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Birds and poetry (2 Viewers)
- Thread starter christineredgate
- Start date
scampo
Steve Campsall
You'll find this entertaining at least:
http://findarticles.com/p/articles/mi_m2342/is_n2_v30/ai_19175941/pg_1
There certainly is a great deal under the surface of this fascinating little poem.
Nerine
Well-known member
Andrew, "May Weather" - a superb poem from Larkin! Thanks also for the Katharine Tynan.
Colin, your Katharine Tynan was lovely too, so nostalgic.
I hope no-one minds me posting another Edward Thomas (I know it's already been posted some time ago). I read it again recently and I just love it. He wrote this the day after he wrote "Words" which, I think, Steve posted recently. He describes his thoughts beautifully, his use of words is wonderful and you can almost hear the thrush singing. "Over and over again, a pure thrush word."
The Word
There are so many things I have forgot,
That once were much to me, or that were not,
All lost, as is a childless woman's child
And its child's children, in the undefiled
Abyss of what can never be again.
I have forgot, too, names of the mighty men
That fought and lost or won in the old wars,
Of kings and fiends and gods, and most of the stars.
Some things I have forgot that I forget.
But lesser things there are, remembered yet,
Than all the others. One name that I have not--
Though 'tis an empty thingless name--forgot
Never can die because Spring after Spring
Some thrushes learn to say it as they sing.
There is always one at midday saying it clear
And tart--the name, only the name I hear.
While perhaps I am thinking of the elder scent
That is like food, or while I am content
With the wild rose scent that is like memory,
This name suddenly is cried out to me
From somewhere in the bushes by a bird
Over and over again, a pure thrush word.
Edward Thomas
Nerine
Colin, your Katharine Tynan was lovely too, so nostalgic.
I hope no-one minds me posting another Edward Thomas (I know it's already been posted some time ago). I read it again recently and I just love it. He wrote this the day after he wrote "Words" which, I think, Steve posted recently. He describes his thoughts beautifully, his use of words is wonderful and you can almost hear the thrush singing. "Over and over again, a pure thrush word."
The Word
There are so many things I have forgot,
That once were much to me, or that were not,
All lost, as is a childless woman's child
And its child's children, in the undefiled
Abyss of what can never be again.
I have forgot, too, names of the mighty men
That fought and lost or won in the old wars,
Of kings and fiends and gods, and most of the stars.
Some things I have forgot that I forget.
But lesser things there are, remembered yet,
Than all the others. One name that I have not--
Though 'tis an empty thingless name--forgot
Never can die because Spring after Spring
Some thrushes learn to say it as they sing.
There is always one at midday saying it clear
And tart--the name, only the name I hear.
While perhaps I am thinking of the elder scent
That is like food, or while I am content
With the wild rose scent that is like memory,
This name suddenly is cried out to me
From somewhere in the bushes by a bird
Over and over again, a pure thrush word.
Edward Thomas
Nerine
Nerine-you have clearly developed a great love of Edward Thomas-as have I because of this thread.
The words & rhythms flow so brilliantly-like a piece of music. Words is a sublime poem.
I hope you don't mind me following your example-we have compiled such a cornucopia of great poems here.It's very worthwhile pausing and re-reading favourites.
Here's one of mine-
SHE DOTES
She dotes on what the wild birds say
Or hint or mock at, night and day,-
Thrush, blackbird, all that sing in May,
And songless plover,
Hawk, heron, owl, and woodpecker.
They never say a word to her
About her lover.
She laughs at them for childishness,
She cries at them for carelessness
Who see her going loverless
Yet sing and chatter
Just as when he was not a ghost,
Nor ever ask her what she has lost
Or what is the matter.
Yet she has fancied blackbirds hide
A secret , and that thrushes chide
Because she thinks death can divide
Her from her lover:
And she has slept, trying to translate
The word the cuckoo cries to his mate
Over and over.
Edward Thomas
___________________________
Colin
The words & rhythms flow so brilliantly-like a piece of music. Words is a sublime poem.
