The invisible fuck me lark
goes musicking,
deranged, above
the temporary
pools of up there
reflection, broken
by hard grasses,
shoots that pierce
the flats of water
still here and all
too cold (the wind).
It had been years since I'd heard one of these little birds. The last time was on Bredon Hill, a little closer to home. I wrote a poem on that occasion too (thankfully lost). Their population is in dangerous decline now.
Sharp and clear and just a wee bit painful in its delicately achieved acuity.
The hard, jagged sounds introduced by the k in lark (fuck me, musicking, reflection, broken, grasses) accumulate incrementally into a mimetic/sonic equivalent of the sense of piercing, or being pierced. A formal shattering, effected by an influence that is, perhaps necessarily, unseen.
It's that time of year, and that stage of feeling.
(As the seasons and the locations come and go, one person's impression of derangement may become another's invitation to exaltation.)
It's always a damn good thing to have your ear attend to a poems, TC. A privilege.
Those skylark song flights are very unsettling and the music does hurt (pierce is the precise word) but it catches and sticks every time I hear it. This is the time.
Very glad you drew those lines out, Sandra. I'm a little obsessed with the toughness, persistence and ubiquity of grass.
The title, Ashdown Forest: the trees have been long gone (Tudor shipbuilding did a good deal of damage, apparently). Now mostly gorse, heather and great swathes of grass (of course).
And the Dorn post. To write such perfect descriptions of flight alongside that sharp and rooted social criticism. More rare than the skylark these days.
The Wooden Girl drew my attention to that collective noun on first reading this.
Fine all around--what sticks most is
ReplyDeletederanged, above
the temporary
pools of up there
reflection, broken
Thank you, Vassilis.
ReplyDeleteIt had been years since I'd heard one of these little birds. The last time was on Bredon Hill, a little closer to home. I wrote a poem on that occasion too (thankfully lost). Their population is in dangerous decline now.
that is nice...I was looking at the picture of that bird and it reminds me of a small bird I ´ve seen at the mountain called "charcán"
ReplyDeleteSharp and clear and just a wee bit painful in its delicately achieved acuity.
ReplyDeleteThe hard, jagged sounds introduced by the k in lark (fuck me, musicking, reflection, broken, grasses) accumulate incrementally into a mimetic/sonic equivalent of the sense of piercing, or being pierced. A formal shattering, effected by an influence that is, perhaps necessarily, unseen.
It's that time of year, and that stage of feeling.
(As the seasons and the locations come and go, one person's impression of derangement may become another's invitation to exaltation.)
"shoots that pierce
ReplyDeletethe flats of water"...I like especially those lines
It's always a damn good thing to have your ear attend to a poems, TC. A privilege.
ReplyDeleteThose skylark song flights are very unsettling and the music does hurt (pierce is the precise word) but it catches and sticks every time I hear it. This is the time.
Very glad you drew those lines out, Sandra. I'm a little obsessed with the toughness, persistence and ubiquity of grass.
The title, Ashdown Forest: the trees have been long gone (Tudor shipbuilding did a good deal of damage, apparently). Now mostly gorse, heather and great swathes of grass (of course).
And the Dorn post. To write such perfect descriptions of flight alongside that sharp and rooted social criticism. More rare than the skylark these days.
ReplyDeleteThe Wooden Girl drew my attention to that collective noun on first reading this.
I almost forgot these two birdies:
ReplyDeleteElla Fitgerald
Roberta Gambarini
Beautiful.
ReplyDeleteI like the arrangement on the Roberta Gambarini track very much. Hadn't heard it before.
We shouldn't forget Horace.
ReplyDelete