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Birds--and a poem for LiLi, Dreamer » CtrlAlt n Del

Posted by beardedlady on April 25, 2002, at 7:48:28

In reply to Re: ...LiLi80 ..i feel the same about myself often, posted by CtrlAlt n Del on April 24, 2002, at 22:22:27

> there are no answers....
> but I do know that there is something..even now here at 4.30 am the birds are going crazy outside..makes me feel special as if it's just for me often the illness just doesn't let any light through ...but the simpliest things.

When I was going through my terrible sleep problems, I used to hate those damned birds for waking me up at 5:00 when I had just fallen asleep at 4:00. But I would lie there and listen, and they seemed to be telling me something. Like, "snap out of it, bonehead." But in a nice way, you know?

They rejoiced at the first light! Amen, the dark is OVER! We are early birds, and there are worms to catch. And then something kicked in, something about rejoicing at the light, something about singing. And so I'd take a shower and sing LOUDLY. And I literally woke up.

Here's a poem about poems and how they need birds in them to give them life, just as we need birds in us to give us back our lives. It's just to say that a few minutes watching birds can really work to restore peace, can really soothe us. So LiLi, just try it. You don't even have to go to a beautiful place. Just watch some birds for five or ten minutes while you drink your morning coffee or your diet coke or whatever.

Okay, ready? It's not a great poem, but here goes:

Place Bird Here

If all else fails, insert a bird—
an oriole or jay, a cardinal
or a house finch.
Install the shrill or warble,
the five-note song, a caw.
Or simply place the nest—
a ball of weeds and yarn,
a tangle of wire hangers,
a clump of twigs.

That plump sofa, dense
and amply pillowed,
won’t ease the ache.
The hot iron
and ready wrinkles
won’t smooth the nerve.
The soft child, limbs long
and tanned and busy,
can’t sit still that long.

But the surprise of a bird—
the Great Blue tossing
his catch into the air,
the titmouse eyeing a fry,
the bright rust belly
of a fat robin lurking
amid a mat of green—
will take those thoughts
and fly south.

lfm a.k.a. beardy




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