Birds and poetry (2 Viewers)

[scampo]

Yes, Steve: we'd caught up big time by the end of the century.

Here a short one by an old friend of mine who died 10 years ago.

Into my fever's flush
Dropped the cool, pearled notes of a thrush,
Gently, like falling rain,
Each liquid phrase - again -
Wearing away the stone
Of my wearied watch alone,
Floating me, plunging me deep
In a still pool of quiet sleep.

Anne Hemming

"Each liquid phrase - again -" So evocative.

A friend you must surely miss, Jason.

 

[birdman]

The Darkling Thrush

by Thomas Hardy​

Wonderful, thanks Steve.

 

[scampo]

I wonder if others will like the light touch of this old piece of anonymous verse:

Cauld blaws the wind frae east to west,
The drift is driving sairly;
Sae loud and shrill's I hear the blast,
I'm sure it's winter fairly.

Up in the morning's no for me,
Up in the morning early;
When a' the hills are cover'd wi' snaw,
I'm sure it's winter fairly.

The birds sit chittering in the thorn,
A'day they fare but sparely;
And lang's the night frae e'en to morn,
I'm sure it's winter fairly.

Up in the morning's no for me,
Up in the morning early;
When a' the hills are cover'd wi' snaw,
I'm sure it's winter fairly.

 

[Nerine]

"I wonder if others will like the light touch of this old piece of anonymous verse:

Cauld blaws the wind frae east to west,"
Is this not Robert Burns, Steve? And yes, I like this one very much, especially

"The birds sit chittering in the thorn,
A'day they fare but sparely;
And lang's the night frae e'en to morn,
I'm sure it's winter fairly."
"Chittering" is a lovely word, I assume it means "shivering"? or maybe chattering and shivering at the same time!

This one is Robert Burns, a bit sad, but I like it:

Yon banks and hills of bonnie Doon,
How can you bloom so fresh and fair?
And little birds, how can you chaunt
With me so weary... full o' care?

You'll break my heart, you warbling birds
That wanton thru the flow'ry thorns
You remind me of departed joys
Departed... never to return.

Oft did I rove by bonnie Doon
To see the rose and woodbine twine
And every bird sang of its love
As fondly once I sang of mine.

With lightsome heart I pulled a rose
Full sweet from off its thorny tree
But my first lover stole that rose
And, ah! has left its thorns with me.​

Nerine

 

[scampo]

Fine verse, Nerine - thanks. I expect you're right about the poet being Burns. Old Robbie is not a poet I know too well and I had it down as "anon" in my collection. A slap on the hand for an English teacher - ouch!

 

[Nerine]

Steve, I've just googled "Cauld Blaws the Wind" and the very first result gives music to the poem. I played it, it's absolutely lovely. I like your poem even more now! (yes it is Burns). I tried singing it along with the tune - lucky no-one was listening!! Thank you so much for mentioning it.

 

[scampo]

I can't sing in tune to save my life unless I'm next to someone who can! Odd that. But I can imagine the poem would sound very fine indeed sung well, Nerine.

 

[christineredgate]

Another marvellous collection .Tanny,your self composed is brilliant,one can just see the young chicks sitting ,mouths agape waiting for food.
Nerine and Steve,thanks for the Robbie Burns verse.Yet another reminder of school days.
Jason,there was a thrush in full song whils't I was walking the dog yesterday,her notes were so clear and pure.

 

[Beverlybaynes]

How I wish I could claim this poem as my own! I think it's marvelous, and very powerful:

I, THE HAWK
Charles Albano

Weightless,
I spiral on unseen currents,
loftily, without effort
I leave the earth behind
on a soft breeze
absorbing the kissing sun
up here blanketed from all sound
save the soft flutter
of my feathers.
I oversee the earth,
the continuous struggle
for perspective and position,
knowing my place --
alone,
and uninhibited,
I choose my direction and
remain aloft as long as
it suits me.
I, the hawk,
free as air
define my days,
gliding unnoticed,
dreamlike through broad loops,
my shadow lost in the landscape,
and for an instant,
I know
I am the finishing detail
in God's composition.

 

[Bluetail]

I'll second that, Beverly. Thanks for drawing it to our attention.

 

[scampo]

How I wish I could claim this poem as my own! I think it's marvelous, and very powerful:

I, THE HAWK
Charles Albano

A fine poem, Beverley - thanks for posting it. I don't know when Albano wrote his poem, but it seems quite similar to Ted Hughes' very famous, "Hawk Roosting":

HAWK ROOSTING

I sit in the top of the wood, my eyes closed.
Inaction, no falsifying dream
Between my hooked head and hooked feet:
Or in sleep rehearse perfect kills and eat.

The convenience of the high trees!
The air’s buoyancy and the sun’s ray
Are of advantage to me;
And the earth’s face upward for my inspection.

My feet are locked upon the rough bark.
It took the whole of Creation
To produce my foot, my each feather:
Now I hold creation in my foot

Or fly up, and revolve it slowly—
I kill where I please because it is all mine.
There is no sophistry in my body:
My manners are tearing off heads—

The allotment of death.
For the one path of my flight is direct
Through the bones of the living.
No arguments assert my right:

The sun is behind me.
Nothing has changed since I began.
My eye has permitted no change.
I am going to keep things like this.

Ted Hughes

 

[Beverlybaynes]

Wow, Steve, that's a wonderful poem!

 

[christineredgate]

Thanks,Steve,
A great poem.

