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Birds and poetry (1 Viewer)
- Thread starter christineredgate
- Start date
Emily Dickinson wrote
The Humming Bird
A route of evanescence
With no revolving wheel.
A resonance of emerald
A rush of cochineal
And every blossom on the bush Adjusts its tumbled head,--
The mail from Tunis,probably
An easy morning's ride
I know that one by heart.There is a poem by Mary Oliver and a poem of mine here http://www.hummingbird-guide.com/hummingbird-poems.html and a contest that has ended with many poems and new poems being accepted for the upcoming contest http://www.hummingbird-guide.com/hummingbird-poetry-contest.html
The Humming Bird
A route of evanescence
With no revolving wheel.
A resonance of emerald
A rush of cochineal
And every blossom on the bush Adjusts its tumbled head,--
The mail from Tunis,probably
An easy morning's ride
I know that one by heart.There is a poem by Mary Oliver and a poem of mine here http://www.hummingbird-guide.com/hummingbird-poems.html and a contest that has ended with many poems and new poems being accepted for the upcoming contest http://www.hummingbird-guide.com/hummingbird-poetry-contest.html
christineredgate
Winner of the Copeland Wildlife Photographer of th
Thanks Fugl and Hummer
Chocky
Beryl
A very pleasant Pheasant
A very pleasant Pheasant came to visit us today
He stood by the window looking through
He thought we couldn’t see
As the plants he wrecked with glee
After trying to raid the feeder off he flew
He’s a very pleasant Pheasant but he isn’t very bright
And he tried to raid the feeder hanging high
So flew onto the roof
Of the garage, what a goof
Now my garden I must go and rectify
He was a pleasant pheasant and his coat was very cool
And his back was a shiny emerald green
After ploughing up the garden
He left with out a pardon
But I hope it’s not the last of him we’ve seen
©Beryl R Ladd
A very pleasant Pheasant came to visit us today
He stood by the window looking through
He thought we couldn’t see
As the plants he wrecked with glee
After trying to raid the feeder off he flew
He’s a very pleasant Pheasant but he isn’t very bright
And he tried to raid the feeder hanging high
So flew onto the roof
Of the garage, what a goof
Now my garden I must go and rectify
He was a pleasant pheasant and his coat was very cool
And his back was a shiny emerald green
After ploughing up the garden
He left with out a pardon
But I hope it’s not the last of him we’ve seen
©Beryl R Ladd
Here’s a poem from another 19th-century American poet unrepresented in the thread so far.
The Nest
May
When oaken woods with buds are pink,
And new-come birds each morning sing,
When fickle May on Summer's brink
Pauses, and knows not which to fling,
Whether fresh bud and bloom again,
Or hoar-frost silvering hill and plain,
Then from the honeysuckle gray
The oriole with experienced quest
Twitches the fibrous bark away,
The cordage of his hammock-nest.
Cheering his labor with a note
Rich as the orange of his throat.
High o'er the loud and dusty road
The soft gray cup in safety swings,
To brim ere August with its load
Of downy breasts and throbbing wings,
O'er which the friendly elm-tree heaves
An emerald roof with sculptured eaves.
Below, the noisy World drags by
In the old way, because it must,
The bride with heartbreak in her eye,
The mourner following hated dust:
Thy duty, winged flame of Spring,
Is but to love, and fly, and sing.
Oh, happy life, to soar and sway
Above the life by mortals led,
Singing the merry months away,
Master, not slave of daily bread,
And, when the Autumn comes, to flee
Wherever sunshine beckons thee!
Palinode--December
Like some lorn abbey now, the wood
Stands roofless in the bitter air;
In ruins on its floor is strewed
The carven foliage quaint and rare,
And homeless winds complain along
The columned choir once thrilled with song.
And thou, dear nest, whence joy and praise
The thankful oriole used to pour,
Swing'st empty while the north winds chase
Their snowy swarms from Labrador:
But, loyal to the happy past,
I love thee still for what thou wast.
