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The Monday Poem (old)
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Ode to Bird Watching by Pablo Neruda (15 June '15)
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I am posting this tonight so I don't forget in the morning! As some of you know, I am a bit of a backyard birdwatcher so I was drawn by the title of this poem at first.
Simple and lovely poem. An ornithologist will love it.
Love this! I've been a birder for years and joined this group a few days ago (primarily) because I got an urge/feeling/call to start reading/exploring poetry. This is the first Monday poem posted? I think I'm going to like it here!'Let's look for birds'...indeed!
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Susie wrote: "Love this! I've been a birder for years and joined this group a few days ago (primarily) because I got an urge/feeling/call to start reading/exploring poetry. This is the first Monday poem posted..."It's nice to have you with us, Susie. I think we have pretty good poetry discussions here. I see you're reading a book by Mary Oliver at present. I've only got to know of her recently.
I like Neruda's poems. He's someone I should read more of. Thanks, Leslie.
I'm not sure about this one. I don't like the very short sentence structure although the words are beautiful. I am not sure what the structure of the poem means or adds to the poem but am willing to be educated
I don't know the reason but all of his "Odes" that I have read have had that short sentence structure (see Ode to a Large Tuna in the Market or Ode to a Lemon for example). Maybe that is what makes it an ode?
Maybe. I find it very hard to read which is a shame because it has some lovely imagery
Generally I don't like long poems but because the lines were so short, this didn't feel long to me. But when I look at it on this thread, it looks longer than it did in print!
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So glad to have you here Susie! We would love to have you sign up to share a poem some Monday as well if you'd like to!
Thanks Greg...I will definitely sign up at some point.
Heather wrote: "Maybe. I find it very hard to read which is a shame because it has some lovely imagery"That detracted for me as well, Heather.
Sorry for the late post. I love this poem Leslie - it gives the most apt description of birds, especially You can't touch them; You can hear them like a heavenly rustle or movementWhenever I take a walk by the river, I love to listen to the birds' songs and their twittering dialogues :)
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Thanks Alice and Alannah! Having spent time recently bird watching here in the Maine woods (as opposed to from my kitchen window), I am appreciating these lines afresh:"Where
are the birds?
Maybe it was
that
rustling in the foliage
or that fleeting pellet
of brown velvet
or that displaced
perfume? That
leaf that let loose cinnamon smell
- was that a bird? That dust
from an irritated magnolia
or that fruit
which fell with a thump -
was that a flight?
Oh, invisible little
critters"...
Now
Let's look for birds!
The tall iron branches
in the forest,
The dense
fertility on the ground.
The world
is wet.
A dewdrop or raindrop
shines,
a diminutive star
among the leaves.
The morning time
mother earth
is cool.
The air
is like a river
which shakes
the silence.
It smells of rosemary,
of space
and roots.
Overhead,
a crazy song.
It's a bird.
How
out of its throat
smaller than a finger
can there fall the waters
of its song?
Luminous ease!
Invisible
power
torrent
of music
in the leaves.
Sacred conversations!
Clean and fresh washed
is this
day resounding
like a green dulcimer.
I bury
my shoes
in the mud,
jump over rivulets.
A thorn
bites me and a gust
of air like a crystal
wave
splits up inside my chest.
Where
are the birds?
Maybe it was
that
rustling in the foliage
or that fleeting pellet
of brown velvet
or that displaced
perfume? That
leaf that let loose cinnamon smell
- was that a bird? That dust
from an irritated magnolia
or that fruit
which fell with a thump -
was that a flight?
Oh, invisible little
critters
birds of the devil
with their ringing
with their useless feathers.
I only want
to caress them,
to see them resplendent.
I don't want
to see under glass
the embalmed lightning.
I want to see them living.
I want to touch their gloves
of real hide,
which they never forget in
the branches
and to converse with
them
sitting on my shoulders
although they may leave
me like certain statues
undeservedly whitewashed.
Impossible.
You can't touch them.
You can hear them
like a heavenly
rustle or movement.
They converse
with precision.
They repeat
their observations.
They brag
of how much they do.
They comment
on everything that exists.
They learn
certain sciences
like hydrography.
and by a sure science
they know
where there are harvests
of grain
Pablo Neruda