Birds and poetry (6 Viewers)

[christineredgate]

2 amazing poems,Wild Geese,yes as one watches and hears them fly above ,this poem is so very true,and "Lost",thankyou Dave,yes as one re reads this poem,it is so very real.The forest is in charge.We are just the subjects.

 

[Tyke]

Some amazing thought provoking verse being posted here.

Yes indeed Christine.
I wonder if you like this ?:-

I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings

A free bird leaps on the back of the wind
and floats downstream till the current ends
and dips his wing in the orange suns rays and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks down his narrow cage
can seldom see through his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with a fearful trill
of things unknown but longed for still
and his tune is heard on the distant hill
for the caged bird sings of freedom.

The free bird thinks of another breeze
and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn and he names the sky his own.

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with a fearful trill
of things unknown but longed for still
and his tune is heard on the distant hill
for the caged bird sings of freedom.



Maya Angelou

The Poet is involved in the Civil Rights movement.

What do you guys think of this one? I really like it and have to think it would resonate with alot of folks on this forum.

It resonates with me danehower.


Colin

 

[Tyke]

BIRD

It was passed from one bird to another,
the whole gift of the day.
The day went from flute to flute,
went dressed in vegetation,
in flights which opened a tunnel
through the wind would pass
to where birds were breaking open
the dense blue air -
and there, night came in.

When I returned from so many journeys,
I stayed suspended and green
between sun and geography -
I saw how wings worked,
how perfumes are transmitted
by feathery telegraph,
and from above I saw the path,
the springs and the roof tiles,
the fishermen at their trades,
the trousers of the foam;
I saw it all from my green sky.
I had no more alphabet
than the swallows in their courses,
the tiny, shining water
of the small bird on fire
which dances out of the pollen.

Pablo Neruda 1904-1973
Nobel Prize for Literature 1971


I think Neruda is imagining flying.
I hope you like it.

Dean-I meant to say that I liked "Wild Geese"

Colin

 

[danehower]

Colin, That poem is truley amazing. And as for it representing the civil rights movement - takes it to a deeper human level . Beautiful ! What else can I say.

 

[Upland Birder]

That Mary Oliver poem was wonderful, truly. Was it set out like that, Dean - with its lines in that way? I haven't come across her before - it was very special.

Hi Steve,

The poem I think is relatively new. The layout as you see it is what I came across with a space between each line.

I agree with you the poem is wonderful. I have not come across her before but she is out there.

Dean

 

[Helenelizabeth2]

Yes indeed Christine.
I wonder if you like this ?:-

I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings

Colin

I love this one. I'd almost forgotten about Maya Angelou. I remember reading that series of books obsessively one after the other and they made a huge impact on me.

Thanks
Helen

 

[Stewart J.]

It's an absolute joy to finish the evening relaxing with a glass of red reading the poems posted by you guys, many thanks.

Stewart :clap:

 

[Tanny]

DYING.
Slowly I awoke after a good nights sleep,
Memories of a dream I try to keep.
I arose and sat on a nearby chair,
And opened a window to the morning air.

In pensive mood I sit and dream,
Of all the wondrous sights I’ve seen.
I sit and dream passing away the hours,
Dreaming of rainbows and glorious flowers.

And whilst I dream a sound is heard,
A dawning song of a lone Blackbird.
On top-most branch of a twisted tree,
The song he was singing was just for me.

I listened in rapture at the wondrous sound,
Vibrating, vibrating all around.
The melodious sound penetrated the air,
From that glorious bird away up there.

As the streaks of dawn paint the sky,
I knew just then I was about to die.
No angel could sing sweeter for me,
Than that lone blackbird up in the tree.

My eyes are glazing I have no tears,
As I think back of those happy years.
Slowly I slip down to the floor,
The bird-song fades, I hear no more.

 

[Merlin]

Great poem Tanny

Merlin

DYING.
Slowly I awoke after a good nights sleep,
Memories of a dream I try to keep.
I arose and sat on a nearby chair,
And opened a window to the morning air.

In pensive mood I sit and dream,
Of all the wondrous sights I’ve seen.
I sit and dream passing away the hours,
Dreaming of rainbows and glorious flowers.

And whilst I dream a sound is heard,
A dawning song of a lone Blackbird.
On top-most branch of a twisted tree,
The song he was singing was just for me.

I listened in rapture at the wondrous sound,
Vibrating, vibrating all around.
The melodious sound penetrated the air,
From that glorious bird away up there.

As the streaks of dawn paint the sky,
I knew just then I was about to die.
No angel could sing sweeter for me,
Than that lone blackbird up in the tree.

My eyes are glazing I have no tears,
As I think back of those happy years.
Slowly I slip down to the floor,
The bird-song fades, I hear no more.