Ah, when the Summer graces flee
From other nests more dear than thou,
And, where June crowded once, I see
Only bare trunk and disleaved bough;
When springs of life that gleamed and gushed
Run chilled, and slower, and are hushed;
When our own branches, naked long,
The vacant nests of Spring betray,
Nurseries of passion, love, and song
That vanished as our year grew gray;
When Life drones o'er a tale twice told
O'er embers pleading with the cold,--
I'll trust, that, like the birds of Spring,
Our good goes not without repair,
But only flies to soar and sing
Far off in some diviner air,
Where we shall find it in the calms
Of that fair garden 'neath the palms.
--James Russell Lowell (1819-1891)
The Nest
May
When oaken woods with buds are pink,
And new-come birds each morning sing,
When fickle May on Summer's brink
Pauses, and knows not which to fling,
Whether fresh bud and bloom again,
Or hoar-frost silvering hill and plain,
Then from the honeysuckle gray
The oriole with experienced quest
Twitches the fibrous bark away,
The cordage of his hammock-nest.
Cheering his labor with a note
Rich as the orange of his throat.
High o'er the loud and dusty road
The soft gray cup in safety swings,
To brim ere August with its load
Of downy breasts and throbbing wings,
O'er which the friendly elm-tree heaves
An emerald roof with sculptured eaves.
Below, the noisy World drags by
In the old way, because it must,
The bride with heartbreak in her eye,
The mourner following hated dust:
Thy duty, winged flame of Spring,
Is but to love, and fly, and sing.
Oh, happy life, to soar and sway
Above the life by mortals led,
Singing the merry months away,
Master, not slave of daily bread,
And, when the Autumn comes, to flee
Wherever sunshine beckons thee!
Palinode--December
Like some lorn abbey now, the wood
Stands roofless in the bitter air;
In ruins on its floor is strewed
The carven foliage quaint and rare,
And homeless winds complain along
The columned choir once thrilled with song.
And thou, dear nest, whence joy and praise
The thankful oriole used to pour,
Swing'st empty while the north winds chase
Their snowy swarms from Labrador:
But, loyal to the happy past,
I love thee still for what thou wast.
Ah, when the Summer graces flee
From other nests more dear than thou,
And, where June crowded once, I see
Only bare trunk and disleaved bough;
When springs of life that gleamed and gushed
Run chilled, and slower, and are hushed;
When our own branches, naked long,
The vacant nests of Spring betray,
Nurseries of passion, love, and song
That vanished as our year grew gray;
When Life drones o'er a tale twice told
O'er embers pleading with the cold,--
I'll trust, that, like the birds of Spring,
Our good goes not without repair,
But only flies to soar and sing
Far off in some diviner air,
Where we shall find it in the calms
Of that fair garden 'neath the palms.
--James Russell Lowell (1819-1891)
Last edited:
Here’s another poem by Cawein--a love narrative with some very nice nature imagery
In the Wood
The waterfall, deep in the wood,
Talked drowsily with solitude,
A soft, insistent sound of foam,
That filled with sleep the forest's dome,
Where, like some dream of dusk, she stood
Accentuating solitude.
The crickets' tinkling chips of sound
Strewed dim the twilight-twinkling ground;
A whippoorwill began to cry,
And glimmering through the sober sky
A bat went on its drunken round,
Its shadow following on the ground.
Then from a bush, an elder-copse,
That spiced the dark with musky tops,
What seemed, at first, a shadow came
And took her hand and spoke her name,
And kissed her where, in starry drops,
The dew orbed on the elder-tops.
The glaucous glow of fireflies
Flickered the dusk; and foxlike eyes
Peered from the shadows; and the hush
Murmured a word of wind and rush
Of fluttering waters, fragrant sighs,
And dreams unseen of mortal eyes.
The beetle flung its burr of sound
Against the hush and clung there, wound
In night's deep mane: then, in a tree,
A grig began deliberately
To file the stillness: all around
A wire of shrillness seemed unwound.
I looked for those two lovers there;
His ardent eyes, her passionate hair.
