Birds and poetry (11 Viewers)

[ivywall]

Hiya Christine - we met at Leighton Moss.

My poem isn't directly about birds but about a tree that supports them - the Rowan.

It mentions the mythology that surrounds the tree -

The Nordic myth of Thor being saved by outstretched branches and the Greek Legend of the Eagle's feathers being the tree's leaves and his blood the berries. Plus the more pertinent legends that our Own past history revered.


A tree of myth and mystery
You’re rose’s relative.
Green feathery fingers speak and say
Of healing that you give.

When Hebe lost the Nectar Cup
To demons foul and black…
She had to summon Eagle up
To claim the vessel back

He fought them long, he fought them hard
They tore and injured him
Their claws were sharp as glassy shards
And made his life force dim

Where his feathers fell to earth there grew
Your leaves so light and fair
His crimson lifeblood on them strewn
Made berries bright and rare

The Norse God Thor was saved from death
By your outstretching arm
Woman was made from your life’s breath
To keep the Ash Man warm

The ancient runes carved on your wood
Were spoken with your heart
The Druid’s Dye and Robes with Hood
The Magic – all was part

Of worship and your Cross was cast
And worn against our Breast
Your worth’s remembered from our past
Your Future is our Test.

 

[Tanny]

Foolish Verse

FOOLISH VERSE.

I met a Swan the other day
Dressed up in a bale of hay.
Don’t know the species, it wouldn’t say.
I picked up my bag and went away.
The swan followed me to my house,
And swallowed my little hairless Mouse.
I shouted, “Oy, you can’t do that”.
The Swan then ate my Siamese Cat.
I cried when I saw my two pets gone.
So I plucked, gutted and ate the Swan.

I waxed and stuck feathers on myself
And flew off from the mantle shelf
With six white feathers in my mouth.
I flew up high and headed south.
Up above the clouds I fly
Higher and higher into the sky.
Till heat of the sun melted the wax.
And I fell down like potato sacks.
My scream was the only sound
As I plummeted down to the ground.
And fell into a bale of hay.

I met a man later that day,
Who didn’t have very much to say?
I then followed him to his house
And ate his little hairless mouse
When he shouted,” You can’t do that”,
I went and ate his Siamese cat.
The end, and that’s that.
____________________________________
All this came to me last night and I honestly don’t know what its all about, maybe I’m going bonkers.
I bet Steve Scampo could tell us the correct name for this kind of poetry.

 

[ivywall]

Very Edward Learish Tanny! Funny but a little dark - I enjoyed it.

Here's another of mine that is a little lighter than the last!

Oh - and big thankyou to everyone for entertaining me with your poems, whether self penned or otherwise - I enjoy writing and reading poetry -

http://www.bbc.co.uk/lancashire/content/articles/2007/01/29/pat_tack_poetry_feature.shtml

Maligned Birds

Yes, we’re the garden gangsters and we’re hard men through and through.

There’s no bird within our Manor who dare tell us what to do.

In our shiny shot silk suits with a flashy white spot spatter,

We’ll make sure that we grab all the grub to show that you don’t matter.

If you offer up resistance we will dive and peck and squawk,

When you scatter, scared and hungry we’ll adopt our swaggering walk.



The only birds to give us grief are scruffy little upstarts-

It downright beggars all belief - their place in Human’s hearts!

They’re cheeky , quick , wear dull brown suits-

They’re too clever by half , they’re too big for their boots.


Yes we’ve a pretty lousy name

But it’s a blinking crying shame

That not enough will hark a mo’

For our impressionistic show.


We sing our songs and others too-

The thrushes trill, the pigeon’s coo.

The sounds we hear we always share-

Our gift’s ignored – it’s so unfair.


We’ll even do a telephone-

So why d’you always scoff and groan?

The starling has his name made mud,

Will you please think a little good?

 

[christineredgate]

Hi,Ivy,love your Starling poem.Tanny,I had to read your poem 3 times.I did not really enjoy the content,but very clever ,Tanny.You have so many hidden talents.

 

[Tanny]

Hi Ivy, thanks for telling me about Edward Learish, I had never heard of him but as soon as I put his name into "Keyword" and read his poem I was delighted to see it was one that all little boys shout about in the playgrounds. I know it has nothing about birds but I think I will post the first stanza because that is the part I think everyone will recognize. I don't know who wrote the other little verses, maybe they were also by Learish.

One fine day in the middle of the night,
Two dead boys got up to fight.
Back to back they faced each other,
Drew their swords and shot each other.


Upon a time upon a stair, I met a man who wasn’t there.
He wasn’t there again today; I wish I wish he’d go away.

