Birds demand notice
this time of year, showing up in numbers, raucous to rufous ones all making noise,
alighting in all the places. Literature, like life in springtime Alaska, is rife
with them. Entire anthologies pair birds and poetry. Writing about birds can be
subject to an ironic valence now in this post-Portlandia “put a bird on it” world.
I want to share two short bird poems, though, that speak to one another. First,
one by Marilyn Nelson:
this time of year, showing up in numbers, raucous to rufous ones all making noise,
alighting in all the places. Literature, like life in springtime Alaska, is rife
with them. Entire anthologies pair birds and poetry. Writing about birds can be
subject to an ironic valence now in this post-Portlandia “put a bird on it” world.
I want to share two short bird poems, though, that speak to one another. First,
one by Marilyn Nelson:
Crows
What
if to taste and see, to notice things,
if to taste and see, to notice things,
to
stand each is up against emptiness
stand each is up against emptiness
for
a moment or an eternity—
a moment or an eternity—
images
collected in consciousness
collected in consciousness
like
a tree alone on the horizon—
a tree alone on the horizon—
is
the main reason we’re on the planet.
the main reason we’re on the planet.
The
food’s here of the first crow to arrive,
food’s here of the first crow to arrive,
numbers
two and three at a safe distance,
two and three at a safe distance,
then
approaching the hand-created taste
approaching the hand-created taste
of
leftover coconut macaroons.
leftover coconut macaroons.
The
instant sparks in the earth’s awareness.
instant sparks in the earth’s awareness.
She said she was
watching crows eat holiday leftovers—especially the macaroons—she’d tossed out
onto snow before she wrote this. I appreciate the almost effortless leap from the ordinary to
extraordinary, from common crows to speculations about “whether it’s possible
to have Gaia consciousness,” as she describes it.
She doesn’t prescribe a lens for us, but wonders aloud about it—“What if”, she
says—and welcomes us in for a test drive.
watching crows eat holiday leftovers—especially the macaroons—she’d tossed out
onto snow before she wrote this. I appreciate the almost effortless leap from the ordinary to
extraordinary, from common crows to speculations about “whether it’s possible
to have Gaia consciousness,” as she describes it.
She doesn’t prescribe a lens for us, but wonders aloud about it—“What if”, she
says—and welcomes us in for a test drive.
Jim Harrison, who
passed this year, is known for his rural sensibilities and books that place
people and animals together. Prolific as a poet and fiction writer, he joins
Marilyn Nelson in also writing—a bit more imaginatively—about our human
capacity to bring consciousness to bear on the world.
passed this year, is known for his rural sensibilities and books that place
people and animals together. Prolific as a poet and fiction writer, he joins
Marilyn Nelson in also writing—a bit more imaginatively—about our human
capacity to bring consciousness to bear on the world.
Birds Again
A
secret came a week ago though I already
secret came a week ago though I already
knew
it just beyond the bruised lips of consciousness.
it just beyond the bruised lips of consciousness.
The
very alive souls of thirty-five hundred dead birds
very alive souls of thirty-five hundred dead birds
are
harbored in my body. It’s not uncomfortable.
harbored in my body. It’s not uncomfortable.
I’m
only temporary habitat for these not-quite-
only temporary habitat for these not-quite-
weightless
creatures. I offered a wordless invitation
creatures. I offered a wordless invitation
and
now they’re roosting within me, recalling
now they’re roosting within me, recalling
how
I had watched them at night
I had watched them at night
in
fall and spring passing across earth moons,
fall and spring passing across earth moons,
little
clouds of black confetti, chattering and singing
clouds of black confetti, chattering and singing
on
their way north or south. Now in my dreams
their way north or south. Now in my dreams
I
see from the air the rumpled green and beige,
see from the air the rumpled green and beige,
the
watery face of earth as if they’re carrying
watery face of earth as if they’re carrying
me
rather than me carrying them. Next winter
rather than me carrying them. Next winter
I’ll
release them near the estuary west of Alvarado
release them near the estuary west of Alvarado
and
south of Veracruz. I can see them perching
south of Veracruz. I can see them perching
on
undiscovered Olmec heads. We’ll say goodbye
undiscovered Olmec heads. We’ll say goodbye
and
I’ll return my dreams to earth.
I’ll return my dreams to earth.
We’re still
gaining over five minutes of light per day in Southcentral Alaska, with daylength over
17 hours and counting. Like images inside Marilyn Nelson’s mind, or Jim
Harrison’s imagined birds inside his very body, itself a “habitat”, it’s hard
not to feel the outside world down inside at this time of year. A season to “spring”
back to life, indeed.
gaining over five minutes of light per day in Southcentral Alaska, with daylength over
17 hours and counting. Like images inside Marilyn Nelson’s mind, or Jim
Harrison’s imagined birds inside his very body, itself a “habitat”, it’s hard
not to feel the outside world down inside at this time of year. A season to “spring”
back to life, indeed.
Try this: look
outside, or better yet, take a walk, and then write a short piece inspired by this
short Harrison list poem:
outside, or better yet, take a walk, and then write a short piece inspired by this
short Harrison list poem:
I Believe
I
believe in steep drop-offs, the thunderstorm across the lake
believe in steep drop-offs, the thunderstorm across the lake
in
1949, cold winds, empty swimming pools,
1949, cold winds, empty swimming pools,
the
overgrown path to the creek, raw garlic,
overgrown path to the creek, raw garlic,
used
tires, taverns, saloons, bars, gallons of red wine,
tires, taverns, saloons, bars, gallons of red wine,
abandoned
farmhouses, stunted lilac groves,
farmhouses, stunted lilac groves,
gravel
roads that end, brush piles, thickets, girls
roads that end, brush piles, thickets, girls
who
haven’t quite gone totally wild, river eddies,
haven’t quite gone totally wild, river eddies,
leaky
wooden boats, the smell of used engine oil,
wooden boats, the smell of used engine oil,
turbulent
rivers, lakes without cottages lost in the woods,
rivers, lakes without cottages lost in the woods,
the
primrose growing out of a cow skull, the thousands
primrose growing out of a cow skull, the thousands
of
birds I’ve talked to all of my life, the dogs
birds I’ve talked to all of my life, the dogs
that
talked back, the Chihuahuan ravens that follow
talked back, the Chihuahuan ravens that follow
me
on long walks. The rattler escaping the cold hose,
on long walks. The rattler escaping the cold hose,
the
fluttering unknown gods that I nearly see
fluttering unknown gods that I nearly see
from
the left corner of my blind eye, struggling
the left corner of my blind eye, struggling
to
stay alive in a world that grinds them underfoot.
stay alive in a world that grinds them underfoot.
(from
In Search of Small Gods, Copper
Canyon Press, 2010)
In Search of Small Gods, Copper
Canyon Press, 2010)
Happy spring!
Jeremy
Wow, Jeremy.
🙂