The moon looked down, slow-climbing wan
Heaven's slope of azure: they were gone:
But where they'd passed I heard the air
Sigh, faint with sweetness of her hair.
--Madison Julius Cawein
In the Wood
The waterfall, deep in the wood,
Talked drowsily with solitude,
A soft, insistent sound of foam,
That filled with sleep the forest's dome,
Where, like some dream of dusk, she stood
Accentuating solitude.
The crickets' tinkling chips of sound
Strewed dim the twilight-twinkling ground;
A whippoorwill began to cry,
And glimmering through the sober sky
A bat went on its drunken round,
Its shadow following on the ground.
Then from a bush, an elder-copse,
That spiced the dark with musky tops,
What seemed, at first, a shadow came
And took her hand and spoke her name,
And kissed her where, in starry drops,
The dew orbed on the elder-tops.
The glaucous glow of fireflies
Flickered the dusk; and foxlike eyes
Peered from the shadows; and the hush
Murmured a word of wind and rush
Of fluttering waters, fragrant sighs,
And dreams unseen of mortal eyes.
The beetle flung its burr of sound
Against the hush and clung there, wound
In night's deep mane: then, in a tree,
A grig began deliberately
To file the stillness: all around
A wire of shrillness seemed unwound.
I looked for those two lovers there;
His ardent eyes, her passionate hair.
The moon looked down, slow-climbing wan
Heaven's slope of azure: they were gone:
But where they'd passed I heard the air
Sigh, faint with sweetness of her hair.
--Madison Julius Cawein
Here’s yet another fine nature poem by Cawein.
Bee bird = Eastern Kingbird
Cat bird = Gray Catbird
Pewee = Eastern Wood Pewee
Red bird = Northern Cardinal
A Coign of the Forest
The hills hang woods around, where green, below
Dark, breezy boughs of beech-trees, mats the moss,
Crisp with the brittle hulls of last year's nuts;
The water hums one bar there; and a glow
Of gold lies steady where the trailers toss
Red, bugled blossoms and a rock abuts;
In spots the wild-phlox and oxalis grow
Where beech-roots bulge the loam, protrude across
The grass-grown road and roll it into ruts.
And where the sumach brakes grow dusk and dense,
Among the rocks, great yellow violets,
Blue-bells and wind-flowers bloom; the agaric
In dampness crowds; a Fungus, thick, intense
With gold and crimson and wax-white, that sets
The May-apples along the terraced creek
At bold defiance. Where the old rail-fence
Divides the hollow, there the bee-bird whets
His bill, and there the elder hedge is thick.
No one can miss it; for two cat-birds nest,
Calling all morning, in the trumpet-vine;
And there at noon the pewee sits and floats
A woodland welcome; and his very best
At eve the red-bird sings, as if to sign
The record of its loveliness with notes.
At night the moon stoops over it to rest,
And unreluctant stars. Where waters shine
There runs a whisper as of wind-swept oats.
--Madison Julius Cawein
Bee bird = Eastern Kingbird
Cat bird = Gray Catbird
Pewee = Eastern Wood Pewee
Red bird = Northern Cardinal
A Coign of the Forest
The hills hang woods around, where green, below
Dark, breezy boughs of beech-trees, mats the moss,
Crisp with the brittle hulls of last year's nuts;
The water hums one bar there; and a glow
Of gold lies steady where the trailers toss
Red, bugled blossoms and a rock abuts;
In spots the wild-phlox and oxalis grow
Where beech-roots bulge the loam, protrude across
The grass-grown road and roll it into ruts.
And where the sumach brakes grow dusk and dense,
Among the rocks, great yellow violets,
Blue-bells and wind-flowers bloom; the agaric
In dampness crowds; a Fungus, thick, intense
With gold and crimson and wax-white, that sets
The May-apples along the terraced creek
At bold defiance. Where the old rail-fence
Divides the hollow, there the bee-bird whets
His bill, and there the elder hedge is thick.
No one can miss it; for two cat-birds nest,
Calling all morning, in the trumpet-vine;
And there at noon the pewee sits and floats
A woodland welcome; and his very best
At eve the red-bird sings, as if to sign
The record of its loveliness with notes.
