birds

Day 23 ~ Lost Songs

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

The birds have slowly disappeared.

I never hear an owl in town and seldom see a hawk.

The blackbird and the thrush still do their best to sing the dawn

But now confused by lights from streets the birds no longer sleep.

The starlings are not heard above the London rush hour traffic.

It was a classic sound before.

The evening throng of choral song

Like the butterflies are gone.

I am glad that I recall the fields of sixty years ago

Before we lost the riches of the earth we knew before.

When we ceased to see the stars,

Obliterated by the lights of towns,

We ceased to see ourselves.

Day 22 ~ Murmerations of Birds

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

I’m grateful for all the small glances

and glimpses of futures to come,

Portents and patterns I see in the sky,

The formations of birds I see as they fly

Foretelling fortunes, they never deceive.

Rely on the written word of the birds.

They never lie.

They tell every morning their message of truth

By the colour of eggs, the shapes of their legs

And direction of flight.

My grandmother gave me the gift of these things.

I understand all that the dawn chorus brings.

Day 12 ~ I didn’t use a prompt today

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

Considering Time

Where will we ever find time?

The answer to that
depends on the date of your death.
Consider it might be tomorrow
and make up your mind to live.

But, you’ve misunderstood my question.
I will rephrase it. Listen.
Where will we find time?

Let’s look in the hedgerows first
to see which plant are budding,
are they limp or dry?
Have all their leaves been lost?
Has a bird built a nest or are all the fledglings fledged?
Did they all fly away to the south?

A year is the same as a decade
or a summer can last a year
but only when you’re a child.
Time is a relative concept
linked to innocence.
It moves faster as you age.
To witness time watch an apple
moving from ripe to rot.

I don’t own a clock.
I don’t expect precision.
If you want to arrange a meeting,
I’ll meet you when the sun dips down
behind the ridge of your roof,
or later if you like
when Mercury hangs above us
a step to the west of Jupiter,
almost parallel to the the moon
(that is to say, on April the 12th at roughly half past nine).
I will wait for you there but if that’s too soon,
any chance meeting is fine.
These moments hang
on the infinite line of time.

Do you think it ‘s all on a line?
I don’t.
Everything turns around and everything’s relative.

The rotation of the stars at night
is faster than we perceive.
I’ve seen them move, from dusk to dawn,
by sitting as still as a rock.

© A.Chakir 2023

First Day at School

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

I had a new gym bag. My grandmother made it. It had a drawstring and it was black. It hung on a black iron peg with my coat. The row of hooks on the wall reached out at me like traps to be caught on and hung. I heard the birds singing outside where I wanted to be. The place had a special smell, one I ever after associated with school; warm rubber fading to wool, a hint of polish, gym shoes. It made me feel nauseous. Even now as I conjure it I sense a mixture or suffocation and nervous impending terror.

I had been given a desk that was red, my favourite colour back then but it was the sparkles that drew my attention. The stairs to the upper room had a sparkle, little stars trapped in concrete. I felt sick to the pit of my stomach as I climbed the sparkling stairs. I kept my eyes down and stared at my feet stepping on little stars. My laces had come undone and I didn’t know how to tie them. I was ashamed of being so stupid. I had tried to learn but the laces always escaped. They were going to draw attention and all I wanted right then was to find a cupboard and hide. There was no cupboard out there on the sparkling ascending stairs. I had to go on.  I did find a place to hide. I took a long time to come out.

Day 9 ~ Sonnet from the Dead

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

Do they wonder where we are,
The pigeon on its perch,
The ant upon the path.
Do they wonder where we are?
Now while we are gone
We won’t disturb the song
Of the thrush upon the branch
Or the passing butterflies.
And when we are all gone
Will they miss us on the land?
How tall will grow the grass?
How wide will spread the hedge?

Will peace arrive at last
Just as the old tales said?

Day 6 ~ In Earthly Paradise

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

in the earthly paradise
birds will flock and fly
their songs will be the only sound
to rise at break of day
the sky a pale cerulean
the air so pure and clear
we won’t be missed by anyone
we have no special worth
everything we ever made
was only for ourselves

On Wires (ghazal)

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

there are always birds on the telegraph wires
today i saw thirteen on the wires

the number gave me pause for thought
our fortune hangs on silver wires

life seems to come from the choices we make
but we swing like puppets on wires

we call our friends to discuss and debate
endless words are buzzing through wires

to try and untangle the troubles we face
we struggle to loosen the binding wires

you think we’re all alone in this world
but we’re all connected by wires

the birds in the evening fly away
moonlight shines on the wires

Omens

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

i see it
through the window glass
the sickle of the moon
it curses me each month
my pockets always empty
but what can money buy
broken mirrors bring bad luck
fresh water from a running brook
will break that seven year spell
good omens come in threes
so do accidents
twice the deadly lightening strikes
i shelter by the oak
the owl blinks his saucer eyes
and I become the mouse
the full moon brings me blessings
strange shapes in fallen twigs
the book i learned to read
though i was slow to talk
the trees let in a flickering light
i take the secret woodland walks
i watch the birds for signs
the patterns of their legs
directions of their flight
the music of their cries
the rapture of their song
i have the old protections
rowan berries in my hat
fingers crossed behind my back
i have sweet dreams at night

The Opinion of the Dormouse

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

This interminable tea party is terribly boring.

We’ve moved round this table for years.

I’m not asleep, I’m listening and snoring.

I have excellent ears.

 

The Hatter was always so gloomy before.

Since Alice came here he isn’t the same

He seems to like chatting very much more

I’ve heard him whisper her name.

 

He still goes on drinking

Cups of cold tea

But I know what he’s thinking.

It’s not about me.

 

He’s never asked me which cake I prefer.

We have all her favourites each day.

He even taught her how to quadrille.

He summoned musicians to play.

 

Banana cake’s banned.

Alice dislikes it.

The birds eat cake from her hand.

She passed me a nice bit today.

 

They all love sweet Alice,

Even silly March Hare.

There are threats everyday from the palace

But Hatter and Hare, being mad, never care.

 

I know Hatter’s thinking she’s young and naïve,

But I think he’ll have a surprise.

All will be well if she doesn’t leave.

Alice is curiously wise.

Recorded in the Books

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

In the caravan of dreams,
at the back of the north wind,
in the wood beyond the world,
a conference of birds was formed.

When one flew over the cuckoos nest
they all thought they might die.

They left the tavern of ruin.
For bread alone they searched
beneath the sheltering sky.

They flew along the song lines
”Let it all come down!”
was their cry

The sand child, then,
was just a wink and a waft
of the jitterbug,
perfume,
from the djinn
in the nightingales eye