This is a second draft of my latest. Salvageable? Possible titles include “And No Birds Sing,” “Realpolitik,” or your suggestion.
The sun at 80, April,
And I’m getting groove again
With outside repairs:
A gable end where old squirrels
Gnawed a way for birds to sing
Inside my bedroom wall.
Recurrently the squabs trill
Their mom’s return
To feed and preen and multiply
My space with such chatter
That preempts any blog
On Poetry, Politics, Love–
Preempts my blessed Word, by god!
Indeed they seem to lord them over me–
These mocking chirps of fertility versus
My arid room. Oh fine,
Maybe in a tree somewhere
But a lesson way too close today, a lesson
Way too late…
No, Birds, you’ve forced the hand
With which I clip
The screen wire by wire
(I’ve already measured)
And from atop my ladder check
The long mesh triangle for perfect fit.
It is, I nail. And nail to rule.
And do. By dawn a starving
Quiet chastens all. I search
To hear them, somewhere,
Somewhere, in the woods.
Have to say, the narrator of the poem sounds like a churlish and mean-spirited old abbot. :/ That’s my takeaway. As for the poem itself, it might be one of the most narratively coherent poems you’ve ever written. Not sure what I would entitle it: maybe “Gnawed”?
Thanks. Yes, churlish, probably for two reasons. First, from having to deal with this problem over and over—whose nests present a potential fire hazard, let alone can attract snakes into the house. And, second, from priming on some completely opaque poems by Ashbery as a way to mitigate the potential for plain statement—i.e., “Die fuckin’ birds!”–with this kind of subject. By any chance do you feel his influence–say, in some shifting undercurrent of abstraction as you read the poem?
Realpolitik
The sun at 80, April,
And I’m getting groove again
With outside repairs:
A gable end where old squirrels
Gnawed a way for birds to sing
Inside my bedroom wall.
Recurrently the squabs trill
Their mom’s return
To feed and preen and multiply
My space with such chatter
That preempts any blog
On Poetry, Politics, Love–
Preempts my blessed Word, by god!
These mocking chirps of fertility–
They would seem to lord them over me
Versus my arid room. Well, fine
Maybe in a tree somewhere
But a lesson way too close today, a lesson
Way too late…and so, Birds,
You’ve forced the hand
With which I clip
The screen wire by wire
(I’ve already measured)
And from atop my ladder check
The long mesh triangle for perfect fit.
It is, I nail. And nail to rule.
And do. By dawn a starving
Quiet chastens all. I search
To hear them, somewhere,
Somewhere, in the woods.
I changed one of the lines in Bicycles that you objected to. Thanks for your comments on that.
Your poem still feels heartless. To me at least. In Vermont it’s illegal to mess with bird’s nests once eggs are laid (not that anybody honors that) — but many songbirds are endangered. “And nail to rule” seems a little gratuitous — like you’re taking a little too much joy in your starvation of them.
Oh, and no, I didn’t trace a hint of Ashbery. Ashbery doesn’t strike me as a poet one can be influenced by in a piecemeal way. It’s all or nothing with him.
Thanks. But these are really ugly birds known to eat other birds’ eggs and nestlings, and sometimes kill and eat other adult birds (Wiki). Maybe if I re-titled the poem “Grackle” my attitude would seem more justified.
Thanks. I’ve never felt more guilty about a quiet room. And what about bats in your attic? Studies have shown bats to have an intelligence level equivalent to that of dolphins and primates. They also have complicated social structures and use 25 or more different vocalizations to communicate. Some species of bats even use syntax. (Quora)
spring— after opening the window she dresses 23 & 24: for March 22nd & 25th 2021 | bottlecap
PoemShape 
This is a second draft of my latest. Salvageable? Possible titles include “And No Birds Sing,” “Realpolitik,” or your suggestion.
The sun at 80, April,
And I’m getting groove again
With outside repairs:
A gable end where old squirrels
Gnawed a way for birds to sing
Inside my bedroom wall.
Recurrently the squabs trill
Their mom’s return
To feed and preen and multiply
My space with such chatter
That preempts any blog
On Poetry, Politics, Love–
Preempts my blessed Word, by god!
Indeed they seem to lord them over me–
These mocking chirps of fertility versus
My arid room. Oh fine,
Maybe in a tree somewhere
But a lesson way too close today, a lesson
Way too late…
No, Birds, you’ve forced the hand
With which I clip
The screen wire by wire
(I’ve already measured)
And from atop my ladder check
The long mesh triangle for perfect fit.
It is, I nail. And nail to rule.
And do. By dawn a starving
Quiet chastens all. I search
To hear them, somewhere,
Somewhere, in the woods.
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Have to say, the narrator of the poem sounds like a churlish and mean-spirited old abbot. :/ That’s my takeaway. As for the poem itself, it might be one of the most narratively coherent poems you’ve ever written. Not sure what I would entitle it: maybe “Gnawed”?
LikeLike
Thanks. Yes, churlish, probably for two reasons. First, from having to deal with this problem over and over—whose nests present a potential fire hazard, let alone can attract snakes into the house. And, second, from priming on some completely opaque poems by Ashbery as a way to mitigate the potential for plain statement—i.e., “Die fuckin’ birds!”–with this kind of subject. By any chance do you feel his influence–say, in some shifting undercurrent of abstraction as you read the poem?
Realpolitik
The sun at 80, April,
And I’m getting groove again
With outside repairs:
A gable end where old squirrels
Gnawed a way for birds to sing
Inside my bedroom wall.
Recurrently the squabs trill
Their mom’s return
To feed and preen and multiply
My space with such chatter
That preempts any blog
On Poetry, Politics, Love–
Preempts my blessed Word, by god!
These mocking chirps of fertility–
They would seem to lord them over me
Versus my arid room. Well, fine
Maybe in a tree somewhere
But a lesson way too close today, a lesson
Way too late…and so, Birds,
You’ve forced the hand
With which I clip
The screen wire by wire
(I’ve already measured)
And from atop my ladder check
The long mesh triangle for perfect fit.
It is, I nail. And nail to rule.
And do. By dawn a starving
Quiet chastens all. I search
To hear them, somewhere,
Somewhere, in the woods.
LikeLike
I changed one of the lines in Bicycles that you objected to. Thanks for your comments on that.
Your poem still feels heartless. To me at least. In Vermont it’s illegal to mess with bird’s nests once eggs are laid (not that anybody honors that) — but many songbirds are endangered. “And nail to rule” seems a little gratuitous — like you’re taking a little too much joy in your starvation of them.
LikeLike
Oh, and no, I didn’t trace a hint of Ashbery. Ashbery doesn’t strike me as a poet one can be influenced by in a piecemeal way. It’s all or nothing with him.
LikeLike
Thanks. But these are really ugly birds known to eat other birds’ eggs and nestlings, and sometimes kill and eat other adult birds (Wiki). Maybe if I re-titled the poem “Grackle” my attitude would seem more justified.
LikeLike
I get it, but I actually like Grackles. I’ve always counted myself among the outcasts.
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Thanks. I’ve never felt more guilty about a quiet room. And what about bats in your attic? Studies have shown bats to have an intelligence level equivalent to that of dolphins and primates. They also have complicated social structures and use 25 or more different vocalizations to communicate. Some species of bats even use syntax. (Quora)
LikeLike
I like bats too. I always try to save their lives even when they try to bite me.
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