At night the moon stoops over it to rest,
And unreluctant stars. Where waters shine
There runs a whisper as of wind-swept oats.
--Madison Julius Cawein
christineredgate
Winner of the Copeland Wildlife Photographer of th
thanks Fugl,beautiful prose.Also thankyou for the translation.
And yet another by Cawein--
The Wood
Witch-hazel, dogwood, and the maple here;
And there the oak and hickory;
Linn, poplar, and the beech-tree, far and near
As the eased eye can see.
Wild-ginger; wahoo, with its wan balloons;
And brakes of briers of a twilight green;
And fox-grapes plumed with summer; and strung moons
Of mandrake flowers between.
Deep gold-green ferns, and mosses red and gray,--
Mats for what naked myth's white feet?--
And, cool and calm, a cascade far away
With even-falling beat.
Old logs, made sweet with death; rough bits of bark;
And tangled twig and knotted root;
And sunshine splashes and great pools of dark;
And many a wild-bird's flute.
Here let me sit until the Indian, Dusk,
With copper-colored feet, comes down;
Sowing the wildwood with star-fire and musk,
And shadows blue and brown.
Then side by side with some magician dream,
To take the owlet-haunted lane,
Half-roofed with vines; led by a firefly gleam,
That brings me home again.
--Madison Julius Cawein
The Wood
Witch-hazel, dogwood, and the maple here;
And there the oak and hickory;
Linn, poplar, and the beech-tree, far and near
As the eased eye can see.
Wild-ginger; wahoo, with its wan balloons;
And brakes of briers of a twilight green;
And fox-grapes plumed with summer; and strung moons
Of mandrake flowers between.
Deep gold-green ferns, and mosses red and gray,--
Mats for what naked myth's white feet?--
And, cool and calm, a cascade far away
With even-falling beat.
Old logs, made sweet with death; rough bits of bark;
And tangled twig and knotted root;
And sunshine splashes and great pools of dark;
And many a wild-bird's flute.
Here let me sit until the Indian, Dusk,
With copper-colored feet, comes down;
Sowing the wildwood with star-fire and musk,
And shadows blue and brown.
Then side by side with some magician dream,
To take the owlet-haunted lane,
Half-roofed with vines; led by a firefly gleam,
That brings me home again.
--Madison Julius Cawein
christineredgate
Winner of the Copeland Wildlife Photographer of th
Thanks Fugl.You keep this thread alive and kicking.Beautiful prose and verse .Many thanks.
Well, it’s been a while so here’s another poem, a quite long one this time, by the 19th/early 20th-century American poet, William Vaughn Moody. I particularly like the first 3 verses with their descriptions of the natural scene & references to gulls, vireos & scarlet tanagers. “Gloucester town”, of course, is Gloucester, Massachusetts, not Gloucester, Glos.
Gloucester Moors
A mile behind is Gloucester town
Where the fishing fleets put in,
A mile ahead the land dips down
And the woods and farms begin.
Here, where the moors stretch free
In the high blue afternoon,
Are the marching sun and talking sea,
And the racing winds that wheel and flee
On the flying heels of June.
Jill-o'er-the-ground is purple blue,
Blue is the quaker-maid,
The wild geranium holds its dew
Long in the boulder's shade.
Wax-red hangs the cup
From the huckleberry boughs,
In barberry bells the grey moths sup,
Or where the choke-cherry lifts high up
Sweet bowls for their carouse.
Over the shelf of the sandy cove
Beach-peas blossom late.
By copse and cliff the swallows rove
Each calling to his mate.
Seaward the sea-gulls go,
And the land-birds all are here;
That green-gold flash was a vireo,
And yonder flame where the marsh-flags grow
Was a scarlet tanager.
This earth is not the steadfast place
We landsmen build upon;
From deep to deep she varies pace,
And while she comes is gone.
Beneath my feet I feel
Her smooth bulk heave and dip;
With velvet plunge and soft upreel
She swings and steadies to her keel
Like a gallant, gallant ship.