 

[scampo]

DYING.
Slowly I awoke after a good nights sleep,
Memories of a dream I try to keep.
I arose and sat on a nearby chair,
And opened a window to the morning air.

... ...

Nice one, Tanny. Here's a rather different poem about dying by that quirky poet, Roger McGough:


Let me die a young man's death

Let me die a young man's death
not a clean and inbetween
the sheets holywater death
not a famous-last-words
peaceful out of breath death.

When I'm 73
and in constant good tumour
May I be mown down at dawn
by a bright red sports car
on my way home
from an allnight party

Or when I'm 91
with silver hair
and sitting in a barber's chair
my rival gangsters
with hamfisted tommyguns burst in
and give me a short back and insides

Or when I'm 104
and banned from the Cavern
may my mistress
catching me in bed with her daughter
and fearing for her son
cut me up into little pieces
and throw away every piece but one

Let me die a young man's death
not a free from sin tiptoe in
candle wax and waning death
not a curtains drawn by angels borne
'what a nice way to go' death.

Roger McGough

 

[Upland Birder]

Hi Steve and anyone else who may be interested I have found some information on Mary Oliver who wrote the poem 'Wild Geese'.


Mary Oliver

Mary Oliver was born on September 10, 1935 in Maple Heights, Ohio. As a teenager, she lived briefly in the home of Edna St. Vincent Millay, where she helped Millay's family sort through the papers the poet left behind.

In the mid-1950s, Oliver attended both Ohio State University and Vassar College, though she did not receive a degree.

Her first collection of poems, No Voyage, and Other Poems, was published in 1963. Since then, she has published numerous books, including Thirst (Beacon Press, 2006); Why I Wake Early (2004); Owls and Other Fantasies : Poems and Essays (2003); Winter Hours: Prose, Prose Poems, and Poems (1999); West Wind (1997); White Pine (1994); New and Selected Poems (1992), which won the National Book award; House of Light (1990), which won the Christopher Award and the L. L. Winship/PEN New England Award; and American Primitive (1983), for which she won the Pulitzer Prize.

The first part of her book-length poem The Leaf and the Cloud (Da Capo Press, 2000) was selected for inclusion in The Best American Poetry 1999 and the second part, "Work," was selected for The Best American Poetry 2000. Her books of prose include Long Life: Essays and Other Writings (2004); Rules for the Dance: A Handbook for Writing and Reading Metrical Verse (1998); Blue Pastures (1995); and A Poetry Handbook (1994).

"Mary Oliver's poetry is an excellent antidote for the excesses of civilization," wrote one reviewer for the Harvard Review, "for too much flurry and inattention, and the baroque conventions of our social and professional lives. She is a poet of wisdom and generosity whose vision allows us to look intimately at a world not of our making."

Her honors include an American Academy of Arts & Letters Award, a Lannan Literary Award, the Poetry Society of America's Shelley Memorial Prize and Alice Fay di Castagnola Award, and fellowships from the Guggenheim Foundation and the National Endowment for the Arts.

Oliver held the Catharine Osgood Foster Chair for Distinguished Teaching at Bennington College until 2001. She currently lives in Provincetown, Massachusetts.

........................


I just want to say that I have really enjoyed reading the poems of the last few days. What I like is the emotion that evolves from such words and readings. Many bird poems are written in such expressive and descriptive ways and I for one are there with the poet and images in my mind. As they say it's all in the mind.

I have managed to find another poem by Mary Oliver and I feel she chooses beautiful words. Sometimes we take Swans for granted but I really like wild Swans.

The Swan

Did you too see it, drifting, all night, on the black river?
Did you see it in the morning, rising into the silvery air -
An armful of white blossoms,
A perfect commotion of silk and linen as it leaned
into the bondage of its wings; a snowbank, a bank of lilies,
Biting the air with its black beak?
Did you hear it, fluting and whistling
A shrill dark music - like the rain pelting the trees - like a waterfall
Knifing down the black ledges?
And did you see it, finally, just under the clouds -
A white cross Streaming across the sky, its feet
Like black leaves, its wings Like the stretching light of the river?
And did you feel it, in your heart, how it pertained to everything?
And have you too finally figured out what beauty is for?
And have you changed your life?


Mary Oliver


Here is a quote for us all to think about:-


"For poems are not as people think,
simply emotions (One has emotions early enough) -
they are experiences"

Rainer Maria Rilke

I hope you enjoyed the emotion and the experience of the 'The Swan'

Think of our birds this weekend as the storms arrive.

Dean

 

[Upland Birder]

DYING.
Slowly I awoke after a good nights sleep,
Memories of a dream I try to keep.
I arose and sat on a nearby chair,
And opened a window to the morning air.

