Birds and poetry (8 Viewers)

[Bascar]

Steve, I haven’t tried your fast-track email service – not even sure I would know how to set it up! I just have the thread as a favourite and dip in whenever I can.

Kristina and Colin, nice poems of tranquillity from Wendell Berry, not a poet I am familiar with.

Bertha, I liked your poem ‘Pressing Down Hard (or Why is the Sky Blue?)’. You are indeed lucky to have such intense blue skies in Oklahoma.

This is not relevant to anything that has been posted recently but is from a play by Euripides (c 414 BC). Ion, who gave his name to Ionia, was the son of Apollo and Creusa. He doesn't seem to have been a great lover of birds, at any rate not within the confines of the Temple of Apollo!!

ION AND THE BIRDS (from "Ion")

Behold! behold!
Now they come, they quit the nest
On Parnassus' topmost crest.
Hence! away! I warn ye all!
Light not on our hallowed wall!
From eave and cornice keep aloof,
And from the golden gleaming roof!
Herald of Jove! of birds the king!
Fierce of talon, strong of wing,
Hence! begone! or thou shalt know
The terrors of this deadly bow.
Lo! where rich the altar fumes,
Soars yon swan on oary plumes.
Hence, and quiver in thy flight
Thy foot that gleams with purple light,
Even though Phoebus' harp rejoice
To mingle with thy tuneful voice;
Far away thy white wings shake
O'er the silver Delian lake.
Hence! obey! or end in blood
The music of thy sweet-voiced ode.

Away! away! another stoops!
Down his flagging pinion droops;
Shall our marble eaves be hung
With straw nests for your callow young?
Hence, or dread this twanging bow,
Hence, where Alpheus' waters flow.
Or the Isthmian groves among
Go and rear your nestling young.
Hence, nor dare pollute or stain
Phoebus' offerings, Phoebus' fane.
Yet I feel a sacred dread,
Lest your scattered plumes I shed;
Holy birds! 't is yours to show
Heaven's auguries to men below.

Euripides (translated by Henry Hart Milman)


Andrew

 

[Merlin]

Great poems here (as usual) just back from not so 'darkest' Africa as it is much brighter and warmer than UK, not mentioning the amazing birds. It is still good to be back to read the poems here!!

regards to you all
Merlin

 

[scampo]

Happy Easter all!

Thanks for the updated list, Colin. I don't know if it help with formatting but I find that if I copy and paste into Notepad before copying again and re-pasting into this forum, then the formatting stays put except that single paragraph spaces need to be changed to double spaces before copying from Notepad.

And welcome back, Merlin. Africa! Wow - you lucky so-and-so! Here's a lovely poem I think you might enjoy:


The Negro Speaks of Rivers

I’ve known rivers:
I’ve known rivers ancient as the world and older than the
flow of human blood in human veins.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young.
I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep.
I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it.
I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln
went down to New Orleans, and I’ve seen its muddy
bosom turn all golden in the sunset.

I’ve known rivers:
Ancient, dusky rivers.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

Langston Hughes

 

[scampo]

The Throstle

‘Summer is coming, summer is coming,
I know it, I know it, I know it.
Light again, leaf again, life again, love again!’
Yes, my wild little Poet.

Sing the new year in under the blue,
Last year you sang it as gladly.
‘New, new, new, new!’ Is it then so new
That you should carol so madly?

‘Love again, song again, nest again, young again,’—
Never a prophet so crazy!
And hardly a daisy as yet, little friend;
See, there is hardly a daisy.

‘Here again, here, here, here, happy year!’
O warble unchidden, unbidden!
Summer is coming, is coming, my dear,
And all the winters are hidden.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson

 

[scampo]

Andrew

If you enjoy poems about ancient Greek myths, you'll enjoy spending a few moments on this site (and thanks to Bertha for the link!): http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/82

 

[Tyke]

Steve-thanks for the tip. I don't have Notepad-I use Lotus.

Andrew did the previous update & rather than repeat his work on my version I switched to a copy of his update. Now when I add new items the formatting goes awry for those items.

Will have a look at it again before next update.

I like The Throstle very much & the repetetive refrain is so thrushlike.Somehow it seems more modern than ALT-except for "unchidden" perhaps-lovely word.

Colin

 

[scampo]

Steve-thanks for the tip. I don't have Notepad-I use Lotus...
Colin

Notepad is a part of Windows, Colin, so you should have it as a part of the operating system (if you use a Mac, I expect it has similar software). the beauty of it is that it reduces all formatting to "Plain text" which is ideal for web pages.

The Throstle is a pleasant poem, isn't it? Interesting how language changes, as you say, "chidden" - but now also "carol" and, in this context, "dear". I remember reading Nineteen Eighty-Four and noticing how much Orwell used "dear" - it is one of the few words that sets the book firmly in its era, I remember thinking.

Btw - I've just noticed there's a spell-checker as a part of the forum! Very useful.