Twas in the month of Liverpool, in the city of July.
The snow was raining heavily, the streets were very dry.
The flowers were sweetly singing, the birds were in full bloom.
As I went down the cellar, to sweep an upstairs room.

Sorry about all this Christine but my 'Foolish Verse' got me worried, now that iv'e found out about Edward Learish I realize I'm not the only 'nutter' 8-P in the world.

 

[Merlin]

Tanny & Ivy great poems.
I've been away for awhile and now living in Southern France with crag martins flying past the terrace. Hopefully this 'new' environment will provoke some new if not good poems. I really missed this thread and it would be great to see the faithful in top form again.
best regards to you all

Merlin

 

[christineredgate]

Tanny,a really crazy poem!!!.Very good.

 

[dolphinbride]

Apologies for not keeping up on this thread, and further apologies for a poem with no mention of the feathery things. I stumbled upon it this evening, thumbing through a (literally) musty old anthology.

A Ritual to Read to Each Other

If you don't know the kind of person I am
and I don't know the kind of person you are
a pattern that others made may prevail in the world
and following the wrong god home we may miss our star.

For there is many a small betrayal in the mind,
a shrug that lets the fragile sequence break
sending with shouts the horrible errors of childhood
storming out to play through the broken dyke.

And as elephants parade holding each elephant's tail,
but if one wanders the circus won't find the park,
I call it cruel and maybe the root of all cruelty
to know what occurs but not recognize the fact.

And so I appeal to a voice, to something shadowy,
a remote important region in all who talk:
though we could fool each other, we should consider--
lest the parade of our mutual life get lost in the dark.

For it is important that awake people be awake,
or a breaking line may discourage them back to sleep;
the signals we give--yes or no, or maybe--
should be clear: the darkness around us is deep.

William Stafford

All the best,
Kristina

 

[Merlin]

Hi Kristina,
An interesting poem, here is one called Bird Sanctuary from Robert Service

Bird Sanctuary

Between the cliff-rise and the beach
A slip of emerald I own;
With fig and olive, almond, peach,
cherry and plum-tree overgrown;
Glad-watered by a crystal spring
That carols through the silver night,
And populous with birds who sing
Gay madrigals for my delight.

Some merchants fain would buy my land
To build a stately pleasure dome.
Poor fools! they cannot understand
how pricelessly it is my home!
So luminous with living wings,
So musical with feathered joy . . .
Not for all pleasure fortune brings,
Would I such ecstasy destroy.

A thousand birds are in my grove,
Melodious from morn to night;
My fruit trees are their treasure trove,
Their happiness is my delight.
And through the sweet and shining days
They know their lover and their friend;
So I will shield in peace and praise
My innocents unto the end.

Robert W. Service

 

[Nerine]

Merlin - good to hear from you. Your Robert Service poem is so beautiful.

"Poor fools! they cannot understand
how pricelessly it is my home!"

I see you're living in France now - hope you're settled and enjoying it all.


Tanny I love your funny poems and thanks for keeping this thread alive!

Ivy and Kristina I enjoyed your poems, thanks. Kristina, I found the last stanza of the William Stafford very moving.

"For it is important that awake people be awake ....... the darkness around us is deep."

Here's one from a favourite poet of mine.


Autumn Morning

The Autumn morning waked by many a gun
Throws o’er the fields her many-coloured light
Wood wildly touched close-tanned and stubbles dun
A motley paradise for earth’s delight
Clouds ripple as the darkness breaks to light
And clover fields are hid with silver mist
One shower of cobwebs o’er the surface spread
And threads of silk in strange disorder twist
Round every leaf and blossom’s bottly head
Hares in the drowning herbage scarcely steal
But on the battered pathway squats abed
And by the cart-rut nips her morning meal
Look where we may the scene is strange and new
And every object wears a changing hue.

John Clare

Best wishes to all

Nerine

 

[Merlin]

Nerine
A good poem from John Clare and thanks I am in the Midi Pyrennees and enjoying the Fench lifestyle.
regards
Merlin

Here is another from Robert Service, I'm sure that you know he was a Scott that moved to Canada and served in the Great War.

Bird Watcher


In Wall Street once a potent power,
And now a multi-millionaire
Alone within a shady bower
In clothes his valet would not wear,
He watches bird wings bright the air.

The man who mighty mergers planned,
And oil and coal kinglike controlled,
With field-glasses in failing hand
Spies downy nestlings five days old,
With joy he could not buy for gold.

Aye, even childlike is his glee;
But how he crisps with hate and dread
And shakes a clawlike fist to see
A kestrel hover overhead:
Though he would never shoot it dead.

