Birds and poetry (9 Viewers)

[wiseb]

Jeffers' "Rock and Hawk"

Rock And Hawk


Here is a symbol in which
Many high tragic thoughts
Watch their own eyes.

This gray rock, standing tall
On the headland, where the seawind
Lets no tree grow,

Earthquake-proved, and signatured
By ages of storms: on its peak
A falcon has perched.

I think here is your emblem
To hang in the future sky;
Not the cross, not the hive,

But this; bright power, dark peace;
Fierce consciousness joined with final
Disinterestedness;

Life with calm death; the falcon's
Realist eyes and act
Married to the massive

Mysticism of stone,
Which failure cannot cast down
Nor success make proud.

Robinson Jeffers


(this may have been posted previously, but I've lost track of the right page where the poems are listed)

 

[christineredgate]

Wiseb,a great poem.Full of strength,as indeed is the Hawk.

 

[Melanie]

The Dodo used to walk around,
And take the sun and air.
The Sun yet warms his native ground—
The Dodo is not there!
The voice which used to squawk and squeak
Is now for ever dumb—
Yet may you see his bones and beak
All in the Mu-se-um.

Hilaire Belloc from A Bad Child's Book of Beasts (1896)

Other verses by Belloc can be find here:

http://www.mainlesson.com/display.p...do&PHPSESSID=528258b2411efa8b85e963eb36ebe54a

 

[wiseb]

Belloc's poems are certainly fun and right up there with Dr. Seuss!

 

[Bascar]

It’s good to be back on this most civilised of threads and to read the interesting and diverse contributions of the past few weeks. Thanks to everyone who has posted them.

I was quite pleased to have found this poem from Ted Hughes, which seemed to be nicely topical, only to discover that it had been posted by Nerine nearly four years ago! However, it is a wonderful poem so no real apologies for giving it another airing. (Having just returned from a week in Cornwall, it has a particular resonance!)

Work and Play

The swallow of summer, she toils all the summer,
A blue-dark knot of glittering voltage,
A whiplash swimmer, a fish of the air.
But the serpent of cars that crawls through the dust
In shimmering exhaust
Searching to slake
Its fever in ocean
Will play and be idle or else it will bust.

The swallow of summer, the barbed harpoon,
She flings from the furnace, a rainbow of purples,
Dips her glow in the pond and is perfect.
But the serpent of cars that collapsed on the beach
Disgorges its organs
A scamper of colours
Which roll like tomatoes
Nude as tomatoes
With sand in their creases
To cringe in the sparkle of rollers and screech.

The swallow of summer, the seamstress of summer,
She scissors the blue into shapes and she sews it,
She draws a long thread and she knots it at the corners.
But the holiday people
Are laid out like wounded
Flat as in ovens
Roasting and basting
With faces of torment as space burns them blue
Their heads are transistors
Their teeth grit on sand grains
Their lost kids are squalling
While man-eating flies
Jab electric shock needles but what can they do?

They can climb in their cars with raw bodies, raw faces
And start up the serpent
And headache it homeward
A car full of squabbles
And sobbing and stickiness
With sand in their crannies
Inhaling petroleum
That pours from the foxgloves
While the evening swallow
The swallow of summer, cartwheeling through crimson,
Touches the honey-slow river and turning
Returns to the hand stretched from under the eaves -
A boomerang of rejoicing shadow.

Ted Hughes


Andrew

 

[Nerine]

I was quite pleased to have found this poem from Ted Hughes, which seemed to be nicely topical, only to discover that it had been posted by Nerine nearly four years ago!

Oh, did I really post that?! All those years ago too. Thanks Andrew, I did enjoy reading it again! I'm sure you must have enjoyed Cornwall, nice to have you back.

"The swallow of summer, cartwheeling through crimson,
Touches the honey-slow river and turning
Returns to the hand stretched from under the eaves -
A boomerang of rejoicing shadow."

Nerine

 

[christineredgate]

Great poem,Andrew,very appropriate.Our skies are full of these little birds at the moment.

 

[Bascar]

Thanks Nerine. Yes, Cornwall was wonderful as always – the coastal path at this time of year never ceases to work its magic.

Btw, I have to report that my blackbird of previous years – the one with the maddening refrain – has either died, migrated or changed his tune. I get plenty of ‘normal’ blackbird song, but that clear seven-note phrase, repeated endlessly from the treetop, is no more. I wish now I had made a recording of it, for I had never heard anything like it before, but at least I have the splendid poem Merlin wrote about it last year!

On which note, I offer this charming little poem from Katharine Tynan:

The Birds' Bargain

'O spare my cherries in the net,'
Brother Benignus prayed; 'and I
Summer and winter, shine and wet,
Will pile the blackbirds' table high.'

'O spare my youngling peas,' he prayed,
'That for the Abbot's table be;
And every blackbird shall be fed;
Yea, they shall have their fill,' said he.

His prayer, his vow, the blackbirds heard,
And spared his shining garden-plot.
In abstinence went every bird,
All the old thieving ways forgot.