 

[Tyke]

Thanks Steve-I'm discussing options with Andrew on the Index.
Thanks for the info on Notepad-I'm a computer illiterate as is now obvious!
Where is the BF spellchecker -I need one badly.

Colin

 

[scampo]

Where is the BF spell-checker -I need one badly.

Colin

It appears on the top r.h. corner of the Reply and edit boxes (well I have iSpell installed, so that might be why, but I think it appears generally).

 

[Tyke]

Thanks Steve-yes I have it.

A God send!!

Colin

 

[wiseb]

It still amazes me how many poets and others include birds or bird imagery in their writing.

Glad you all liked the last poem (Why is the sky blue?). My cousin continues to send me the challenge themes she receives in her writing group, and she usually wants me to give her an example. It gives me a chance to write something new--it actually forces me to do so! To stop, to ponder, and to use what I see around me in many cases. Birds are around a lot, so they do end up in one way or another playing a role. Here's the latest challenge she gave me: transitions. Here's the result:

Transition

I don’t need
the equinox
to tell me
spring is here

daffodils trumpet the news

a fat robin sings of spring
on his way north

the young pear tree
planted last year blooms
forth with its first effort
mightily competing with
older ones in the park
that give off a ghostly
show in the night

even you emanate
a sense of your own
transition
as you break from
childhood
into life—
springing forth full of
future yearnings
trying to choose
what’s right, what’s wrong
and knowing the difference—

the equinox teeters
on a perilous point
and only Time tells
where it all ends.


Bertha Wise
March 20, 2008
(note that it was the spring/vernal equinox in the Northern Hemisphere on that date)

 

[Bascar]

Good poem, Bertha.

This April morning, after early rain, has opened out into a beautiful, fresh sunny day. Spring would seem to have arrived!


It was an April morning: fresh and clear

It was an April morning: fresh and clear
The Rivulet, delighting in its strength,
Ran with a young man's speed; and yet the voice
Of waters which the winter had supplied
Was softened down into a vernal tone.
The spirit of enjoyment and desire,
And hopes and wishes, from all living things
Went circling, like a multitude of sounds.
The budding groves seemed eager to urge on
The steps of June; as if their various hues
Were only hindrances that stood between
Them and their object: but, meanwhile, prevailed
Such an entire contentment in the air
That every naked ash, and tardy tree
Yet leafless, showed as if the countenance
With which it looked on this delightful day
Were native to the summer.--Up the brook
I roamed in the confusion of my heart,
Alive to all things and forgetting all.
At length I to a sudden turning came
In this continuous glen, where down a rock
The Stream, so ardent in its course before,
Sent forth such sallies of glad sound, that all
Which I till then had heard, appeared the voice
Of common pleasure: beast and bird, the lamb,
The shepherd's dog, the linnet and the thrush
Vied with this waterfall, and made a song,
Which, while I listened, seemed like the wild growth
Or like some natural produce of the air,
That could not cease to be. Green leaves were here;
But 'twas the foliage of the rocks--the birch,
The yew, the holly, and the bright green thorn,
With hanging islands of resplendent furze:
And, on a summit, distant a short space,
By any who should look beyond the dell,
A single mountain-cottage might be seen.
I gazed and gazed, and to myself I said,
"Our thoughts at least are ours; and this wild nook,
My EMMA, I will dedicate to thee."
----Soon did the spot become my other home,
My dwelling, and my out-of-doors abode.
And, of the Shepherds who have seen me there,
To whom I sometimes in our idle talk
Have told this fancy, two or three, perhaps,
Years after we are gone and in our graves,
When they have cause to speak of this wild place,
May call it by the name of EMMA'S DELL.

William Wordsworth


Andrew

 

[scampo]

Ah, good old Wordsworth, Andrew - never let's us down as far as nature is concerned. I do enjoy his "spots of time" in The Prelude.

 

[wiseb]

Ah, good old Wordsworth, Andrew - never let's us down as far as nature is concerned. I do enjoy his "spots of time" in The Prelude.

I totally agree, Steve. Wordsworth always had it right! :clap:

 

[Bascar]

Agreed, Steve, and what a prodigious store to plunder! Here is another seasonal one, dating from 1802, which surprisingly doesn't seem to have been posted before.

To the Cuckoo

O Blithe New-comer! I have heard,
I hear thee and rejoice:
O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird,
Or but a wandering Voice?

While I am lying on the grass
Thy twofold shout I hear;
From hill to hill it seems to pass,
At once far off and near.

Though babbling only to the Vale
Of sunshine and of flowers,
Thou bringest unto me a tale
Of visionary hours.

Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!
Even yet thou art to me
No bird, but an invisible thing,
A voice, a mystery;

The same whom in my schoolboy days
I listened to; that Cry
Which made me look a thousand ways
In bush, and tree, and sky.

To seek thee did I often rove
Through woods and on the green;
And thou wert still a hope, a love;
Still longed for, never seen!

