89 Birds poems

Owl small be enough The child for all his feathers was a cold. Oh wow the owl. The poem the vowels The owl, look its vowels That branch for you Owl, are you an armature vector And a large step for mankind? Owl astronaut burgeoning owl is a gift You give to me give to you Terrible other things happen. We stay on our branch. A hundred eyes Two will do

Downhill I came, hungry, and yet not starved; Cold, yet had heat within me that was proof Against the North wind; tired, yet so that rest Had seemed the sweetest thing under a roof. Then at the inn I had food, fire, and rest, Knowing how hungry, cold, and tired was I. All of the night was quite barred out except An owl’s cry, a most melancholy cry Shaken out long and clear upon the hill, No merry note, nor cause of merriment, But one telling me plain what I escaped And others could not, that night, as in I went. And salted was my food, and my repose, Salted and sobered, too, by the bird’s voice Speaking for all who lay under the stars, Soldiers and poor, unable to rejoice.

Beneath her nest, a shrew's head, a finch's beak and the bones of a quail attest the owl devours the hour, and disregards the rest.

The flight attendants go from kore to semaphore as a city falls into discredited ether— Gewick, gewick, oo-oo! Shoulderless stoic, take—from hands wisely gloved— a bony treat through the hardware in your face; shrug your throat.

1 No one knows where I’m going, not even me. Although that owl I heard outside last night might lead me to the terrain and call out the custodians so they can surround and welcome me, or do whatever they want to do. I won’t speak, won’t say my name even if they try to coerce me, or play unearthly music, such as sailors hear far out on the Atlantic, in fog so thick they venture to climb it to reach clear sky. Some do and speak of large blue birds that glide there silently as ghosts, but those men return too damaged to speak much or stay above ground very long. The owl could tell more, if he wanted, but he won’t. And not only that, he’s decided he will never be seen. 2 I’m happy to honor that, but I’d like to know what kind of owl he is. I mean, is he blue, or is he striped so he can blend with the forest? Is he tall and white, from the Arctic, or a pygmy, from further south? Is he long-eared or spectacled? I want to hear again the noise he made, was it a screech, or a staccato huhuhu followed by a deep-drawn whoo, or did it sound like wood being sawn? I am ashamed I paid it no attention. I did not know then he was a messenger, albeit a taciturn one. How does he know me, and why is he so interested? Once a parrot took stock of me, learnt to speak my name in exactly the tones I said it in, mimicked it endlessly and so loudly that I ran from my laughing friend’s house with my shrill-voiced name hurling after me. 3 Where does the owl go during the day? How can he know I’ll still be here when he surfaces? I do take trains — I go north sometimes, pulled by my past. I fly to places. Will he know all this and follow me everywhere? When can I expect his sounds to morph into spoken words that I understand and act on, if I agree with him? But if I decide to stay put, never leave the bedroom, will he get fed up standing there and row away through the night air, hooting a farewell? I don’t think so, no, this fellow is here for the duration of my stay on this enormous ball and could tell right now how long that will be, and what messy adventures are still ahead of me, but his trick is to keep as schtum on such stuff as the wooden owl on my bedside table. 4 I’ve heard stories about owls, how they appear from nowhere at the edge of things to sit watching, usually staying silent, but sometimes uttering a few words in their night language we don’t understand. That’s my fellow, although I don’t know him. Should I leave the house and hold my right arm out for him to land on and turn his big eyes on me? As if he’d be so compliant. Or should I try to forget him, pretend he’s not there in the dark, like a tree I hadn’t noticed growing? Oh, at least I should stop mentioning him here, but what else can I write about? Not the journey I’m taking that I know nothing of, not yet, and when I do I mightn’t feel like writing. I think the solution might be to buy a T-shirt with an owl printed on it, a blue owl, on a yellow shirt, and write about that small fellow to begin with. 5 What I want to learn is this: do owls ever venture inside, to stand on a corner- table, cock their heads to one side, and take in completely what’s going on? There are mice here that may be welcome, but I know my owl would be suspicious. He’d assume I want him inside to see what he looks like, to make friends with him, so he’ll be kind to me. I could promise to wear a blindfold and say nothing, act like I don’t know he’s there, but I will know and that’s enough. I think I hear his thoughts and I’m sure he hears mine. I feel his big eyes on me all the time. Maybe I should start carrying the wooden owl around with me, and practice owl noises. When is he going to tell me what he has to? I’m not asking for a map, but I’d like to know where I’m headed, if not where I’ll end up. And I’d like to know it as soon as I can. 6 When I say I hear his thoughts, I hear some, not the important ones. And here’s one of mine — if he ventured inside this house he’d see something that might intrigue him, a hand-knitted toilet roll cover, in rings of purple, red, and white. Like an unknown planet hanging in the sky. I’d let him have it, take it back to his nest, or his hollow tree trunk, or his half-sunken boat. I know he’ll assume this is another example of special pleading, and I accept that. Would I do better to ignore him, let him stay out there, like a pinecone that remains unobserved? I saw my doctor yesterday, he spoke of the deterioration, and I felt the owl was hiding in a cupboard, agreeing with every word. After that I went to my sister’s grave and the owl flew back to wherever he’s been ordered to lurk while observing me. Maybe I should feel privileged to have his full-time attention. 