I hope you don't mind me following your example-we have compiled such a cornucopia of great poems here.It's very worthwhile pausing and re-reading favourites.
Here's one of mine-
SHE DOTES
She dotes on what the wild birds say
Or hint or mock at, night and day,-
Thrush, blackbird, all that sing in May,
And songless plover,
Hawk, heron, owl, and woodpecker.
They never say a word to her
About her lover.
She laughs at them for childishness,
She cries at them for carelessness
Who see her going loverless
Yet sing and chatter
Just as when he was not a ghost,
Nor ever ask her what she has lost
Or what is the matter.
Yet she has fancied blackbirds hide
A secret , and that thrushes chide
Because she thinks death can divide
Her from her lover:
And she has slept, trying to translate
The word the cuckoo cries to his mate
Over and over.
Edward Thomas
___________________________
Colin
scampo
Steve Campsall
'The Word' is so very much an Edward Thomas poem, isn't it, Nerine? This poem doesn't mention a bird but tells a lovely story with a similar theme to Colin's posting.
Lovers
The two men in the road were taken aback.
The lovers came out shading their eyes from the sun,
And never was white so white, or black so black,
As her cheeks and hair. ‘There are more things than one
A man might turn into a wood for, Jack,’
Said George; Jack whispered: ‘He has not got a gun.
It’s a bit too much of a good thing, I say.
They are going the other road, look. And see her run.’
She ran. – ‘What a thing it is, this picking may!’
Edward Thomas
Lovers
The two men in the road were taken aback.
The lovers came out shading their eyes from the sun,
And never was white so white, or black so black,
As her cheeks and hair. ‘There are more things than one
A man might turn into a wood for, Jack,’
Said George; Jack whispered: ‘He has not got a gun.
It’s a bit too much of a good thing, I say.
They are going the other road, look. And see her run.’
She ran. – ‘What a thing it is, this picking may!’
Edward Thomas
‘The Word’ is a really lovely poem, Nerine. ‘A pure thrush word’ – a wonderful phrase. Sadly, we get very few thrushes around these parts nowadays, and it is a rare treat when one lands in the garden.
Colin and Steve, I very much liked the other two Edward Thomas poems you posted. ‘She Dotes’ has a great charm. (I should think that Edward Thomas must now easily be topping the charts in the Tyke Index?!!)
This one is from the great Pablo Neruda.
The Me Bird
I am the Pablo Bird,
bird of a single feather,
a flier in the clear shadow
and obscure clarity,
my wings are unseen,
my ears resound
when I walk among the trees
or beneath the tombstones
like an unlucky umbrella
or a naked sword,
stretched like a bow
or round like a grape,
I fly on and on not knowing,
wounded in the dark night,
who is waiting for me,
who does not want my song,
who desires my death,
who will not know I'm arriving
and will not come to subdue me,
to bleed me, to twist me,
or to kiss my clothes,
torn by the shrieking wind.
That's why I come and go,
fly and don't fly but sing:
I am the furious bird
of the calm storm.
Pablo Neruda
Andrew
Colin and Steve, I very much liked the other two Edward Thomas poems you posted. ‘She Dotes’ has a great charm. (I should think that Edward Thomas must now easily be topping the charts in the Tyke Index?!!)
This one is from the great Pablo Neruda.
The Me Bird
I am the Pablo Bird,
bird of a single feather,
a flier in the clear shadow
and obscure clarity,
my wings are unseen,
my ears resound
when I walk among the trees
or beneath the tombstones
like an unlucky umbrella
or a naked sword,
stretched like a bow
or round like a grape,
I fly on and on not knowing,
wounded in the dark night,
who is waiting for me,
who does not want my song,
who desires my death,
who will not know I'm arriving
and will not come to subdue me,
to bleed me, to twist me,
or to kiss my clothes,
torn by the shrieking wind.
That's why I come and go,
fly and don't fly but sing:
I am the furious bird
of the calm storm.