And I can listen to thee yet;
Can lie upon the plain
And listen, till I do beget
That golden time again.

O blessèd Bird! the earth we pace
Again appears to be
An unsubstantial, faery place;
That is fit home for Thee!

William Wordsworth


Andrew

 

[Nerine]

It’s so lovely to come back to this wonderful thread.

Great Wordsworth, Andrew!
“It was an April morning, fresh and clear” -
The spirit of enjoyment and desire,
And hopes and wishes, from all living things
Went circling, like a multitude of sounds.
Wonderful, and as today has been down here (at last!)

"To the Cuckoo" - superb.

Nice poems from Bertha and Deborah.
Thanks to Colin for the updated index.

Oh and I really loved reading Tennyson’s “Throstle”. Thanks, Steve. In fact I feel I should “sing” this rather than read.

Here are a few short pieces, all seasonal. Today has been a glorious April day with a huge blue sky throughout – unlike the weather in Brittany over the last few weeks – however I did have a good time, (thanks Steve and Andrew!)

April

An altered look about the hills;
A Tyrian light the village fills;
A wider sunrise in the dawn;
A deeper twilight on the lawn;
A print of a vermilion foot;
A purple finger on the slope;
A flippant fly upon the pane;
A spider at his trade again;
An added strut in chanticleer;
A flower expected everywhere;
An axe shrill singing in the woods;
Fern-odors on untravelled roads, --
All this, and more I cannot tell,
A furtive look you know as well,
And Nicodemus' mystery
Receives its annual reply.

Emily Dickinson


Blue Squills

How many million Aprils came
Before I ever knew
How white a cherry bough could be,
A bed of squills, how blue.

And many a dancing April
When life is done with me,
Will lift the blue flame of the flower
And the white flame of the tree.

Oh, burn me with your beauty, then,
Oh, hurt me, tree and flower,
Lest in the end death try to take
Even this glistening hour.

O shaken flowers, O shimmering trees,
O sunlit white and blue,
Wound me, that I through endless sleep
May bear the scar of you.

Sara Teasdale


Finally from “Spring” by the great John Clare:

"And fairy month of waking mirth
From whom our joys ensue
Thou early gladder of the earth
Thrice welcome here anew
With thee the bud unfolds to leaves
The grass greens on the lea
And flowers their tender boon receives
To bloom and smile with thee."

John Clare

Best wishes to all

Nerine

(ps Thanks for your kind thoughts, Andrew. We were ok, luckily living inland from the coast! )

 

[Nerine]

pps. Welcome back from Africa, Merlin!

Nerine

 

[Merlin]

Thanks Nerine,
It's good to be back (no I'm telling fibs). It is good to back on this forum with you guys and girls.
regards
Merlin

 

[Bascar]

Good to have you back, Nerine - I'm glad you had a good time in Brittany despite the weather. And a belated welcome back to you too, Merlin. What part of Africa were you in?

Thank you, Nerine, for that very interesting selection of poems. It is strange to think that Emily Dickinson was 34, and well into her poetic stride, when John Clare died; somehow she seems to come from a much later era. (Sara Teasdale wasn’t quite 2 when ED died, so they all link up, sort of!)

Here is a really poignant poem from Clare, written when he was in the Northampton Asylum.

To John Clare

Well, honest John, how fare you now at home?
The spring is come, and birds are building nests;
The old cock-robin to the sty is come,
With olive feathers and its ruddy breast;
And the old cock, with wattles and red comb,
Struts with the hens, and seems to like some best,
Then crows, and looks about for little crumbs,
Swept out by little folks an hour ago;
The pigs sleep in the sty; the bookman comes--
The little boy lets home-close nesting go,
And pockets tops and taws, where daisies blow,
To look at the new number just laid down,
With lots of pictures, and good stories too,
And Jack the Giant-killer's high renown.

John Clare


Andrew

 

[Nerine]

Here is a really poignant poem from Clare, written when he was in the Northampton Asylum.

"To John Clare" - yes, Andrew, as you say, so poignant. It was written only three or four years before he died. For a "lunatic" it is a pretty amazing poem. He had a son called John. I wonder if this poem was for his son or did he write it to himself thinking back to his younger days? We'll never know.

We've had this one before, maybe we could have it again! I just love the last four lines.

April's Charms

When April scatters charms of primrose gold
Among the copper leaves in thickets old,
And singing skylarks from the meadows rise,
To twinkle like black stars in sunny skies;
When I can hear the small woodpecker ring
Time on a tree for all the birds that sing;
And hear the pleasant cuckoo, loud and long --
The simple bird that thinks two notes a song;
When I can hear the woodland brook, that could
Not drown a babe, with all his threatening mood;
Upon these banks the violets make their home,
And let a few small strawberry blossoms come:
When I go forth on such a pleasant day,
One breath outdoors takes all my cares away;
It goes like heavy smoke, when flames take hold
Of wood that's green and fill a grate with gold.

W.H. Davies


Nerine