He kept his promise to his friends,
And daily set them finest fare
Of corn and meal and manchet-ends,
With marrowy bones for winter bare.

Brother Benignus died in grace:
The brethren keep his trust, and feed
The blackbirds in this pleasant place,
Purged, as dear heaven, from strife and greed.

The blackbirds sing the whole year long,
Here where they keep their promise given,
And do the mellowing fruit no wrong.
Brother Benignus smiles in heaven.

Katharine Tynan


Andrew

 

[Bascar]

When on a Summer's Morn

When on a summer's morn I wake,
And open my two eyes,
Out to the clear, born-singing rills
My bird-like spirit flies.

To hear the Blackbird, Cuckoo, Thrush,
Or any bird in song;
And common leaves that hum all day
Without a throat or tongue.

And when Time strikes the hour for sleep,
Back in my room alone,
My heart has many a sweet bird's song --
And one that's all my own.

William Henry Davies


If I Can Stop One Heart From Breaking

If I can stop one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain;
If I can ease one life the aching,
Or cool one pain,
Or help one fainting robin
Unto his nest again,
I shall not live in vain.

Emily Dickinson


Andrew

 

[Nerine]

Three very beautiful poems, Andrew. I love the W H Davies "When on a Summer's Morn". I'm being woken at 4am most mornings now by my Song Thrush and his exuberant song! I am so sorry about your Blackbird, he was such a character! The blackbird in our garden has had a tough time; he lost his mate just after two chicks fledged and then worked tirelessly feeding them alone. The chicks have disappeared (I suspect caught by a cat) and our Blackbird sings rather sadly and softly. Let's hope he gets another mate!

Sorry I haven't contributed much lately, I'll try and get into the swing of things soon.

Best wishes to all.

Nerine

 

[Nerine]

I am just loving these long sunny days. Here is a poem, not about birds but summer, by one of our favourite poets. I hope everyone enjoys it.

A Something in a Summer's Day

A something in a summer's day
As slow her flambeaux burn away
Which solemnizes me.

A something in a summer's noon --
A depth -- an Azure -- a perfume --
Transcending ecstasy.

And still within a summer's night
A something so transporting bright
I clap my hands to see --

Then veil my too inspecting face
Lets such a subtle -- shimmering grace
Flutter too far for me --

The wizard fingers never rest --
The purple brook within the breast
Still chafes it narrow bed --

Still rears the East her amber Flag --
Guides still the sun along the Crag
His Caravan of Red --

So looking on -- the night -- the morn
Conclude the wonder gay --
And I meet, coming thro' the dews
Another summer's Day!

Emily Dickinson

Nerine

I'll be away for a few days, hopefully enjoying summer!

 

[Bascar]

Nerine, a wonderful poem from ED, thank you.

‘A something in a summer's noon --
A depth -- an Azure -- a perfume --
Transcending ecstasy.’

- beautiful.

I hope you have a lovely holiday.


We haven’t had any Auden for a while, so to make amends here is his celebrated poem on the quest for the meaning of love:

O Tell Me The Truth About Love

Some say love's a little boy,
And some say it's a bird,
Some say it makes the world go around,
Some say that's absurd,
And when I asked the man next-door,
Who looked as if he knew,
His wife got very cross indeed,
And said it wouldn't do.

Does it look like a pair of pyjamas,
Or the ham in a temperance hotel?
Does its odour remind one of llamas,
Or has it a comforting smell?
Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is,
Or soft as eiderdown fluff?
Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges?
O tell me the truth about love.

Our history books refer to it
In cryptic little notes,
It's quite a common topic on
The Transatlantic boats;
I've found the subject mentioned in
Accounts of suicides,
And even seen it scribbled on
The backs of railway guides.

Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian,
Or boom like a military band?
Could one give a first-rate imitation
On a saw or a Steinway Grand?
Is its singing at parties a riot?
Does it only like Classical stuff?
Will it stop when one wants to be quiet?
O tell me the truth about love.

I looked inside the summer-house;
It wasn't over there;
I tried the Thames at Maidenhead,
And Brighton's bracing air.
I don't know what the blackbird sang,
Or what the tulip said;
But it wasn't in the chicken-run,
Or underneath the bed.

Can it pull extraordinary faces?
Is it usually sick on a swing?
Does it spend all its time at the races,
or fiddling with pieces of string?
Has it views of its own about money?
Does it think Patriotism enough?
Are its stories vulgar but funny?
O tell me the truth about love.

When it comes, will it come without warning
Just as I'm picking my nose?
Will it knock on my door in the morning,
Or tread in the bus on my toes?
Will it come like a change in the weather?
Will its greeting be courteous or rough?
Will it alter my life altogether?
O tell me the truth about love.

W H Auden


Andrew

 

[scampo]

A nice poem from Davies, Andrew and from Dickinson, Nerine. Ah, I wonder if Davies's poem isn't rather wish-fulfilment, though? Either that or he was very young (or very old...) when he wrote it. The Auden poem is very crafty... I like it! Aren't the Dickinson poems a contrast with their language so much lighter and straightforward?

