You just never know who will speak to you next.
That's What He Did
The bird perched nearby,
On what I thought of as mine,
My branch, in my tree,
This brightest yellow
Goldfinch eyeing me
From the dogwood of my life.
He (they have to be)
Spoke. No, it's true, he
Spoke straight into me about
The state of my hope.
That's what he did to
Change my life. There was silence
Before that, silence
After, how I know
He spoke like that, and to me.
So I said, "Thank you."
January 29, 2009 1:40 PM
I really love it that the Gold and House Finches have accepted my feeder. There is something very small child about the glee I feel when I see them 18 inches from my kitchen window, not caring or not noticing I am there. The dogwood is just across my driveway, convenient to the feeder, as are the power lines running into my house, which run right diagonal across my parked car in the driveway. So I live with the poop, the price I pay for happiness.
Every afternoon my Hasta are home to Cabbage Butterflies. While I wish they were mated Tiger Swallowtails, I am willing to accept the Cabbages. I don't really understand why they like Hasta but I am happy.
I have Crane Flies in my bathroom. Yes.
And the Marigolds we planted once went to seed in my yard, are now like weeds, just popping up anywhere. Yes.
************************************
The bridge I have in mind is actually a blend of Portland Bridges. Portland is built on both sides of the Willamette River, pretty big as it nears the Columbia, taking ocean going vessels, and on the south side of the Columbia. There are thus many bridges over the Willamette and the two over the Columbia. There are only two over the Columbia because that is one huge river as it passes Portland. We are a couple hours by car from the coast, over 100 miles, but the Columbia is definitely tidal, and Portland at the rivers is not very far above sea level. The main floor of the Kraft/Nabisco bakery where I work is Elevation 47'. That is 47' above Mean Lower Low Water, the usual standard zero point of local sea level.
Under The Bridge
At the river, I sit down
near the great pillars
holding up the roar
of traffic across the bridge
higher above us
than the gull calling,
the swoop of that gray white bird.
You sit near me but
turned away. I know
you're remembering again
how it was for you
before you lost him
while I think on how we are
now.
January 30, 2009 9:21 AM
You notice this? Nearly done with January. I was laid off and not working in January. All this poetry came from idle hands :)
Contraction
1 week ago
Sometimes I don't have to know what it was he said, it is enough that he said it to you.
ReplyDeleteLove the second, poignant for me.
xxx
I feel the same way every time I see a goldfinch, small and quick. They do speak; they do.
ReplyDeleteMichelle, It's good that you don't need to know. I am sworn to confidentiality in the case of Goldfinch statements.
ReplyDeleteAs Karen, clearly knows. The speak in small, quick voices, clipped, terse, intensely to the point.
You have conjured for me the feeling of childish happiness at being near our bird friends. I used to have a little parakeet that would sit on my finger. I absolutely love the first piece, the second does speak loudly of idle moments. Not always a bad thing to have...
ReplyDeleteAs always, I like these two, but I wanted to mention something interesting... I notice that you (almost?) always post in pairs, and sometimes the titles form a new title of their own that is equally intriguing. "That's What He Did, Under the Bridge" could be another poem on its own. Have you considered playing off this? It'd be neat to see where it goes, though maybe you've already done something about this and I've just missed it...
ReplyDeleteYes.
ReplyDeleteWe share your love of small birds, evidenced by a backyard full of feeders and requiring 10 pounds of refill every week or two. They are used to us as well, as long as we sit near them and let them chitter, not us. Goldfinches are rare, visiting in spring and again later on their way back south; they prefer thistle seed, being royalty I guess.
The feeder population attracts the occasional Other as well, a little further along the food chain.
Annie, I welcome some of the child like attitudes and feelings. They don't get in the way at all. I find it interesting that you found idleness in the second poem, which I take to be relatively carefree.
ReplyDeleteJoseph, you are right (almost) always in pairs. I guess I thought in the beginning that my poems were too short to stand alone, thus two of them. Since I still have a backlog of over 400, I don't guess I will change that. No I hadn't seen those titles as poem pushes, though I agree with you that this particular pair is an intriguing thought. Because of the shape of my life, what I think of first "under the bridge" is street people and homelessness.
Robin, I have heard that about thistle seed and Goldfinches but I have been having good success with chipped sunflower seeds. That choice may be why the finches are what I get almost exclusively.
