Tuesday, March 07, 2006

Thick with wings

I watched the yearning creek run,
the land lying damp and still
under a dull sky, and stepped softly
across the leaf-strewn earth.

Two winter-bleached trees
were suddenly thick with wings,
as if leafed out in a
shimmering Spring,

and they were singing —
a flock of red-wing blackbirds
filled the baskets
of their bony branches

and the chorus of reedy, raucous,
red-shouldered joy
seemed to call the sun
out from the shrouded sky —

slanting, glorious, brilliant rays shot
from behind the blues and greys,
and all things — the wet stones,
the bark, the flattened grasses,

the wide sky itself —
on an otherwise heartless late winter day,
were torched with golden fire
and for a moment the world sang.


Blogger Sky said...

my world just sang with a varied thrush and her lover! aren't these days magical when, eager for spring, we are sensitive to every gift of nature?


3/07/2006 11:22 AM  
Blogger Dale said...

Thank you for this.

3/07/2006 12:50 PM  
Blogger Becca said...

How did you become brave enough to write poetry? I find it takes guts in a way no prose demands. Great work ...

3/07/2006 1:38 PM  
Blogger Endment said...

What lovely imagery!

3/07/2006 3:24 PM  
Anonymous yllstonewolf said...

full of longing - gorgeous!

3/07/2006 3:43 PM  
Blogger MB said...

Sky, sensitive... or something!

Dale, I'm glad you got something from it.

Becca, I don't really know the answer to your question. There was a kind of courage it required of me, but now I think it requires more faith and humility. And for me it goes beyond all those into need in a way that now makes the courage relatively irrelevant. If any of that makes sense. And then there is how I've written poetry since before I can remember. Sorry I'm not more articulate about this. It feels more familiar to me than prose.

Endment, and Anne, thank you.

3/07/2006 6:03 PM  
Blogger MB said...

Becca, I'd like to add what I've said before: I don't for a moment consider anything posted here a polished poem. This blog is an exercise for me in poetic fluency. Write and post, write and post, near daily, don't look back. That's it.

3/07/2006 7:11 PM  
Blogger garnet david said...

Hi MB- I love this kind of exuberant poem, which rises out of itself with such joy. I don't need to try to write poetry anymore. You write what I would if I could. I wonder if I'll ever write again. Maybe. Maybe not.

3/07/2006 7:26 PM  
Blogger MB said...

David, I'm grateful you liked the poem. But if we all acted upon such feelings as you express about not writing, there would not be enough poems or music in this world...and I wouldn't be writing poetry either. I have a feeling that you have a need to write not unlike mine. Write.

3/07/2006 8:08 PM  
Blogger alan said...


As must be the person who can reach inside me with words...

thank you!


3/08/2006 1:36 AM  
Blogger Brenda said...

This poem, an utter gift at this late Winter season, the stream and soil and the light at the end is like a full illumination of the reason for everything.

3/08/2006 5:57 AM  
Blogger Jean said...

Votre poème est une vraie peinture !
Images , couleurs , chant des oiseaux .
Une peinture animée et musicale !

3/08/2006 9:08 AM  
Blogger MB said...

Alan, the way you respond says a lot about what's inside you.

Brenda, the moment was a gift.

Jean, merci. J'avais l'impression d'etre dedans une peinture, a ce moment-la.

3/08/2006 9:37 AM  
Blogger mermaid said...

How do you do this???

3/08/2006 1:24 PM  
Blogger Firehawk said...


Beautifully written. The images are so strong and solid. A perfect snapshot.

3/09/2006 11:48 AM  
Blogger MB said...

Mermaid, Firehawk: Thank you!

3/13/2006 8:11 PM  

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