Pablo Neruda
Andrew
Nerine
Well-known member
You are so right, Colin. I've learnt so much from reading this thread, and once you get to admire a poet and his work you want to find out more (at least I do) - yes, Edward Thomas has become one of my favourites of all time! I would never have known so much about his poetry and life if it had not been for Christine's thread so many thanks to her and all the contributors.
Both "Lovers" and "She Dotes" are wonderful! Thanks, Colin and Steve.
Andrew, I always love reading Pablo Neruda, great poem! Thanks for posting it. (Btw I'm very lucky to have a song thrush in the garden this year which sings almost incessantly from 4am to late evening. It's quite wonderful.)
Nerine
scampo
Steve Campsall
A lovely poem, Andrew. I sometimes struggle with translated poems but this works well. I think it was Philip Larkin who felt that translated poetry could never really work. In many ways I can see his point but no one can deny the quality of this Neruda verse.
Yes, I would generally agree with that, Steve. Part of the trouble is that, unless one is conversant with the language from which the poem is translated (in which case, of course, one doesn’t need the translation!), one doesn’t know how faithful it is to the original, not only in the translated words and in the sense conveyed but in the cadences. Some of the Neruda translations work for me (‘The Me Bird’ is one), others don’t.
Alternatively, there is the ‘loose’ translation favoured, for example, by Tom Paulin, where essentially the ‘translation’ is the translator’s own poem. Here is one from ‘The Road to Inver’, which is based on a poem by the French poet, Arthur Rimbaud. The basic theme is there but, other than that, Paulin’s version bears little resemblance to the original. It is in short a Paulin poem (which I rather like).
The Rooks
(Rimbaud)
When the ground’s as hard as rock
and the Angelus has gone dead
in each crushed village
Lord let the rooks
- those great clacky birds
sweep down from the clouds
onto fields and ridges
floppy crowd that bursts
into stony cries
the wind’s bashing your nests!
- along yellow rivers roads
with their pitted Calvaries
over ditches and holes
you must scatter and rally!
turn in your thousands
over the fields of France
where the recent dead
lie maimed and broken
- in your clattery dance
our black funereal bird
remind us how they bled!
you sky saints in the treetops
draped on that dusky mast
above paradise lost
please let the May songbirds be
- for our sake who’re trapped
beaten servile unfree
in the hawthorns’ green dust.
Tom Paulin
Andrew
scampo
Steve Campsall
I think that's the first time I've read a poem by Tom Paulin, Andrew - although I can't quite think how I've missed him considering he's on TV and the like (I haven't seen him for a while, though). Thanks for posting it. I like the gritty raw feel it has - reminiscent of Ted Hughes.
Steve, ‘gritty’ and ‘raw’ are good adjectives to describe much of Paulin’s verse. There are a couple of very short pieces from ‘The Road to Inver’ which I posted some months ago (#1376 on page 56).
The following versions of a poem (L’Albatross) by Charles Baudelaire nicely illustrate the different approaches to translations. The first is a faithful translation of the original by William Aggeler. The second is not strictly a translation at all but what Paulin describes as an ‘imitation’ or ‘version’. The central points are there but the poem is all Paulin.
The Albatross
(from The Flowers of Evil)
Often, to amuse themselves, the men of a crew
Catch albatrosses, those vast sea birds
That indolently follow a ship
As it glides over the deep, briny sea.
Scarcely have they placed them on the deck
Than these kings of the sky, clumsy, ashamed,
Pathetically let their great white wings
Drag beside them like oars.
That winged voyager, how weak and gauche he is,
So beautiful before, now comic and ugly!
One man worries his beak with a stubby clay pipe;
Another limps, mimics the cripple who once flew!
The poet resembles this prince of cloud and sky
Who frequents the tempest and laughs at the bowman;
When exiled on the earth, the butt of hoots and jeers,
His giant wings prevent him from walking.
