At dusk, I hear that ghostly call
beneath the pale face of the moon;
I wander, wishing you were not gone.
A curlew’s cry says you’re not gone;
yet I am summoned by that call,
which spills its silver sorrow on the moon.
All reflects the mournful moon;
I wait for footsteps, but you’re gone;
the curlew keeps its vigil, call by call.
Its call beneath the moon names what is gone.
The blue waves smack the shore
Outlined by the oaken door.
Stand beside the cypress tree
Throw your arms out to the sea
On a mossy cliffside you can spy
The wheeling curlew, hear it cry.
Smell the cedar in the grove
See grass wave where rover's rove.
Hear the sea gull, feel the wild
White sails on silver, be beguiled.
So far from madness of the city
Cell phone rings, no longer free.
You run inside the cottage door
Find your backpack on the floor
Dig the phone out, as it plays
A ringtone singing "yesterday"
Its Chase bank, with a suspect charge
Ten thousand, that's awful large.
Text message comes from your landlord
Rats with fleas came in a horde
Your boss says he's needs you back soon
Work has come like a monsoon.
You leave the cottage bitterly
But you can't eat the scenery:
Can't throw the cell phone in the sea.
At least you have the memory...
Where heather hums in Atlantic rain,
old stones remember names;
the wind through gorse like whispered pain
keens low the exile’s flames.
A curlew cries above the bog,
its call a silver thread;
it stitches sky to sodden fog
where silent feet have bled.
O Sídhe stir beneath the hill,
in twilight’s hollow breath;
their music bends the human will
to dance with time and death.
Yet green endures through grief and
Off to work upon his bike
in early morning time
When suddenly confronted
with a loud spine chilling wine
He really was confused
what's the source of this alarm
Nothing sinister he hoped
to likely cause some harm
His heart was beating faster
as he pedalled with such fear
He never travelled faster
with the bike now in top gear
Then one day he saw the culprit
in the fullness of the light
He new at once it was the source
of his enormous fright
Suddenly it hadn't been
a figment of a nasty dream
A bird , the bush Stone Curlew, claims to be
the owner of the caterwauling scream
The bird is now revered
when it's heard throughout the night
Though sleep is sometimes ruptured
The bird is now invited, to screech with all his might
With clouds dispersing above Loch Ba,
to where would we go? And just how far?
We followed the track for more than two hours
listening to birds enjoying the flowers:
meadow pippit, willow warbler
curlew, lapwing and skylarks,
bog asphodel and milkwort,
ragged robin and lousewort,
plenty of pignut and wild thyme.
The remembrance has more value
than contriving a rhyme!
Around us the trees alder and oak
contorted old rowan and birch
all covered in lichen and mosses.
After lunch we returned along the shore
with grebes, geese a raptor and so much more.
Isle of Mull, 14th June 2024
Snipe and Curlew are skating on the mist
they sing of the water
that sky-water which sways to their songs.
Flat is this land with no coastal margins,
here I am the peak of a mountain
my coated form
darkly winged with strange desires,
an ardor compelled to rain down
upon these wandering streams,
to babble and pour in the Wash is my pleasure.
Osprey skim between the worlds
as they plow the brume and drizzle.
Silver trout dangle in the air
hooked by the wringing and the wet,
the taloned and the dunking beak.
You gandering Grebs where are you gone?
O yes, you are swimming a soaking river
betwixt the two poles of this sodden world,
you wade and paddle, dip with a breezy ease -
with dauntless sweeps you divide the oceans.
On the cliff at the Worm’s Head
High above the horns of the bay
I see the surfers ride great waves
With horses’ manes
That ever fail, but never end
In the strong Atlantic surge
In the estuary at Dartmouth
Where the oyster boats dredge
Turning and drifting in slow shadow dance
Great nets of shells are hauled up
And poured out on to the decks
As I plunge upriver
Tacking along the wending Dart
With bent-puzzle oaks on either side
I hear a sudden hush descend
Upon a lonely river hythe
As time and air, smooth and still
Forever glide, like Mayflies
On cold, clear water
In the seaway by the port
With its unmistakable algal aroma
Of the British seashore
I hear the heavy horn of a freighter
That plies its path
And never sinks, yet ever diminishes
Beyond the waves
And far from the pier of the seaside town
Where sandpipers probe
In spiral casts
I hear the penthal call of the curlew
Like silver flourishes on a black cloud
That never moves, but holds dominion
In the cold morning air.