7 This morning I captured a beetle climbing the parsley. I put him in an empty matchbox, wondering what the owl thought of this. Would it impact what might be unfolding? I doubted this. I slipped on some spidery jazz that I knew would annoy the owl. He needed to be in control. I ground coffee beans and made espresso. The aroma wafted through the house. I freed the beetle to explore the table, and when it wandered off the edge I let it. I’m sure it survived, but I’m not bothered, just as I know the owl doesn’t care about me. We are thrown together, all of us, by winds that come here from far-off worlds. I sipped my coffee, humming the tune spun through the jazz, and I felt quite well for the first time in weeks, even months. Was the owl watching — had he been in contact with the beetle? And what was their collective verdict on me? Did it add up to more negative evidence? 8 OK, I’m blanking him. I watched a crow today, really admired how he operated, looking after the young ones, his partner, none of this spying on others. I’ve decided I don’t like owls, their self-absorption, or their nosiness about people. I know which I’d rather be. And I don’t have to deal with a crow stalking me. The owl would laugh about these thoughts. He’s been given the task of waiting to release, when he can, exactly what I need to know or what he can reveal. I admit he’s not easy but, shit, he’s the dumb card I’ve been dealt and I have to pretend I like him. Can I ask him about the Oxford and Cambridge rowers, or about the hairdressers the Louisianians use, or the tiger cubs that Texans keep as pets? The owl would make minced meat of them all. I wish he would hoot another noise to me. I might even acknowledge his importance, given my situation, but I won’t reveal anything. 9 I felt the presence of the owl last night. He was in the room with me. Not literally — he appeared in a dream, where a blue van struggled up an icy road before sliding back in a horrible, wriggling way, to what felt like an end. I’m not sure how it seemed so. And I can’t say where the owl was in this little film, except he was definitely there. This morning I came down the stairs, expecting some sign from him. I found a few brown feathers on a white plate on the kitchen table. OK, then, he must be a brown owl, but why donate some feathers, and what did these denote? I made coffee, then put on a CD of Anouar Brahem’s oud that seemed to suit the moment. And I decided it was the time to poach two eggs to serve on top of two slices of rye bread while I primed the espresso machine again and asked myself what the owl was saying. 10 Those feathers were gone from the plate when I went back for them this evening, so I wondered if maybe I’d imagined them, or if they’d fluttered up from the eggs before I’d poached them. That doubt was caused by the owl, I was sure — I’d made him careless, and he was recovering his poise, his control. And I was back in the place where I knew nothing, where he liked me to be. I opened the door and stood there, listening, but no owl sound came. Then a bat just barely avoided my head, and glided toward the moon. I stood watching this leathery fellow, then closed the door, and opened some wine. How much did the owl control? Would I be attacked by a rat tonight while I slept, not savagely, but enough to terrify me? Or would cockroaches swarm on my duvet, clicking enough to wake me? The idea being that these would render me so punch-drunk I’d welcome whatever the owl had to say. 11 I spent the morning drawing owl after owl on bits of paper, and after I’d got somewhere near a proper depiction, I found a black marker and reproduced it on an A2 drawing page which I Pritt Sticked onto the gable wall, then I dug out my old black bow and four arrows and unleashed these into the body of the owl. I knew I was being provocative, maybe even launching an act of war, but I could take no more, and couldn’t see what I had to lose. The owl clearly was unmoved by this, so I repeated the desecration four times over till the drawn owl looked machine-gunned, whereupon I flung the bow down on the grass and went in to pour a large glass of  Talisker for the first time in months, if not years. It still tasted good. I slipped on Kind of Blue, which always chilled me, and lay on the sofa with my shoes kicked off, and the curtains wide open. I thought, let the owl do his worst. 12 When the dark came, I lurked in the kitchen, bow in hand, arrows in the quiver that hung from my left shoulder, like the Robin Hood I wanted to play in the school pantomime — I got Little John instead! I kept looking out at the dark garden, wondering if I should be there, waiting to fire arrows at any sound or movement. Why did I want to kill the owl? He hadn’t given me the news I dreaded, but he’d stayed silent. That was more than I could bear. I poured a glass of Malbec and put on a CD of Baltic jazz. Did he think I could wait forever, as if I were a rock? I sliced some cheddar and a heel of bread, opened the back door and went out. The moon turned its big eye onto me, and I saw it wobble. The stars hummed along.Where am I going? I shouted at all of them. There was no response. Then far off, I heard a faint huhuhu followed by a whoo. You cowardly bastard! I roared, and sprayed the arrows all over the blackened world.