Although his cook afar doth forage
For food to woo his appetite,
The old man lives on milk and porridge
And now it is his last delight
At eve if one lone linnet lingers
To pick crushed almonds from his fingers.

Robert W. Service

 

[Bascar]

I’m sorry I haven’t posted anything for a while – many reasons though lack of interest wasn’t one. Anyway it’s good to be back and to read all the contributions over the past couple of months. Thanks Tanny, Nerine, Merlin and Kristina for your poems. Interested to hear that you have taken up residence in France, Merlin, and hope all is going well for you.

Here are two poems from two very different poets, both well represented on this thread.


The Manor Farm

The rock-like mud unfroze a little, and rills
Ran and sparkled down each side of the road
Under the catkins wagging in the hedge.
But earth would have her sleep out, spite of the sun;
Nor did I value that thin gliding beam
More than a pretty February thing
Till I came down to the old Manor Farm,
And church and yew-tree opposite, in age
Its equals and in size. Small church, great yew,
And farmhouse slept in a Sunday silentness.
The air raised not a straw. The steep farm roof,
With tiles duskily glowing, entertained
The mid-day sun; and up and down the roof
White pigeons nestled. There was no sound but one.
Three cart-horses were looking over a gate
Drowsily through their forelocks, swishing their tails
Against a fly, a solitary fly.
The Winter's cheek flushed as if he had drained
Spring, Summer, and Autumn at a draught
And smiled quietly. But 'twas not Winter--
Rather a season of bliss unchangeable,
Awakened from farm and church where it had lain
Safe under tile and latch for ages since
This England, Old already, was called Merry.

Edward Thomas


Through lane it lay—through bramble

Through lane it lay—through bramble—
Through clearing and through wood—
Banditti often passed us
Upon the lonely road.

The wolf came peering curious—
The owl looked puzzled down—
The serpent's satin figure
Glid stealthily along—

The tempests touched our garments—
The lightning's poinards gleamed—
Fierce from the Crag above us
The hungry Vulture screamed—

The satyr's fingers beckoned—
The valley murmured "Come"—
These were the mates—
This was the road
Those children fluttered home.

Emily Dickinson


Best regards to everyone,

Andrew

 

[Merlin]

Andrew
It's good to hear from you, thanks for two great poems.
kind regards
Merlin.
(ps Hawfinch, Brambling , Black Redstart & Crag Martin garden birds here today)

 

[fugl]

I’m sorry I haven’t posted anything for a while – many reasons though lack of interest wasn’t one. Anyway it’s good to be back and to read all the contributions over the past couple of months. Thanks Tanny, Nerine, Merlin and Kristina for your poems. Interested to hear that you have taken up residence in France, Merlin, and hope all is going well for you.

Here are two poems from two very different poets, both well represented on this thread.


The Manor Farm

The rock-like mud unfroze a little, and rills
Ran and sparkled down each side of the road
Under the catkins wagging in the hedge.
But earth would have her sleep out, spite of the sun;
Nor did I value that thin gliding beam
More than a pretty February thing
Till I came down to the old Manor Farm,
And church and yew-tree opposite, in age
Its equals and in size. Small church, great yew,
And farmhouse slept in a Sunday silentness.
The air raised not a straw. The steep farm roof,
With tiles duskily glowing, entertained
The mid-day sun; and up and down the roof
White pigeons nestled. There was no sound but one.
Three cart-horses were looking over a gate
Drowsily through their forelocks, swishing their tails
Against a fly, a solitary fly.
The Winter's cheek flushed as if he had drained
Spring, Summer, and Autumn at a draught
And smiled quietly. But 'twas not Winter--
Rather a season of bliss unchangeable,
Awakened from farm and church where it had lain
Safe under tile and latch for ages since
This England, Old already, was called Merry.

Edward Thomas


Through lane it lay—through bramble

Through lane it lay—through bramble—
Through clearing and through wood—
Banditti often passed us
Upon the lonely road.

The wolf came peering curious—
The owl looked puzzled down—
The serpent's satin figure
Glid stealthily along—

The tempests touched our garments—
The lightning's poinards gleamed—
Fierce from the Crag above us
The hungry Vulture screamed—

The satyr's fingers beckoned—
The valley murmured "Come"—
These were the mates—
This was the road
Those children fluttered home.

Emily Dickinson


Best regards to everyone,

Andrew

Wonderful poems both, particularly the Dickinson which I was unfamiliar with. But here's a pedantic little point with regard to a line in the latter--the "The hungry vulture screamed"; as it happens, no New World vulture "screams" (or in fact says much of anything at all) so she must have been either just winging it or had some other species in mind.

 

[christineredgate]

2 great poems,many thanks.

