve them. He walked on bare feet, caloused as ancient leather
All the time as he strolled he searched for survival food, pigface plant for water, Bobtail Goanna for protean.
The Australian outback normally has hot blistering heat but on occasions in the wet the weather
Makes the ground burst with abundant flowers, White Cockatoo birds drift from the coast are then seen.

When camping on the vast Gibber plane, he has to clear a patch then gather Mulla-mulla flowers
and spread them where he throws down his swag. After his tucker he lays in the comfortable hollow.
The sky is bright with billions of stars and satalights drift among them like slow drifting showers
Although almost asleep he hears the night bird "Boom" and the Dingo's wild howl soon to follow.

When drifting out of the bush he follows the never ending highway, keeping his eye open for the Eagle.
The Road-trains pound along, not able to avoid any creature in their way, Scrub Bulls, Sheep and Roo.
When four or five Wedgetails gather in the roadside trees The Swagman dashes over to chase away those bird so regal
From the carcase laying at the side of the road he sees an old Red, half eaten but the tail was still good enough for a stew.
An amusing incident happened to me one day while I was skinning the best part of that tail, a townie with a look of pity,
came over to enquire as to what I was doing, I just gave him the bushman stare and continued hacking off the meat.
From the door of his fancy camper I saw his missus standing there in a same kind of dress she must have worn in the city.
She screamed when the smell of that fly blown carcasse hit her and puked all over her dress. The stew tasted so sweet.

Tanny 11th January 2017

It's a good Poem Tanny, keep them coming.

best regards

Merlin

Glad you like it Mate. You might remember seeing this next poem I think I might have posted in 2010 after returning from a holiday in Australia with Ann. The poem is from the time I drifted around the bush in the 1990's

ROAD KILL TUCKER

When road-trains pound the highway at night,
The driver gets a hell of a fright.
When the Roos, Cattle, Goats or Sheep
Opens his eyes from almost asleep
Unable to stop the creatures fly
And the driver hears their deathly cry.

At dawn the Eagle searching around
Sees the corpse on the ground
And wings his way down, eyes agleaming
Followed by Whistling Kite all a schreaming
Ravens then, silver eyed and black
Watch the Eagle stand on the corpse's back.

With a powerful beak Wedgetail makes a start
Ripping the stomach to get at the heart
Vehicles pass and some birds flap away
Only the Raven risque a quick stay
To snatch a morstle from the opened dead
The Eagle returns and the Ravens fled.

As the sun arises and warmth in the air
Flies appear on the corpse over there
The Eagle departs gorged with bloody guts
Followed by Ravens after they'd eaten enough
Then a Bungarra came out of the bush
And dived into the open body with a rush

Later that morning I just happened by
And from my old Jackaroo I spy
That carcass at the side of the road
My stomouch grumbled at the sight of the load
I pulled alongside and drove away that lizard
Who dashed away with guts and gizzard

I hacked off a portion from the untouched rump
And headed away to beyond the black stump
I boiled my billy then fried the steaks
Impatient at how long the frying takes
Thanks to the roadkills a Swaggy stay alive
In the outback there are many ways to survive.

Tanny
20th November 2010

That's great Tanny, it felt just like I was there.

regards

Merlin

Glad you like the poems Merlin, mind you I had better not write any more of my bushman days, I cannot believe I actually did teach myself survival in the bush, but what I was doing was to experience those things so that I could teach those 22 Venture scouts that were in my venture group, I was the Venture Leader. To finish off this story I must tell you the most tasty bush tucker was the Whitchetty Grub fried in butter.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1851)
The Eagle: A Fragment

He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ring’d with the azure world, he stands.

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.

James Thomson - The Seasons (Winter) (1726)

The cormorant on high Wheels from the deep, and screams along the land. Loud shrieks the soaring hern ; and with wild wing The circling sea-fowl cleave the flaky clouds.

I've have a vague recollection of having posted this already in the dim prehistory of the thread but it's a great favorite of mine so here it is again--

The Owls

The owls that roost in the black yew
Along one limb in solemn state,
And with a red eye look you through,
Are eastern gods; they meditate.

No feather stirs on them, not one,
Until that melancholy hour
When night, supplanting the weak sun,
Resumes her interrupted power.

Their attitude instructs the wise
To shun all action, all surprise.
Suppose there passed a lovely face, —

Who even longs to follow it,
Must feel for ever the disgrace
Of having all but moved a bit.

--Baudelaire (trans: Edna St. Vincent Millay)

Thank you Meline, I will have to look up James Thomson to find the other seasons.
The Owl is always a favourite bird for poets, even my mother wrote this poem long ago in her teenage years.

TWYLIGHT.

The evening light is slowly falling and all the world is still,
Then I hear a Nightingale calling with such a wonderful trill.
He’s singing to his drowsy love as she sits in the ancient tree.
And the sun sinks from above to sleep over the rim of the sea.

And as the evening shadows creep and all the world goes to rest.
Small folk waking from their sleep start out on there nightly quest.

Then silently flying comes the owl, swiftly over the barn,
Out on his usual evening prowl, silently, ghostly, over the tarn.
Then to the moon he hoots his lay, and down the valley a screeching,
Telling the world its end of day and the hours of rest were reaching.

Mary Robinson.
My Mother.

I have posted this before but it's always worth a read?

regards
Merlin

Passenger Pigeon

One and then another
and then another just the same
Then dark and living clouds descend
with the thunder of a billion wings
A mighty mass of movement
The thick and musty stench
The unheard of sound surrounding
the breaking of the branch
"Here they come!"; the cry is heard
Then movement on the ground
A deadly storm is coming quick
with greed and violent sounds
With pole or net or gun
the targets are the same
Though a million are left for dead
the loss is seen as gain
Then away the clouds arise
A billion to their fate
Dashed to the ground from different skies
to pillow, plate, or crate
The living clouds descend
Each one marked with a numbered wing
Billions are millions are thousands
and then; one is left to sing

by David Staley

"Strewth" Melanie, I checked out James Thomson on the Internet and found the poems called, The Seasons. I highlighted each season and posted them to a new folder, but "wow" what a long page each of them took, It will take me ages to read through them. I don't think I will print them out, haven't enough paper or ink, nor a folder big enough to hold them.
Honest Merlin, it just shows the ignorance of the human race in regards to the other inhabitants of this planet. Similar things have happened to the wildlife of Australia with the introduction of Rabbits, then Foxes and more recently Cane Toads and the ferrel cats, all these are destroying the native creatures of the Country.
Here in Britain we also have problems in introducing the Minks that eradicate the Bank Voles, the American Cray Fish that are destroying our native Fresh Water Cray's. Now we are starting to introduce those creatures that have been lost to Britain for hundreds of years, these creatures like the Wild Pig are becoming a menace by destroying the Woodcock and Night-jars that breed on the ground. In nearly every Country in the World one can see the damage of the introduced creatures and plants have on that Countries environment.
"Oops", get off the band wagon Tanny, it's too distressing and there's nothing I can do to stop it at my age.