PLAIN BIRD

PLAIN BIRD

 

I woke like something hatching

from a plain egg—gray, speckled

with brown. Hatched like a plain

bird, a common bird. Some kind

of sparrow, spotted like last year’s

leaves and litter. I started the coffee,

leashed the dog, stepped out

into the rain where a robin—

an ordinary bird—was singing.

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THE FEAST OF ST. WALPURGA

THE FEAST OF ST. WALPURGA

 

I have just returned

but before I sleep

I must record.

 

The moon was dark,

the sky was clouded.

Earthscent was rising

 

up from the valley

into the cold air

along the ridge.

 

We came in our silence,

lit the fire in silence. 

When they arrived,

 

we sang the words

to set them free.

While we waited then

 

for the flames to die,

while we waited

in our silence

 

with the long darkness

around us, a pair

of owls called 

 

from the forest

down in the trees.

A good omen

 

for the season to come.

The flight home

was uneventful.

TWO POEMS ABOUT CROWS

These are not about imaginary paintings, but very real and wonderful photographs by Victoria Blewer

 

THE CROW

After Victoria Blewer’s “On the Lookout”

 

There is a world

that is not 

yours. In the dark

tree, the crow 

holds layers.

She does not 

speak

to you.

Every thing

is the universe’s 

center.

Once you see—

remember.

 

 

Night Birds

After Victoria Blewer

 

The owl keeps asking

if I’m awake. All winter

I have not been

awake, or asleep.

 

A winter of—not

discontent, nothing

with that bloody edge—

but of something flat

 

and gray, of something

like despair.  The crows

don’t ask. They

do not care.

 

In the trees, bare

or not, under the sky,

starred or not,

they sit while my world

 

sleeps. Or not.

And when I wake

in my darkness

and remember,

 

this is a kind 

of comfort,

a kind of

relief.

APRIL 10, 2019: REPORT

April 19, 2019: REPORT

 

Here in Vermont, for instance, it’s Spring. 

A robin sings in the scraggly pines

next to the drive. The sun rises through deep

pink cloud, so rain coming. Daffodil spikes,

free at last from the long weight

of snow, have pushed up through the mass of flat

leaves out by the mailbox.The dog says 

a rabbit, or something, under the yews.

The house smells like fresh coffee. The ink flows

easy, like the inconsequential

run-off brook through the woods beside the house.

The house still stands.

EVERGLADES #5

EVERGLADES #5:  May 

 (sawgrass and oil on road-kill alligator hide)

~Ray Hudson, 2017

The birds have gone.

No golden-slippered egret,

no blue-eyed cormorant,

no wading stork shielding

dark water with her wings.

Silence is absolute.

 

Mangroves 

are weary, dusty.

In the fetid pools,

mosquitoes awaken.

Already the air

is thick with heat.

 

Alligator spoor—

dinosaur track,

tail-drag—

marks the muddy flats

like the handwriting

of the blind.

APRIL SUNRISE: VIEW FROM THE POET’S WINDOW

APRIL SUNRISE: VIEW FROM THE POET’S WINDOW

~after Emily Carr

Purple pillars and crossings,

fine traceries of lavender 

against blue-black. Just visible

through a window framed 

on the right by a spent

Christmas cactus, a patch of white,

promising gold. 

 

Where the owl blended 

into the ash at sunset,

there is no owl, 

just a feather-shaded

space where she sat 

regarding the grubby garden 

just out of sight.

EAST OWL

EAST OWL

. . . . she must speak

to men in the language of men with a man’s tongue,

and then they will not hear her

because they understand her.

     ~Ursula K. Le Guin, ‘While the Old Men Make Ready to Kill” 

 

Aunt, I miss you.

Not many here

speak Woman.

 

Aunt, an owl keeps flying over me.

She wants me to learn to sit still,

hunt words. Wants me to focus,

lock on. I’ve seen her

dive for frogs, sit on a branch

with a green leg dangling

from her beak. I’ve found

marks of her wings in the snow.

I’ve found the blood of rabbit.

I’ve heard her singing in the dark.

 

Aunt, my hills are covered with snow.

The men still aren’t listening

but the women keep singing

for ourselves and our nieces.

Aunt, we are learning to hunt.

We are still learning to fly.