"chirrups" poems
wind like a south wind carrying a plane south
deposits him, beneficiary of a backwards current
on a branch with nothing companionable in sight -
no answer, no voice to answer, no voice,
no alarm, no succor - just an afternoon
and nothing pressing. No urgent business,
maybe only the rigors of trying to prevent
there being urgent business later.
He's not all smooth. A little feather
cowlicked on his narrow jaw, and I don't know
how he bathes, what he eats, what he wants,
who would want to eat him. I don't really understand
anything that is going on around me. But look,
I understand more than him:
the tree is dying.
Oak wilt blew in from Canada,
took a long time coming and finally cracked the veins
and this one is all bad on the inside, a meal of
corked-up flesh, big spongy patches and tainted roots
at the search.
(Amateur diagnosis. The tree is probably fine.)
There is a similarity neither tree nor bird know about.
Or his legs know it, and that message
is stuck somewhere. Or he's afraid.
The blighted oak is all fungus and refusal, and he:
his skeleton is spun from delicate copper.
If you open him up, he's like a penny -
pretty, and useless in this economy.
People and things always trying to get rid of him,
and he's listening because he knows it,
and he's singing because he knows it.
Open the tree up and the whole food chain comes down with it.
(Listen to your sweet flesh that wants to go on living.)
It's not a curse, not specifically:
just one fragile thing standing on another
but - count mercies -
too light to break it.
A basic brazier licking behind a splash of yellow, he chirrups.
His song comes from the throat.
His song is about something he saw once.
His song is unquestioned, muscle moving
without will.
His plumage is mostly air
And the tree is anchored in the ground
by the very thing that chokes it,
and we're all standing together:
me, tree, bird. At least until
I finish my sandwich, packing the greasy paper in
a rectangle, with unquestioned neatness,
and leave whistling.
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 2:01 PM UTC
As a drop of tear
left my eyes
and wetted the stone
that treasures a life
I heard the chirrups
of the flock of birds
that joyously flew
along the beautiful skies
that reclines in peace
above the world within me
turning it a paradise
of my mother's memories
Amidst this heaven
as I tardily walked
awed by the aroma
its splendour spread
I glimpsed a bird
who briskly touched
the face of a river
whose waves revealed
the silver reflection,
a handful of which
my mother once borrowed
to embellish her love
that lives no more
in a memory alone
Amidst this heaven
as I tardily walked
I glimpsed another
who perched a tree
the taste of whose shade
as I sat to savour
the canopy of branches
showered upon me
a myriad flowers
the petals of which
were the drops of rain
my mother once brewed
from the cloud of love
that sprinkles no more
only in a memory
in a memory alone
Amidst this heaven
as I tardily walked
I glimpsed another
whose feathers danced
to the symphonies within
the ode of a breeze
whose tunes once bid
my mother's lips
to lullaby me
beyond a door
where the waves of my sleep
rowed me as a shell
to the shores of my dream
where fantasy dwells
the lullaby made dumb
cradles me no more
but sings in a memory
in a memory alone
An eternal desire
to my mother who lives
in a memory alone
as an immortal epic
flow out indeed
as the river of love
in your womb I shall sleep
as a foetus in wait
to be born as your son
as an infant wave
the cries of whom
shall vanish the gems
your loss once scattered
as a legacy that shone
for ages and ages
across the skies,
darkened by your shadows
that solely survived.
Mar 10, 2010
Mar 10, 2010 at 4:24 AM UTC
The sudden accumulation of windy days. The hardening off of pondering in and over landscape. The chirrups of crickets carrying last songs outside the bedroom window. The evacuation of moisture and then the foilage coinciding with the bursting air; the downed leaves incidentally.
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 10:08 PM UTC
a solitary Seagull sings into the sky
while the daily chirrups of Sparrows
fills the air that I breathe. My constant
neighbours all of a flock feeding young
these little companions on the way. A
slow summers day, to sit, and melt into
the open spaces of the spirit world, and sing
the occasional poem that flies around the room,
and from whence it came I know not at all.
Jun 13, 2017
Jun 13, 2017 at 3:03 AM UTC
new voices soon will sing.
nestled eggs under mothers breast.
Apr 14, 2022
Apr 14, 2022 at 2:29 AM UTC
There is a cage
I observe it from my balcony every day
Inside there is a bird
Too beautiful and with the chirping shrill
It seems someone trapped her brutally!
Enduring existence away from the marches of a vast faction of ally
Which she couldn't bear to hide emotions
When I gazed in her eyes
The pain that couldn't be healed!
With the suffering and the pain
On which a fragile how long can remain!
Sometimes she chirrups slowly as the flute of nosogenic tone
And downcast eyes when no one notices her miserable life
There inside the cage, plenty of happiness
As I supposed from the old terrace but
There is an absence of
Independence and a true pleasure
Dreams to fly with the march of ally!
There is a crude who kept her in the cage
He is like a creepy
Crammed with the futile peculiarity,
Inside her mind and heart
She tries to sing a song but
The caged has a fearful trill
No Wonder! How moments of joy isn't still!
Her wings are clipped and her feet are tied,
A bird outside of the cage
Sings a song shrill
With the cool gentle breeze
She follows her dream
Singing on the trees to the street
With a ray of sunshine
She tumbles to fight with the dark,
I observe the two birds
Always with intriguing wit and eyes
One caged and
Another flying freely
I hear both the nosogenic tone and the chirpings pleasant
Sometimes I wonder to my life
And I find always bound
With the shackles
And the nuisance of some who don't belong to my present, future and past!
Like the bird caged
Inside the bleak path full of dark
The dreams I dreamt
Through my eyes
They decide to put shackles on the wing,
There remains a bird and a fragile
One caged inside the cage another in the societal life
There may be some solution
I didn't get through it
But
There lie a passion and willingness
And I have a shackles
As she has a cage
The bird identifies me as an identical soul
Tries to confront
And shows compassion
But there is a space
In between us
A lengthy and the vast
And the wingless
We both
Downcasting our gazes
Smashed with the expectations
We both shuts
Our door beneath the profound sky!
©Amir Raza
Dec 22, 2020
Dec 22, 2020 at 1:20 AM UTC
light-wisps
tiptoe through
gauze of green
piccolo chirrups
woodwind refrain
water burble
sweep scattershot rocks
teeth of giants
pebble ensembles
paths buttered
with hair of Meliae
brisk glottal stop
pecker on bark
dead skin
and these taupe
bones
almost tibias
swell skywards
sprout
arthritic fingers
that will fall
amputate beneath
my feet
Apr 5, 2019
Apr 5, 2019 at 3:37 PM UTC
filled with the voices of a thousand chirrups
how I love brother Starling
he has the songs of eternity
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 8:52 AM UTC