William Aggeler
The Albatross
(Baudelaire)
Marilyn and the cassowary bird
- its head’s protected by a bony helmet or casque –
they both know what the other bird’s about
- idle gliding comrade of endless
voyages over tradescarred seas
where mariners counting the sea’s clock
skrimshander whalebone or tempt him onto the deck
where with two left feet he paddles
on the dry boards – boards as stiff
as the ship’s biscuit they chuck
at him – as well try swallow grey coke
or clinker – now some tar smoking a clay pipe takes
it and gives his long bony beak
- his glossy beak – a hard poke
another splays his feet out and hops
with as much grace as a sack
of old potatoes caked in mud
then laughs at the poor craychur he’s mocking
- yes we know that the poet any star like Marilyn
and the cassowary too resemble the albatross
- whole crowds rough as those jack
tars squatting on sunscrubbed boards yak
away at them all – then with gossip and innuendo
- how they roll their tongues on the name Monroe –
they lay each in turn on their back
and rip out their guts
Tom Paulin
Andrew
The following versions of a poem (L’Albatross) by Charles Baudelaire nicely illustrate the different approaches to translations. The first is a faithful translation of the original by William Aggeler. The second is not strictly a translation at all but what Paulin describes as an ‘imitation’ or ‘version’. The central points are there but the poem is all Paulin.
The Albatross
(from The Flowers of Evil)
Often, to amuse themselves, the men of a crew
Catch albatrosses, those vast sea birds
That indolently follow a ship
As it glides over the deep, briny sea.
Scarcely have they placed them on the deck
Than these kings of the sky, clumsy, ashamed,
Pathetically let their great white wings
Drag beside them like oars.
That winged voyager, how weak and gauche he is,
So beautiful before, now comic and ugly!
One man worries his beak with a stubby clay pipe;
Another limps, mimics the cripple who once flew!
The poet resembles this prince of cloud and sky
Who frequents the tempest and laughs at the bowman;
When exiled on the earth, the butt of hoots and jeers,
His giant wings prevent him from walking.
William Aggeler
The Albatross
(Baudelaire)
Marilyn and the cassowary bird
- its head’s protected by a bony helmet or casque –
they both know what the other bird’s about
- idle gliding comrade of endless
voyages over tradescarred seas
where mariners counting the sea’s clock
skrimshander whalebone or tempt him onto the deck
where with two left feet he paddles
on the dry boards – boards as stiff
as the ship’s biscuit they chuck
at him – as well try swallow grey coke
or clinker – now some tar smoking a clay pipe takes
it and gives his long bony beak
- his glossy beak – a hard poke
another splays his feet out and hops
with as much grace as a sack
of old potatoes caked in mud
then laughs at the poor craychur he’s mocking
- yes we know that the poet any star like Marilyn
and the cassowary too resemble the albatross
- whole crowds rough as those jack
tars squatting on sunscrubbed boards yak
away at them all – then with gossip and innuendo
- how they roll their tongues on the name Monroe –
they lay each in turn on their back
and rip out their guts
Tom Paulin
Andrew
scampo
Steve Campsall
Thanks for posting the poems, Andrew. I enjoyed reading the translation of Beaudeliare's L'Albatros. On the Paulin poem, I'm not really sure what he is trying to say although I do like some of it ("the poor craychur" - lovely). Linking the poet with Marilyn Monroe and a cassowary? I wonder.
Similar to the way Merlin feels about Yeats, I must admit to having an irrational dislike of Paulin because of his strong - and in my view completely misguided - views on Philip Larkin!
Similar to the way Merlin feels about Yeats, I must admit to having an irrational dislike of Paulin because of his strong - and in my view completely misguided - views on Philip Larkin!
Last edited:
Yes, Paulin's views are very much his own. His very strong political opinions seem to dominate his assessments of everything. Which is a pity for his dry, acerbic wit can otherwise be quite refreshing. But he is a controversial figure, that’s for sure.
As to the poem, I can understand why the vulnerable Marilyn is compared to the plight of the albatross, but have no idea at all why the hard-headed cassowary is included!
Andrew
You are indeed lucky, Nerine. The song thrush is such a lovely bird, both in sight and sound.
