#178: Bird Poems
"Enough of the lamentations. / Open the window and sing!"
Sweet reader,
This meme seems to capture the first week of 2022 a little too accurately for comfort. I hope you and your loved ones are safe, and taking care.
Over the last weekend, I hosted two impromptu art parties online, with the second one including a piano recital by Viraaj Arora (Thank you, Viraaj!). It was just a way of ensuring I make art during the weekend lockdown in Bangalore, but opening it up to the community just made it so much more beautiful and enjoyable, with some incredibly positive energy in the (virtual) room. Thank you to whoever attended. I made a story highlight of some of the art that was created over the two days.
2022 has been off to a surprisingly good start, particularly because I’m currently reading a lovely book on writing and life called Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott. One of my favorite paragraphs from the book so far:
“If something inside of you is real, we will probably find it interesting, and it will probably be universal. So you must risk placing real emotion at the center of your work. Write straight into the emotional center of things. Write toward vulnerability. Risk being unliked. Tell the truth as you understand it. If you’re a writer you have a moral obligation to do this. And it is a revolutionary act—truth is always subversive.”
The book isn’t about birds at all. But it has got me thinking about birds, and their place in writing, particularly poetry. So without further ado, below are are six lovely little poems on birds, chirping and flying into your inbox.
Poetry Corner
1. Hope and Love by Jane Hirshfield
All winter
the blue heron
slept among the horses.
I do not know
the custom of herons,
do not know
if the solitary habit
is their way,
or if he listened for
some missing one—
not knowing even
that was what he did—
in the blowing
sounds in the dark,
I know that
hope is the hardest
love we carry.
He slept
with his long neck
folded, like a letter
put away.
2. Sunrise by Rabindranath Tagore
Faith is the bird
that feels the light
and sings
while the dawn is still dark.
3. Bright Blue Bird by K. Srilata
A bright blue bird
from a distant tree
flies into my house.
When it flies out, it leaves behind
its bright blue
The blue hops down
becomes first one word,
and then, another,
till, finally, it assumes the face of a poem.
Before long, the floor is an upsidedown sky
And the blue of the poem has made its way
into my ink filler
into my notebook.
4. A Poem for Spring by Marjorie Maddox
Enough of the lamentations.
Open the window and sing!
The world is awash with
world: color-dripping globe always
tilting into some Ah! or another,
clouds stretching wide plump happiness,
even in the noisy stage-show of showers,
such sunny ovations.
And the birds—
overpopulating every poem—
swoop here for free—
swallow, hawk, robin, gull, eagle—what else
can be written but wings that wave
horizon to horizon?
And enough of windows.
Praise doors! Step out
with arms open, and eyes gathering
vim and vision: grandeur
trailing from worm and woodchuck,
branch puzzles of woods, open boat of breeze—
all brimming with Hey!
and Hallelujah!
and Celebrate! such green giving
of thanks, such miraculous mercy of earth:
calm valley and even this rugged, rocky chain
we climb now as family, claiming praise as respite,
holding close each breaking day, dangerous
yet divine in all
its gorgeous glory.
5. The Kingfisher by Mary Oliver
The kingfisher rises out of the black wave
like a blue flower, in his beak
he carries a silver leaf. I think this is
the prettiest world--so long as you don't mind
a little dying, how could there be a day in your
whole life
that doesn't have its splash of happiness?
There are more fish than there are leaves
on a thousand trees, and anyway the kingfisher
wasn't born to think about it, or anything else.
When the wave snaps shut over his blue head, the
water
remains water--hunger is the only story
he has ever heard in his life that he could
believe.
I don't say he's right. Neither
do I say he's wrong. Religiously he swallows the
silver leaf
with its broken red river, and with a rough and
easy cry
I couldn't rouse out of my thoughtful body
if my life depended on it, he swings back
over the bright sea to do the same thing, to do it
(as I long to do something, anything) perfectly.
6. Murmuration by Barbara Crooker
Cold morning. November, taking a walk,
when up ahead, suddenly, the trees unleave,
and thousands of starlings lift off, an immense
river of noise; they braid and unbraid themselves
over my head, the gray silk sky embroidered
with black kisses, the whoosh of their wings,
their chattering clatter, patterns broken/formed/
reformed, a scarf of ragged ribbons. Dumb-
struck, mouth open, I say holy and I say moley,
And then, they’re gone.
Recommended Listening
Where Is My Mind? - Pixies ('60s "Orbisonesque" Style Cover) ft. Allison Young (Just discovered the YouTube channel Postmodern Jukebox, and I'm smitten.)
Links of the Week
One of my favorite Instagram accounts on low days: @charlie_the_golden18 (Oh my dog, how adorable!)
Fascinating: Ten Years of Logging My Life
On Nazar by Fariha Róisín (Thanks for sharing this, Dhruvi)
Tab for a Cause (Raise money for charity with every browser tab you open!)
“You must push your body out of its comfort zone because that’s where change happens.”
Started my year with three brilliant films: Hilda and the Mountain King, Tick, Tick...Boom! and The Hand of God.
Loving this Handcrafted Snakes and Ladder set by Chhoti Si Asha!
Going to keep this newsletter short since I’ve to go practise the keyboard before bed. Good night. I hope you visit pretty places in your dreams. :)
Breathe deep,
Rohini