(excerpt) Now welcome, somer, with thy sonne softe, That hast this wintres wedres overshake, And driven away the longe nyghtes blake! Saynt Valentyn, that art ful hy on-lofte, Thus syngen smale foules for thy sake: Now welcome, somer, with thy sonne softe, That hast this wintres wedres overshake. Wel han they cause for to gladen ofte, Sith ech of hem recovered hath hys make; Ful blissful mowe they synge when they wake: Now welcome, somer, with thy sonne softe That hast this wintres wedres overshake And driven away the longe nyghtes blake!

We bury the sparrows of Europe with found instruments, their breasts light as an ounce of tea where we had seen them off the path, their twin speeds of shyness & notched wings near the pawnbroker’s house by the canal, in average neighborhoods of the resisters, or in markets of princely delphinium & flax, flying from awnings at unmarked rates to fetch crumbs from our table half-spinning back to clefs of grillwork on external stairs we would descend much later; in rainy neighborhoods of the resisters where streets were taken one by one, where consciousness is a stair or path, we mark their domains with notched sticks of hickory or chestnut or ash because our cities of princely pallor should not have unmarked graves. Lyric work, flight of arch, death bridge to which patterned being is parallel: they came as if from the margins of a painting, their average hearts half-spinning our little hourglass up on the screen.

One can’t help admiring their rickety grace and old-world feathers like seasoned boardwalk planks. They pass in silent pairs, as if a long time ago they had wearied of calling out. The wind tips them, their ungainly, light-brown weight, into a prehistoric wobble, wings’-end fingers stretching from fingerless gloves, necks slightly tucked and stiff, peering forward and down, like old couples arm in arm on icy sidewalks, careful, careful, mildly surprised by how difficult it has become to stay dignified and keep moving even after the yelping gulls have gone; even after the scattered sand, and the quietly lodged complaints.

At times now from some margin of the day I can hear birds of another country not the whole song but a brief phrase of it out of a music that I may have heard once in a moment I appear to have forgotten for the most part that full day no sight of which I can remember now though it must have been where my eyes were then that knew it as the present while I thought of somewhere else without noticing that singing when it was there and still went on whether or not I noticed now it falls silent when I listen and leaves the day and flies before it to be heard again somewhere ahead when I have forgotten

From plane of light to plane, wings dipping through Geometries and orchids that the sunset builds, Out of the peak's black angularity of shadow, riding The last tumultuous avalanche of Light above pines and the guttural gorge, The hawk comes. His wing Scythes down another day, his motion Is that of the honed steel-edge, we hear The crashless fall of stalks of Time. The head of each stalk is heavy with the gold of our error. Look! Look! he is climbing the last light Who knows neither Time nor error, and under Whose eye, unforgiving, the world, unforgiven, swings Into shadow. Long now, The last thrush is still, the last bat Now cruises in his sharp hieroglyphics. His wisdom Is ancient, too, and immense. The star Is steady, like Plato, over the mountain. If there were no wind we might, we think, hear The earth grind on its axis, or history Drip in darkness like a leaking pipe in the cellar.