In pensive mood I sit and dream,
Of all the wondrous sights I’ve seen.
I sit and dream passing away the hours,
Dreaming of rainbows and glorious flowers.

And whilst I dream a sound is heard,
A dawning song of a lone Blackbird.
On top-most branch of a twisted tree,
The song he was singing was just for me.

I listened in rapture at the wondrous sound,
Vibrating, vibrating all around.
The melodious sound penetrated the air,
From that glorious bird away up there.

As the streaks of dawn paint the sky,
I knew just then I was about to die.
No angel could sing sweeter for me,
Than that lone blackbird up in the tree.

My eyes are glazing I have no tears,
As I think back of those happy years.
Slowly I slip down to the floor,
The bird-song fades, I hear no more.

Tanny,

This is a great poem that you have put before me. Such a lot of thought has gone into the writing of this.

Cheers Dean

 

[scampo]

...Here is a quote for us all to think about:-


"For poems are not as people think,
simply emotions (One has emotions early enough) -
they are experiences"

Rainer Maria Rilke

I hope you enjoyed the emotion and the experience of the 'The Swan'. Think of our birds this weekend as the storms arrive.

Dean

What a wonderful "sensory" poem, Dean. I'll send these two poems to my Amercian poet friend in Oklahoma. I'll be interested in her views of Mary Oliver.

Here is a poem I try hard to work into my teaching at school. I've never known anyone not be moved by it. It tells the story of old Johnny Armstrong. Hope you all enjoy reading about him...


OLD JOHNNY ARMSTRONG

Old Johnny Armstrong’s eighty or more
And he humps like a question–mark
Over two gnarled sticks as he shuffles and picks
His slow way to Benwell Park

He’s lived in Benwell his whole life long
And remembers how street-lights came,
And how once on a time they laid a tram-line,
Then years later dug up the same!

Now he’s got to take a lift to his flat
Up where the tall winds blow
Round a council block that rears like a rock
From seas of swirled traffic below.

Old Johnny Armstrong lives out his life
In his cell on the seventeenth floor,
And it’s seldom a neighbour will do him a favour
Or anyone knock at his door.

With his poor hands knotted with rheumatism
And his poor back doubled in pain,
Why, day after day, should he pick his slow way
To Benwell Park yet again? —

O the wind in the park trees is the self-same wind
That first blew on a village child
When life freshly unfurled in a green, lost world
And his straight limbs ran wild.

Raymond Wilson

 

[Upland Birder]

What a wonderful "sensory" poem, Dean. I'll send these two poems to my Amercian poet friend in Oklahoma. I'll be interested in her views of Mary Oliver.

Here is a poem I try hard to work into my teaching at school. I've never known anyone not be moved by it. It tells the story of old Johnny Armstrong. Hope you all enjoy reading about him...


OLD JOHNNY ARMSTRONG

Old Johnny Armstrong’s eighty or more
And he humps like a question–mark
Over two gnarled sticks as he shuffles and picks
His slow way to Benwell Park

He’s lived in Benwell his whole life long
And remembers how street-lights came,
And how once on a time they laid a tram-line,
Then years later dug up the same!

Now he’s got to take a lift to his flat
Up where the tall winds blow
Round a council block that rears like a rock
From seas of swirled traffic below.

Old Johnny Armstrong lives out his life
In his cell on the seventeenth floor,
And it’s seldom a neighbour will do him a favour
Or anyone knock at his door.

With his poor hands knotted with rheumatism
And his poor back doubled in pain,
Why, day after day, should he pick his slow way
To Benwell Park yet again? —

O the wind in the park trees is the self-same wind
That first blew on a village child
When life freshly unfurled in a green, lost world
And his straight limbs ran wild.

Raymond Wilson

Hi Steve,

I hope you are well and easing up after the weeks stresses. In the past I have worked in places like that described in the poem. It makes me think back to working in the inner city and seeing a number of characters like Old Johny Armstrong. I recall asking myself how did they get to be in a 7th floor flat in a high rise tower block.

For years I have thought that councils should be ashamed of themselves for allowing people to live in such building designs. However, on some of these estates there are open spaces where birds thrive and people can take time out.

I have also wandered sometimes what their life history has been.

A moving poem.

Dean

 

[scampo]

Hi Steve,

I hope you are well and easing up after the weeks stresses. In the past I have worked in places like that described in the poem. It makes me think back to working in the inner city and seeing a number of characters like Old Johny Armstrong. I recall asking myself how did they get to be in a 7th floor flat in a high rise tower block.

For years I have thought that councils should be ashamed of themselves for allowing people to live in such building designs. However, on some of these estates there are open spaces where birds thrive and people can take time out.

I have also wandered sometimes what their life history has been.

A moving poem.