 

[Tanny]

Hi again, I feel that this thread should not die, just go to sleep now and again.
Her's a poem for you Scampo, one against my norm, without rhythm. If I car'nt beat you then Id'e better join you,

KALEEWOO.
The black Cockatoo majestically stands,
Deliberately his head turns right and left,
A slow aloof attitude.

Black piercing eyes wary
searching for danger.

"Kaleewoo, kaleewoo"
He calls with wings raised and tail spread
A flash of white beneath.

"Eeerk, eeerk"
Females mutter among the Banksia grove.

Scattered crushed cones
"Thunk"
To the ground.

Momentarily relaxed he reached for a cone with
Black claw and beak.

One footed he stands to chew the nut and extract a
Kernel that for a moment
Rolls over the soft, dry, dark tongue.

Pink rimmed eyes dart from cone to all about, sly looking.

Suddenly! piercing eyes spy me
Crest raised,
Wings raised, a raucous cry,
"Kaleewoo, kaleewoo"

Trees erupt, cones and leaves
"Thunk" and flutter to the ground.

A heaving, black flapping mass bursts above the trees
Alarm calling,
Tumbling away in disorder.

The black cloud drifts over the contours of the land, calling.
"Kaleewoo, eeerk, eeerk, kaleewoo, kaleewoo.

This is a decription of a flock of Carnabies White-tailed Black Cockatoos seen near Yanchep, north of Perth, Western Australia. They feed on the Cones of the Banksia trees. Only these birds are able to break open the hard nuts. There is always a sentinal on the highest branch, watching for danger. Tanny

 

[Nerine]

I was reminded of this one by Ted Hughes after reading Scampo's posting of "Hawk Roosting" (a great poem). I love this one, to me it is so true and funny!

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.

​

Nerine

 

[gordon hamlett]

I have dipped into this thread occasionally so apologies if I have missed this already.

Has anyone looked at the poems/song lyrics of that Scottish icon Robbie Burns (or Jewish icon Rabbi Burns if you prefer)

This is one of my favourite songs, a combination of love of nature, love of women and anti hunters. There are many excellent recordings available including Ian Bruce and Dick Gaughan.

Now Westlin Winds by Robbie Burns

Now westlin winds, and slaught'ring guns western
Bring Autumn's pleasant weather;
The moorcock springs on whirring wings, black grouse
Amang the blooming heather:
Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain,
Delights the weary farmer;
And the moon shines bright, as I rove by night,
To muse upon my charmer.

The paitrick lo'es the fruitfu fells; partridge
The plover lo'es the mountains;
The woodcock haunts the lonely dells;
The soaring hern the fountains: heron
Thro lofty groves, the cushat roves, pigeon
The path o man to shun it;
The hazel bush o'erhangs the thrush,
The spreading thorn the linnet.

Thus ev'ry kind their pleasure find,
The savage and the tender;
Some social join, and leagues combine;
Some solitary wander:
Avaunt, away, the cruel sway!
Tyrannic man's dominion!
The sportsman's joy, the murd'ring cry,
The flutt'ring, gory pinion!

But Peggy dear, the ev'ning's clear,
Thick flies the skimming swallow;
The sky is blue, the fields in view,
All fading-green and yellow:
Come let us stray our gladsome way,
And view the charms of Nature;
The rustling corn, the fruited thorn,
And ilka happy creature. every

We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk,
While the silent moon shines clearly;
I'll clasp thy waist, and fondly prest,
Swear how I lo'e thee dearly:
Not vernal show'rs to budding flow'rs,
Not Autumn to the farmer,
So dear can be, as thou to me,
My fair, my lovely charmer!


Gordon

 

[scampo]

Here's a poem for you Scampo, one against my norm, without rhythm. If I can't beat you then I'd better join you...

As I said a while back, I think you must mean 'without rhyme', Tanny, as your poem seems to me to depend entirely on its sense of rhythm to work. Otherwise it would be prose (and even that has a certain rhythm).

Lovely stuff, btw! I enjoyed reading it - great imagery and feeling.

"Kaleewoo, kaleewoo"

 

[scampo]

I have dipped into this thread occasionally so apologies if I have missed this already.

Has anyone looked at the poems/song lyrics of that Scottish icon Robbie Burns

A bit of a charmer himself, I reckon, Gordon:

"I'll clasp thy waist, and fondly prest,
Swear how I lo'e thee dearly..."

Ah - how sweet! Just imagine a modern version (unprintable on a family web site such as this!).

I think I posted a poem by Burns a while back and there has been at least on other.

And thanks, Nerine, too, for your poem!

 

[scampo]

For those of you who were into protest songs in the 60s and beyond, here's a most beautiful song lyric from that great American folk singer songwriter, Tom Paxton:

Whose Garden Was This?

Whose garden was this?
It must have been lovely.
Did it have flowers?
I've seen pictures of flowers,
And I'd love to have smelled one.

Whose river was this?
You say it ran freely?
Blue was its color?
I've seen blue in some pictures,
And I'd love to have been there.

[Chorus]

Ah, tell me again I need to know:
The forest had trees, the meadows were green,
The oceans were blue and birds really flew,
Can you swear that was true?

​

Whose grey sky was this?
Or was it a blue one?Nights there were breezes?
I've heard records of breezes,
And you tell me you've felt one?

Whose forest was this?
And why is it empty?
You say there were bird songs?
And squirrels in the branches,
And why is it silent?

[Cho:]

Whose garden was this?
It must have been lovely.
Did it have flowers?
I've seen pictures of flowers,
And I'd love to have smelled one.

 

[christineredgate]

thanks,Steve,an unusual poem.One has to read it several times and really think about the content.
Thankyou.