Here are a few lines from Eliot, another very crafty writer.

The Four Quartets

IV
Time and the bell have buried the day,
The black cloud carries the sun away.
Will the sunflower turn to us, will the clematis
Stray down, bend to us; tendril and spray
Clutch and cling?
Chill
Fingers of yew be curled
Down on us? After the kingfisher’s wing
Has answered light to light, and is silent, the light is still
At the still point of the turning world.

T S Eliot

 

[Bascar]

I’m missing my daily fix of poetry so here goes with another two contributions from Mr Auden. The first is from a group of songs set to music by Benjamin Britten, and the second is derived from Middle and Old English sources. (By the way, Steve, I like your description of Auden and Eliot as ‘crafty’ writers, very apt! Larkin too?)


Fish in the Unruffled Lakes

Fish in the unruffled lakes
Their swarming colours wear,
Swans in the winter air
A white perfection have,
And the great lion walks
Through his innocent grove;
Lion, fish and swan
Act, and are gone
Upon Time's toppling wave.

We, till shadowed days are done,
We must weep and sing
Duty's conscious wrong,
The Devil in the clock,
The goodness carefully worn
For atonement or for luck;
We must lose our loves,
On each beast and bird that moves
Turn an envious look.

Sighs for folly done and said
Twist our narrow days,
But I must bless, I must praise
That you, my swan, who have
All the gifts that to the swan
Impulsive Nature gave,
The majesty and pride,
Last night should add
Your voluntary love.

W H Auden


The Wanderer

Doom is dark and deeper than any sea-dingle.
Upon what man it fall
In spring, day-wishing flowers appearing,
Avalanche sliding, white snow from rock-face,
That he should leave his house,
No cloud-soft hand can hold him, restraint by women;
But ever that man goes
Through place-keepers, through forest trees,
A stranger to strangers over undried sea,
Houses for fishes, suffocating water,
Or lonely on fell as chat,
By pot-holed becks
A bird stone-haunting, an unquiet bird.

There head falls forward, fatigued at evening,
And dreams of home,
Waving from window, spread of welcome,
Kissing of wife under single sheet;
But waking sees
Bird-flocks nameless to him, through doorway voices
Of new men making another love.

Save him from hostile capture,
From sudden tiger's leap at corner;
Protect his house,
His anxious house where days are counted
From thunderbolt protect,
From gradual ruin spreading like a stain;
Converting number from vague to certain,
Bring joy, bring day of his returning,
Lucky with day approaching, with leaning dawn.

W H Auden


(Using Colin’s index as a base, I have calculated that to date, including this post, 971 poems from a total of 291 poets have been posted on this thread. We’ve all been flagging a bit recently, so maybe the fact that only 29 more poems are required to reach four figures will be a spur to some more posts! I hope so.)


Andrew

 

[Merlin]

Andrew

great poems and you are right, it would be an achievement to reach such a milestone in the number of poems contributed.
best regards
Merlin

 

[Bascar]

Good to hear from you, Merlin. Hope all is well with you.

Andrew

 

[Vultur]

Here is another by Millay.

Doubt No More That Oberon by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Doubt no more that Oberon—
Never doubt that Pan
Lived, and played a reed, and ran
After nymphs in a dark forest,
In the merry, credulous days,—
Lived, and led a fairy band
Over the indulgent land!
Ah, for in this dourest, sorest
Age man's eye has looked upon,
Death to fauns and death to fays,
Still the dog-wood dares to raise—
Healthy tree, with trunk and root—
Ivory bowls that bear no fruit,
And the starlings and the jays—
Birds that cannot even sing—
Dare to come again in spring!

 

[christineredgate]

28 left to make up to 4 figures.Think we could manage this by Sunday evening @12midnight.I will definitely find something to post,albeit may be somewhat sad.
Love the selection shown
Many thanks to all who are still posting on this thread.I guess things slowed down a little due to the summer evenings,but now we have almost winter conditions outside,more time to be spent on BF.

 

[Bascar]

A wonderful Millay poem, Vultur, many thanks for posting it.

Christine, commiserations on the weather up your way. Have been watching the Open so can see what you are putting up with. Yes, it would be great to notch up the 1000th by Sunday night but that might be pushing it. But whenever it comes, I think that honour should be yours. So hold one in store!

To keep things moving, here is a charming poem from Christopher Marlowe (1564-1593)

The Passionate Shepherd To His Love

Come live with me, and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That valleys, groves, hills and fields,
Woods, or steepy mountain yields.

And we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses,
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle,
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle.

A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty lambs we pull,
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold.

A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs,
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.

The shepherds’ swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May morning;
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my love.

Christopher Marlowe


Andrew

 

[Merlin]

Andrew
I am not sure if this will count towards the millenium?

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


regards and apologies for the above
Merlin