Dean

I'm glad you like it,Dean. It's such a simple poem, yet as it nears its end, a lump always comes into my throat as I read it. So many people I show it to like it - it seems to capture something special.

I'm off work ill at present, so the stresses are of a different kind - thanks for the kind thoughts, though!

 

[christineredgate]

I cannot believe how many postings onto this thread in 24hrs.It is amazing.Thanks,Tanny,was that one of your own compositions?.Very good.
Has anyone else noticed,that many of the poems shown,are so very dark and dramatic.Many mention death and unhappiness.It seems that so may of our poets and indeed the great artists,the only way of expressing their dark thoughts,and perhaps their complicated lifes was to express their most innermost thoughts was in the form of verse or paintings

 

[Merlin]

Poem

Great poem Scampo!
They get better everyday and sadly I think most of us if we are honest can relate to the imagery and more important reality to this poem??
In the same vain

A Smiling Face?

Behind almost every smile, laugh or grin
Everyone has some sadness that they hide within

Even those who always seem so cheerful and jolly
Very often use this as a front, a façade or folly

People passing in the street, seemingly with little or no care
Only showing their brave face, their sadness with us they do not share

A kind and smiling face can hide the hurt, the pain the lies
And nearly all tears shed in this world, never reach the eyes

keep them coming

Merlin

I'm glad you like it,Dean. It's such a simple poem, yet as it nears its end, a lump always comes into my throat as I read it. So many people I show it to like it - it seems to capture something special.

I'm off work ill at present, so the stresses are of a different kind - thanks for the kind thoughts, though!

 

[Mickymouse]

I have just reread Old Johnny Armstrong and I think that is my absolute favourite poem ever, it chokes me every time I read it.
Thanks Tanny, your poem "Dying" I think is your best one yet, love it.

Merlin, who wrote "A Smiling Face?"? I like that one too.

Mick

 

[Merlin]

Poem

Hi Mick,
It was me I'm afraid.

Here is a poem written by my Father recently, who knew he was never going to recover. The positive is that hopefully my passion for birds and poetry was passed 'backwards' and gave him a tranquility and solace. My sister sadly also passed away last year and even in her last days wrote poems about birds getting great pleasure from both. Perhaps??? Perhaps??? Birds, their freedom, will and tenacity to survive are not really that different from you and I???
Who knows?
kind regards
Merlin

Looking out of a Window
A window frame is his world
As each day by day goes by
The scene is a hedge of privet
And a small strip of sky
One of the over seventies
Crippled by arthritis, yet
One of the happiest people
You have ever met
Happy because accepting
With gay philosophy
The loss of life’s greatest blessing
Being no longer well or free
He finds his compensations
In watching day by day
His guests the birds that gather
On the feeding tray
By looking out of a window
In spite of suffering
He gets constant pleasure
From this little thing
The truth he had discovered
That even in his cell
Life is what you make it
A heaven or a hell

I have just reread Old Johnny Armstrong and I think that is my absolute favourite poem ever, it chokes me every time I read it.
Thanks Tanny, your poem "Dying" I think is your best one yet, love it.

Merlin, who wrote "A Smiling Face?"? I like that one too.

Mick

 

[scampo]

... even in his cell
Life is what you make it
A heaven or a hell

Finely expressed emotion. A lovely poem, Merlin.

Here are two interesting and deeply meaningful poems to ponder a while. They were written by a favourite poet, a marvellous man called William Blake. Blake detested organised religion which he saw as a repressive force used to keep the poor and powerless in their place. Most probably know him for his poems "London" and "The Tyger", but here are two that express interesting views on life. I like them both as they speak for what I believe:


The Garden of Love

I went to the Garden of Love.
And saw what I never had seen:
A Chapel was built in the midst,
Where I used to play on the green.

And the gates of this Chapel were shut,
And Thou shalt not, writ over the door;
So I turn’d to the Garden of Love,
That so many sweet flowers bore,

And I saw it was filled with graves,
And tomb-stones where flowers should be:
And Priests in black gowns, were walking their rounds,
And binding with briars, my joys & desires.

William Blake


The Human Abstract

Pity would be no more,
If we did not make somebody Poor:
And Mercy no more could be,
If all were as happy as we:

And mutual fear brings peace:
Till the selfish loves increase.
Then Cruelty knits a snare,
And spreads his baits with care.

He sits down with holy fears,
And waters the ground with tears:
Then Humility takes its root
Underneath his foot.

Soon spreads the dismal shade
Of Mystery over his head;
And the Catterpiller and Fly,
Feed on the Mystery.

And it bears the fruit of Deceit,
Ruddy and sweet to eat:
And the Raven his nest has made
In its thickest shade.

The Gods of the earth and sea,
Sought thro’ Nature to find this Tree
But their search was all in vain;
There grows one in the Human Brain

William Blake