Gloaming
with its yellow bird’s eye
the old garden
reading the book of night
Poems on the topic: bird
Poems on the topic “bird” on Poets.by.
Shapeshifter
ringing bells speak to me
stories undo me
who could refrain from the temptation
to imitate birds and dogs
to home ourselves
in the bone
and see how many there were
on the other side
On the Birthday of Death
There was a flash, so bright — as if
from the world’s largest camera,
come to capture everyone in
their work clothes.
We children ran to the top field
& turned & looked.
What new kind of cloud was this?
What new kind of tree?
It stood for hours on the horizon,
brewing its own weather, we guessed,
or setting fruit. No one could imagine just
how strong the wind, how terrible the rain.
But we were farmers’ kids.
When we saw white birds
streaming away toward the west,
we knew what to think.
Restless night
long awake
my mind like a lapwing
all a-flutter
or a lighthouse coursing
away and away
Unredeemable
long sad stories
live in the country
they might hit the glass
on the wings of bird
poor creatures without
any art or prayer
Industrial revolution
war comes from the east
black like the bird who takes sad children
the city conquered play
I have not lived but to fight
Wisdom Teeth
That time I was marooned
by a toothache – weeping eyes
screwed shut, mouth agape –
I might’ve been taken for someone
in the throes of ecstasy, lying
on the couch with all
the windows open. The weather
was June, and wonderful.
All afternoon I clung to the thread
of the brown thrasher’s song.
Even in extremis it’s simple
to tell a thrasher from his cousin
the catbird: he repeats
almost every improvised line.
Paired phrases sometimes reach
into the low thousands
Ornithography
a bird is the beginning
of many leaves
getting a book with blank paper
I saw a wing sunk in a field
Blackbird
the carpenter sent me a blackbird
to whistle in the house
so pleasant to hear
nightingales sing out back
and I hear the poor thing shuffling
to riff on a life sentence
Immortal bird
mouth gone down
towards the owl
she makes us see our passing
is common as ash
fine hands over the night
sing of what we serve
the stuff and flutter of living
more than others
A walk in the park
a park keeper told me
what the earth is
cockle shells and weather
dust and dead beds
a face for
the bountiful world
which we must of necessity
break in pieces
with words and blows
and a degree of madness
but what is the unhappiness in that
if the light is good
surely the land will never suffer
it is so great still
and every bird so quiet
like a hole the rain drowned
Introvert
gentlemen of fine discourse
like birds on a line
I am silent with my memory
of being stone
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