These summer clouds she sets for sail,
The sun is her masthead light,
She tows the moon like a pinnace frail
Where her phosphor wake churns bright.
Now hid, now looming clear,
On the face of the dangerous blue
The star fleets tack and wheel and veer,
But on, but on does the old earth steer
As if her port she knew.
God, dear God! Does she know her port,
Though she goes so far about?
Or blind astray, does she make her sport
To brazen and chance it out?
I watched when her captains passed:
She were better captainless.
Men in the cabin, before the mast,
But some were reckless and some aghast,
And some sat gorged at mess.
By her battened hatch I leaned and caught
Sounds from the noisome hold,--
Cursing and sighing of souls distraught
And cries too sad to be told.
Then I strove to go down and see;
But they said, "Thou art not of us!"
I turned to those on the deck with me
And cried, "Give help!" But they said, "Let be:
Our ship sails faster thus."
Jill-o'er-the-ground is purple blue,
Blue is the quaker-maid,
The alder-clump where the brook comes through
Breeds cresses in its shade.
To be out of the moiling street
With its swelter and its sin!
Who has given to me this sweet,
And given my brother dust to eat?
And when will his wage come in?
Scattering wide or blown in ranks,
Yellow and white and brown,
Boats and boats from the fishing banks
Come home to Gloucester town.
There is cash to purse and spend,
There are wives to be embraced,
Hearts to borrow and hearts to lend,
And hearts to take and keep to the end;--
O little sails, make haste!
But thou, vast outbound ship of souls,
What harbor town for thee?
What shapes, when thy arriving tolls,
Shall crowd the banks to see?
Shall all the happy shipmates then
Stand singing brotherly?
Or shall a haggard ruthless few
Warp her over and bring her to,
While the many broken souls of men
Fester down in the slaver's pen
And nothing to say or do?
--William Vaughn Moody (1869-1910)
Gloucester Moors
A mile behind is Gloucester town
Where the fishing fleets put in,
A mile ahead the land dips down
And the woods and farms begin.
Here, where the moors stretch free
In the high blue afternoon,
Are the marching sun and talking sea,
And the racing winds that wheel and flee
On the flying heels of June.
Jill-o'er-the-ground is purple blue,
Blue is the quaker-maid,
The wild geranium holds its dew
Long in the boulder's shade.
Wax-red hangs the cup
From the huckleberry boughs,
In barberry bells the grey moths sup,
Or where the choke-cherry lifts high up
Sweet bowls for their carouse.
Over the shelf of the sandy cove
Beach-peas blossom late.
By copse and cliff the swallows rove
Each calling to his mate.
Seaward the sea-gulls go,
And the land-birds all are here;
That green-gold flash was a vireo,
And yonder flame where the marsh-flags grow
Was a scarlet tanager.
This earth is not the steadfast place
We landsmen build upon;
From deep to deep she varies pace,
And while she comes is gone.
Beneath my feet I feel
Her smooth bulk heave and dip;
With velvet plunge and soft upreel
She swings and steadies to her keel
Like a gallant, gallant ship.
These summer clouds she sets for sail,
The sun is her masthead light,
She tows the moon like a pinnace frail
Where her phosphor wake churns bright.
Now hid, now looming clear,
On the face of the dangerous blue
The star fleets tack and wheel and veer,
But on, but on does the old earth steer
As if her port she knew.
God, dear God! Does she know her port,
Though she goes so far about?
Or blind astray, does she make her sport
To brazen and chance it out?
I watched when her captains passed:
She were better captainless.
Men in the cabin, before the mast,
But some were reckless and some aghast,
And some sat gorged at mess.
By her battened hatch I leaned and caught
Sounds from the noisome hold,--
Cursing and sighing of souls distraught
And cries too sad to be told.
Then I strove to go down and see;
But they said, "Thou art not of us!"
I turned to those on the deck with me
And cried, "Give help!" But they said, "Let be:
Our ship sails faster thus."
Jill-o'er-the-ground is purple blue,
Blue is the quaker-maid,
The alder-clump where the brook comes through
Breeds cresses in its shade.