A familiar dawn of dull and sunless sky
the inconstant rattle of unlocked door, which
plays a backbeat to the buzz of dying fly.
A breath of wind blows a high, discordant pitch;
wildly rings a wind bell on a porch nearby.
I should have repaired the door a while ago
before it and I became unhinged, beside
the thing solely clatters when North Easters blow.
It’s so very nearly time to step aside;
let others tend to the house, the garden mow.
And yet, some dawns are born splendid sapphire blue
the backbeat buzz, then a rhythm of devouring
melodies we made together, me and you.
The sweet memories of passion flowering
wildly consummated in one morning’s dew.
A familiar dawn of dull and sunless sky,
the harsh singing of a curlew overhead
a Roggenwolf stealing from a field of rye
and wild wind that whistles past now empty bed;
also rings a wind bell on a porch nearby.
Lake Wollumboola is intermittent.
A coastal dune lagoon, enclosed by berm of sand.
Its basin a drowned creek-scoured depression.
This tiny lake is perched above high tide, vulnerable.
Its survival lies at the whim
of wind-blown and sea-thrown sand.
It's long term fate short-lived as its filling up
with sediment, weed, detritus and muck.
This little lagoon among the dunes
is mecca for migratory birds.
The curlew and buff-breasted sandpiper,
The long-toed stint, pied oyster catcher and little tern.
These vulnerable birds depend on the vulnerable lake.
They arrive on-cue from long-hall flights.
Alight and feeds in the shallows.
Mate, breed and lay eggs in vulnerable places
on the open beach and shore.
They squat on eggs and fledge their young,
and when the time comes, migrate back
with young yearling in tow,
to whence they came.
They book return migratory flights to
Lake Wollumboola each year,
hoping it survives vulnerable
for another year,
and hoping its time is not yet up.
Moon peeped
through the treetops,
tiptoed
to a window,
knocked softly
and hushed
to keep his promise.
‘Chuck, chuck, chuck, '
a gecko wished;
a bat dropped
an oozing mango
and flapped
from the backyard;
a curlew
screamed a welcome note;
a door creaked open,
and they
shadowed the moon.
Robert Browning's "Meeting at Night" inspired me when writing this piece.
You were
neither a destroyer
nor a preserver
like Shelley’s west wind.
You were
a native signal
to harvest the taro and tapioca.
You were
a swing for the shore,
and my soul too.
You weren’t
just a parching wind
for me.
My still leaves
were energized
by your verve.
Moon shines.
Henna plant blooms.
Ghost of a love loiters
in the old melody
from a CD.
If you blow now,
a heaven will open
as in the past.
Climate has changed
like generation.
Vrishchika and the present
are passive,
poker-faced.
Season of stirring wind
is no more.
An Ockhi of havoc howls
instead.
Vrishchika,- a month in Malayalam calendar, noted for continuous
wind in some parts of Kerala
Ochkhi – name of a cyclone
First published in The Curlew
The curlew’s trademark, long down curved bill
Delves deep in mud, belly to fill
Heath and moorland breeding ground
Mating calls eerie sound
And then chicks arrive
Oh how they thrive
Birds anew
Curlew
View
As if
To remind me
Of past sorrows,
The plaintive cry of a curlew
In the distance.
W.A. CHOLT . COPYRIGHT Fergal O Reilly. 2017.
Birdwatcher
This passionate, keen Ornithologist,
Is an interest, I profoundly pursue.
With the upmost of dedication,
To Black Tern & Long Billed Curlew.
Never a Twitcher, or just an obsession,
Binoculars on hand to observe.
Redstart & Greenfinch, also Reed Bunting,
Come into focus on a birdlife reserve.
Warblers & Wagtails, singing all day,
Sounding so sweet in the garden.
Robin & Chiffchaff scurry around,
That’s my bug meal, if you pardon.
Black Tailed Godwit & Purple Sandpiper,
Great Skuas & Dunlin share low tide.
Petrels & Fulmars, big Herring Seagull,
All I can name from a secluded bird hide
Me a bush stone curlew,
And this is my fond view—
There's none whoso like me
In all space, land and sea,
An if one does exist,
Bird it be, be it beast,
Reflection of mine is,
And oh dear, I love this--
A curlew of rare hue!
_____________________________
A bush stone curlew, a bird, spent hours staring at its own reflection as shown in a video that became instantly viral. The bird became instant star as well. Now, if this bird had a poetic bent of mind, it might have penned a little ditty like this.
Happenings, humour | 21.03.2017 |
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.