But you have unwittingly touched a raw nerve for I have a local blackbird who performs during the same hours (the start is precisely at 4 am). His song is loud and penetrating with one single motif that drives me mad (7 notes, stress on the 6th: sounds something like ‘I’m a bird and I SEE you’). During the day or in the evening when I am sitting at my desk, and he is perched high in his tree, not only does the dreaded motif invariably interrupt my train of thought, but his sound is so clear and strong that, whenever I am on the phone, I am wrongly accused of sunning myself in the garden! I can tell you, it’s an uneasy relationship. So when, some time back, Steve posted Wallace Stevens’ poem about 13 ways of looking at a blackbird, I started to devise 13 ways of murdering one.
But at weekends I always soften. Down he comes from his perch to join me when I am gardening and pecks at the loosened earth for an easy meal. There we are, a few yards apart, potential assassin and victim. I could get him then but he looks at me as if I were his friend, and sometimes I swear I detect a wink in his cold eye. Then, as if to thank me for the freebies, he flies on to the fence for a further rendition of The Song. This time I can see him clearly, head thrown back, yellow beak opened wide, singing in perfect pitch, and I think I’ll put him on probation for just one more week. One more week …
Andrew
Nerine
Well-known member
Andrew, Merlin is right. Reading about your blackbird was like reading poetry! A wonderful post that made me smile|=)|
"but he looks at me as if I were his friend, and sometimes I swear I detect a wink in his cold eye."
Probation for just one more week, eh?
Be lenient with him!
Nerine
"but he looks at me as if I were his friend, and sometimes I swear I detect a wink in his cold eye."
Probation for just one more week, eh?
Be lenient with him!
Nerine
johnfgriffin
Member
Taught by a Bird
A lovely poem by Ellen P Allerton
An April day: the cold wind blew,
The dark clouds lowered, the thick snow flew,
And where the springing grasses lay green,
Ragged patches of white were seen.
Snow everywhere! I gazed with a sigh,
As the big flakes fell from the gloomy sky;
Loading the limbs of the budding trees,
Filling the hollows about their knees.
Had winter come back - the vanquished king -
And rudely throttled the maiden, spring?
But lo! from amids the storm I heard,
The sweet, glad song of a tiny bird.
On a tufted twig, its feet in the snow,
Swung by the cold wind to and fro,
It sat and sang - that wee brownbird -
Putting to shame my petulant word.
The darkness lifted, the storm was done,
Through the broken cloud-rifts shone the sun,
A breath came up from the south, and the snow
Melted away in genial glow.
Spring reigned again; and again I heard
The joyous song of that dear brown bird.
With quickened pulses and heart aglow,
I caught the refrain, "I told you so".
Ah, little bird, had I faith like you,
When life and the world are dark to view!
When lowering skies are above me bent,
Could I feel you trust and your sweet content.
You sang, your tender feet in the snow,
Swung by the cold wind to and fro.
Your faith was sure, and now I repeat,
Over and over, the lesson so sweet.
A lovely poem by Ellen P Allerton
An April day: the cold wind blew,
The dark clouds lowered, the thick snow flew,
And where the springing grasses lay green,
Ragged patches of white were seen.
Snow everywhere! I gazed with a sigh,
As the big flakes fell from the gloomy sky;
Loading the limbs of the budding trees,
Filling the hollows about their knees.
Had winter come back - the vanquished king -
And rudely throttled the maiden, spring?
But lo! from amids the storm I heard,
The sweet, glad song of a tiny bird.
On a tufted twig, its feet in the snow,
Swung by the cold wind to and fro,
It sat and sang - that wee brownbird -
Putting to shame my petulant word.
The darkness lifted, the storm was done,
Through the broken cloud-rifts shone the sun,
A breath came up from the south, and the snow
Melted away in genial glow.
Spring reigned again; and again I heard
The joyous song of that dear brown bird.
With quickened pulses and heart aglow,
I caught the refrain, "I told you so".
Ah, little bird, had I faith like you,
When life and the world are dark to view!
When lowering skies are above me bent,
Could I feel you trust and your sweet content.
You sang, your tender feet in the snow,
Swung by the cold wind to and fro.
Your faith was sure, and now I repeat,
Over and over, the lesson so sweet.
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