 

[Bascar]

Thanks fugl, nice point. Looks like no vultures made it to Amherst, Mass, at least while ED was in residence!

Merlin, what a wonderful collection of birds to have on your doorstep. Have you written any poetry since you have been in France?

Good to hear from you Christine.

Andrew

 

[Tanny]

Thanks Andrew for bringing this thread back to the top again.
I often wish I had a better education where I am able to understand poetry better, sadly I only understand poetry that has a rhythm, although I try hard to appreciate the type of poetry you have posted. Just after the war when I was at school the classes were large and if a child didn't show promise then they were put at the back of the class and ignored. My English and spelling was atrocious and thanks to the spell check on this computer I am able to write without embarrassment. Keep them coming mate, maybe one day before I snuff it I might begin to understand.
Tanny.

 

[Merlin]

Hi Tanny,
It's good to hear from you, here is a poem from John Clare that we may have had previously.
best regards
Merlin

Autumn Birds


The wild duck startles like a sudden thought,
And heron slow as if it might be caught.
The flopping crows on weary wings go by
And grey beard jackdaws noising as they fly.
The crowds of starnels whizz and hurry by,
And darken like a clod the evening sky.
The larks like thunder rise and suthy round,
Then drop and nestle in the stubble ground.
The wild swan hurries hight and noises loud
With white neck peering to the evening clowd.
The weary rooks to distant woods are gone.
With lengths of tail the magpie winnows on
To neighbouring tree, and leaves the distant crow
While small birds nestle in the edge below.

John Clare

 

[christineredgate]

Thanks,Merlin,a great poem.

 

[Bascar]

Tanny, it’s good to hear from you. I can assure you, you are not alone in finding a lot of poetry difficult to understand! Emily Dickinson can be particularly obscure, though I do like her poetry for its quirkiness and succinctness of expression.

Merlin, thanks for posting ‘Autumn Birds’, a good example of Clare’s keen, observant eye for all natural things.

I intended posting Hardy’s poem ‘Shelley’s Skylark’ but, on looking through the thread, discovered that only snippets of the Shelley original had been posted early on, no doubt because of its length. It is a great poem so here it is in its entirety. It was written near Livorno (Leghorn) in Italy in 1820, inspired by an evening walk in the country when Shelley and Mary S enjoyed the musical accompaniment of that incomparable songster.


To A Skylark

Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!
Bird thou never wert,
That from Heaven, or near it,
Pourest thy full heart
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

Higher still and higher
From the earth thou springest
Like a cloud of fire;
The blue deep thou wingest,
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.

In the golden lightning
Of the sunken sun
O'er which clouds are bright'ning,
Thou dost float and run,
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.

The pale purple even
Melts around thy flight;
Like a star of Heaven
In the broad daylight
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight:

Keen as are the arrows
Of that silver sphere,
Whose intense lamp narrows
In the white dawn clear
Until we hardly see--we feel that it is there.

All the earth and air
With thy voice is loud.
As, when night is bare,
From one lonely cloud
The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed.

What thou art we know not;
What is most like thee?
From rainbow clouds there flow not
Drops so bright to see
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.

Like a poet hidden
In the light of thought,
Singing hymns unbidden,
Till the world is wrought
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:

Like a high-born maiden
In a palace tower,
Soothing her love-laden
Soul in secret hour
With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:

Like a glow-worm golden
In a dell of dew,
Scattering unbeholden
Its aerial hue
Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view:

Like a rose embowered
In its own green leaves,
By warm winds deflowered,
Till the scent it gives
Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves.

Sound of vernal showers
On the twinkling grass,
Rain-awakened flowers,
All that ever was
Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.

Teach us, sprite or bird,
What sweet thoughts are thine:
I have never heard
Praise of love or wine
That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.

Chorus hymeneal
Or triumphal chaunt
Matched with thine, would be all
But an empty vaunt--
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.

What objects are the fountains
Of thy happy strain?
What fields, or waves, or mountains?
What shapes of sky or plain?
What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?

With thy clear keen joyance
Languor cannot be:
Shadow of annoyance
Never came near thee:
Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.

Waking or asleep,
Thou of death must deem
Things more true and deep
Than we mortals dream,
Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?

We look before and after,
And pine for what is not:
Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught;
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.

Yet if we could scorn
Hate, and pride, and fear;
If we were things born
Not to shed a tear,
I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.

Better than all measures
Of delightful sound,
Better than all treasures
That in books are found,
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!

Teach me half the gladness
That thy brain must know,
Such harmonious madness
From my lips would flow
The world should listen then, as I am listening now!

Percy Bysshe Shelley


Andrew