BIRD POETS — an essay

Sometimes, when seeking the gist of a word, look at the second definition in the dictionary.  (I prefer OED.)

Poetry is “something that arouses strong emotions because of its beauty.”

This morning, when I went for a walk, I hear a bird sing.  Its verse reminded me of a Piccolo – each singular note was strong and uplifting.

I wonder.

When humans created their musical instruments did they consciously imitate the birds, or was it a matter of the heart, i.e. INSTINCT?

A poem is “something regarded as comparable to poetry in its beauty.”

Each morning, when I go for a walk, I listen to the birds singing.  I’ve learned to meditate on the sound.  With a little bit of practice I learned to feel the sound.  And with a little bit of practice, a shift in consciousness, a walk up the stairs so to speak – I learned to SEE IT.

For instance:

Small stones dropped into a slow-moving stream [of water]…

Burbling old peculator, the coffee’s hot and ready to pour…

A scratchy throat, fresh sandpaper pressed against the newly honed wood…

Accent on a letter, little hat, le petit chapeau, circumflex – that’s what this particular bird’s poem sounds like….

Definition of A Poet:  “A person possessing special powers of imagination or expression.”  (OED)

 

…THE GANG’S ALL HERE.

Two tall thin isolated Rabbits

Sitting up —

considering…

The Frog squats in the puddle, bellowing,

basking in the sunlight…

A slim Mockingbird perched

on top of a street light is

questioning…

Two frighten Cats are trying

to hide…

A young Starling

lifting its slight wings

trying out its voice

joyously…

Listening Is Almost A Physical Exercise

Within the crowded tree limbs I heard the Blue Jay’s dirge.

Concerned, I yearned to console, but where [there] was the perch? 

In the mornings, a multitude of birds warble –

like gathering elusive jewels, a garble bauble.

BUMP, Thump, jump, a bird’s beak is like a hammer

on my windowsill, assertive consuming manner.

Rain and warmth encourages flowers to blossom

And birds respond in kind, a chitchat so wanton.

Puzzle, Unsolved…

When my cat is staring out the window,

what soul does he intently look into?

Wind moving through the tree branches, rustles.

Do the birds, inspired by this sound, hustle?

Sometimes, the cat instinctively chatters;

since the allure of the birds MATTERS.

But is it only birds my cat doth see?

Perhaps, it’s an animal who is free!

However, when I creep up to peek,

my cat leaves, for me a failed hide and seeks.