Post by Sunsetfur on Mar 13, 2008 21:43:56 GMT -5
This a poem I wrote for a school assignment, based off the style of another poem, Eleanor Wilner's "The Messenger". Otherwise, the entire thing is original.
BiRDSONG[/i][/size]
A red-feathered bird flies, scarlet against sky,
trilling out a long, harsh song in the wintery silence
he has always been flying, ever since his first full moon,
the first wondrous silver sun he’d ever seen
complete. He has lived here for a
long, long time, by a bird’s reckoning, anyway.
Always spreading the songs, always singing, no matter
the rain, the wind, that blissful sweet downpour named snow:
the song of freedom and flying,
that he learned from his mother, and she from hers,
and she from hers, uncountable
generations of red-feathered birds.
They are now soaring on the air currents
of time itself, reminding all of the golden
ages of wilderness and desolation and
uninterrupted, bright birdsong—
pausing here and there, exploring the dark
and beautiful worlds of the past ages.
This bird has seen stars fall like luminous
teardrops from his beloved and war-torn heavens,
when swords fought for dominance in battle
and his sister the phoenix flew
amongst trees woven with fairydust and roses
which are now only found in paintings;
he has seen ziggurats of
bronze and stone climbing ever higher,
and great civilizations fall at their feet to
cast forth blood and sacrifice to their war gods
immortalized in carving; he has seen
a hundred million words penned on bleached animals’ skin, parchment
prayers and fantasies and novels and epics,
so many ideas, so many incandescent songs.
So many birds he has passed in so many
stories, so many shattered lives
and shattered bones left in silent mounds
in so many polluted rivers,
so many columns of smoke,
so many, so many, so many…
oh,
and the blue heron still haunts
emerald mires behind gleaming steel cities
that house a myriad of scavengers
and thieves of birds, but they
all are singing the same songs, the songs they’ve
carried for infinite years, infinite—
the song they hold close to their hearts,
not like a memory or a wish or dream,
or even like the instinct
to fly, or the desire for the winds,
which could fail any moment…
no.
They held it as if
it were life itself—
no, closer than that, something
that all can feel and none can
name. Perhaps it was all
a dream, and there was no red bird
that braved hurricane, vendetta,
heartbreak, revelation, despair,
triumph in the face of death,
countless wonders:
the dawn of time, the first fires,
the Aztecs, the Greeks, the Romans,
the nobles and pirates,
the presidents and tyrants,
skyscrapers that that ripped the horizon,
birds that flew in their natural realm, the
sky. Maybe it was all a game,
this endless song of freedom
and flying, composed of empty notes and words.
But no. They could never imagine
the truth, nor even hope to find it…
they are all red-feathered birds at heart,
they are all the messengers of
the free, flying birdsong.
BiRDSONG[/i][/size]
A red-feathered bird flies, scarlet against sky,
trilling out a long, harsh song in the wintery silence
he has always been flying, ever since his first full moon,
the first wondrous silver sun he’d ever seen
complete. He has lived here for a
long, long time, by a bird’s reckoning, anyway.
Always spreading the songs, always singing, no matter
the rain, the wind, that blissful sweet downpour named snow:
the song of freedom and flying,
that he learned from his mother, and she from hers,
and she from hers, uncountable
generations of red-feathered birds.
They are now soaring on the air currents
of time itself, reminding all of the golden
ages of wilderness and desolation and
uninterrupted, bright birdsong—
pausing here and there, exploring the dark
and beautiful worlds of the past ages.
This bird has seen stars fall like luminous
teardrops from his beloved and war-torn heavens,
when swords fought for dominance in battle
and his sister the phoenix flew
amongst trees woven with fairydust and roses
which are now only found in paintings;
he has seen ziggurats of
bronze and stone climbing ever higher,
and great civilizations fall at their feet to
cast forth blood and sacrifice to their war gods
immortalized in carving; he has seen
a hundred million words penned on bleached animals’ skin, parchment
prayers and fantasies and novels and epics,
so many ideas, so many incandescent songs.
So many birds he has passed in so many
stories, so many shattered lives
and shattered bones left in silent mounds
in so many polluted rivers,
so many columns of smoke,
so many, so many, so many…
oh,
and the blue heron still haunts
emerald mires behind gleaming steel cities
that house a myriad of scavengers
and thieves of birds, but they
all are singing the same songs, the songs they’ve
carried for infinite years, infinite—
the song they hold close to their hearts,
not like a memory or a wish or dream,
or even like the instinct
to fly, or the desire for the winds,
which could fail any moment…
no.
They held it as if
it were life itself—
no, closer than that, something
that all can feel and none can
name. Perhaps it was all
a dream, and there was no red bird
that braved hurricane, vendetta,
heartbreak, revelation, despair,
triumph in the face of death,
countless wonders:
the dawn of time, the first fires,
the Aztecs, the Greeks, the Romans,
the nobles and pirates,
the presidents and tyrants,
skyscrapers that that ripped the horizon,
birds that flew in their natural realm, the
sky. Maybe it was all a game,
this endless song of freedom
and flying, composed of empty notes and words.
But no. They could never imagine
the truth, nor even hope to find it…
they are all red-feathered birds at heart,
they are all the messengers of
the free, flying birdsong.