To be out of the moiling street
With its swelter and its sin!
Who has given to me this sweet,
And given my brother dust to eat?
And when will his wage come in?
Scattering wide or blown in ranks,
Yellow and white and brown,
Boats and boats from the fishing banks
Come home to Gloucester town.
There is cash to purse and spend,
There are wives to be embraced,
Hearts to borrow and hearts to lend,
And hearts to take and keep to the end;--
O little sails, make haste!
But thou, vast outbound ship of souls,
What harbor town for thee?
What shapes, when thy arriving tolls,
Shall crowd the banks to see?
Shall all the happy shipmates then
Stand singing brotherly?
Or shall a haggard ruthless few
Warp her over and bring her to,
While the many broken souls of men
Fester down in the slaver's pen
And nothing to say or do?
--William Vaughn Moody (1869-1910)
Nature__lover
Well-known member
wow what a brilliant idea for a thread. I , in fact write poetry myself- mainly of birds. I don't know if anyone is familiar with Haiku? I find they can really capture the moment when u see a beautiful bird.
christineredgate
Winner of the Copeland Wildlife Photographer of th
Thanks Fugl.a great poem,lots of variety.
hi,Nature-lover,please do feel free to add to this thread.
hi,Nature-lover,please do feel free to add to this thread.
Hi Nature__lover
Haiku is not the sound of
Prince Andrew cavorting in the dark
Calling out clandestinely to
The irrepressible Miss Stark
It is a type of poetry that comes
From the land of the rising sun
Dating back to the eighth century
Before most other poetry had begun
The good thing about Haiku
Is that it is soothing to the ears
Each poem usually only has three lines
With little time to be bored to tears
Described as only small stones
Dropping down the well
Making only a little splash
Only heard by those who dwell
Flowers in meadow
Birds singing in the forests
Man in the factories
regards
Merlin
Haiku is not the sound of
Prince Andrew cavorting in the dark
Calling out clandestinely to
The irrepressible Miss Stark
It is a type of poetry that comes
From the land of the rising sun
Dating back to the eighth century
Before most other poetry had begun
The good thing about Haiku
Is that it is soothing to the ears
Each poem usually only has three lines
With little time to be bored to tears
Described as only small stones
Dropping down the well
Making only a little splash
Only heard by those who dwell
Flowers in meadow
Birds singing in the forests
Man in the factories
regards
Merlin
christineredgate
Winner of the Copeland Wildlife Photographer of th
Thanks Merlin,interesting.
A bit "offbeat" but it does mention birds.
regards
Merlin
The Lonely Tree
Alone on the hill I am the only tree
Envying the other trees down in the valley
I don’t want to be in a forest a small copse would do
In a sunny clearing growing next to you
Our branches could intermingle, especially in the spring
Birds would come to nest, raise their chicks and sing
We’d enjoy every summer and the autumns too
Our leaves would fall together and I’d still be close to you
The winter would come, the cold winds would roar
I’d be with you night and day, I couldn’t wish for anymore
I know I’m just dreaming, I’m still alone on the hill
I’ve never been close to another tree and I know I never will
regards
Merlin
The Lonely Tree
Alone on the hill I am the only tree
Envying the other trees down in the valley
I don’t want to be in a forest a small copse would do
In a sunny clearing growing next to you
Our branches could intermingle, especially in the spring
Birds would come to nest, raise their chicks and sing
We’d enjoy every summer and the autumns too
Our leaves would fall together and I’d still be close to you
The winter would come, the cold winds would roar
I’d be with you night and day, I couldn’t wish for anymore
I know I’m just dreaming, I’m still alone on the hill
I’ve never been close to another tree and I know I never will
christineredgate
Winner of the Copeland Wildlife Photographer of th
Merlin,today is my birthday,and so happy to see a post on the poetry thread.Quite evocative.One of the most shown pics around,is of the lone tree,taken by so many photographers.I love this poem.A lonely tree just needing friendship .
Many thanks.
Many thanks.