They Might Be Giants : Birdhouse in Your Soul
ReplyDeleteBirdhouse in Your Soul
(3.06Mb)
I'm your only friend
I'm not your only friend
But I'm a little glowing friend
But really I'm not actually your friend
But I am
Blue canary in the outlet by the light switch
Who watches over you
Make a little birdhouse in your soul
Not to put too fine a point on it
Say I'm the only bee in your bonnet
Make a little birdhouse in your soul
I have a secret to tell
From my electrical well
It's a simple message and I'm leaving out the whistles and bells
So the room must listen to me
Filibuster vigilantly
My name is blue canary one note* spelled l-i-t-e
My story's infinite
Like the Longines Symphonette it doesn't rest
Blue canary in the outlet by the light switch
Who watches over you
Make a little birdhouse in your soul
Not to put too fine a point on it
Say I'm the only bee in your bonnet
Make a little birdhouse in your soul
I'm your only friend
I'm not your only friend
But I'm a little glowing friend
But really I'm not actually your friend
But I am
There's a picture opposite me
Of my primitive ancestry
Which stood on rocky shores and kept the beaches shipwreck free
Though I respect that a lot
I'd be fired if that were my job After killing Jason off and countless screaming Argonauts
Bluebird of friendliness
Like guardian angels it's always near
Blue canary in the outlet by the light switch
Who watches over you
Make a little birdhouse in your soul
Not to put too fine a point on it
Say I'm the only bee in your bonnet
Make a little birdhouse in your soul
(and while you're at it
Keep the nightlight on inside the
Birdhouse in your soul)
Not to put too fine a point on it
Say I'm the only bee in your bonnet
Make a little birdhouse in your soul
Blue canary in the outlet by the light switch (and while you're at it)
Who watches over you (keep the nightlight on inside the)
Make a little birdhouse in your soul (birdhouse in your soul)
Not to put too fine a point on it
Say I'm the only bee in your bonnet
Make a little birdhouse in your soul
Blue canary in the outlet by the light switch
Who watches over you
Make a little birdhouse in your soul
Not to put too fine a point on it
Say I'm the only bee in your bonnet
Make a little birdhouse in your soul
they might be giants
:0)
ReplyDeleteThank you
x
Hi Christopher
ReplyDeleteI don't have time to read your posts right now :(.
But I wanted to say hi. I will be back.
Ghost, I am pleased with your posting of They Might Be Giants lyrics.
ReplyDeleteMichelle, you are certainly welcome. For the rest, she is thanking me because I left a poem on her site, writing extremely distantly tangent to her poem. I had the dry outback in it (at least in my mind) and the fact that sun in Australia is in the sky to the north rather than to the south as it is in the Northern Hemisphere. It still travels east to west. Thus, the poem's action had to take place somewhere south of the Tropic of Capricorn.
Spoke straight into me. Birds can do it, strangers can do it, children can do it. The vital part is being open to hear it.
ReplyDeleteThe traffic, the river, the bridge. All you'd need would be a railroad track and my day would be complete.
Idleness,
ReplyDeleteI have been idle these many days
sifting thoughts in the sand
ever restless, ever busy
nothing turns out like I've planned
So I sit here under byway as the pass of cars go by.
I take council with my own thoughts, freely crafting my reply.
The pigeons think me odd, yet it is here where I find God.
Erin, when I visited my Dad's boyhood home, where his mom and grandmother still lived, this in the fifties, I would walk the fields to the railroad track where he would play. One time he fell off one of the cars, landed on his head. This is when my Dad started getting his reputation as a hard head. They claimed he would have died with any other landing. My Dad and family came from Perry Oklahoma to Montalvo, now a part of Ventura, CA, but then its own small community.
ReplyDeleteThey came at the time of the dust bowl, not completely broke but definitely Okies. They settled as family in three houses by the time I was visiting, two next door and one across the street on Beene Road, one house from the end of the street in the field and then the tracks. My dad's boyhood house was tiny and had a roof wall that had defensive gaps (decorative) in it, and a built out wall with arch on one side that held the gate to the back yard. This was a stucco house.
Railroads brought this back just now.
Annie, is that your own poem? I like it. Under the bridge indeed.