On Tue, Jan 15, 2013 at 11:17 PM, Martin Law martin.rainbowmaker@gmail.com
wrote:
Words For Birds.
( A Celebration.)
Small words, for small birds. Common or garden words.
Words worthy of song for songbirds.
Almost empty, the brown paper bag of peanuts under the kitchen sink.
Feeding a small fire. Down to my last bit of coal, awaiting delivery.
Plenty of chopped spruce chunks though.
Stand them on end in the hearth, to dry out.
Economizing on the coal. Fastidious and precise,
the frugal art of getting through, staying warm.
Small things mean something. Small things matter.
Civilizations waging war over vanishing gold and silver.
Twin logs hiss in the grate, like rain. Shift, settle, to crackle and spark.
'Mystic-peach' glow, loud sharp cracks. Yellow flame.
Black tongues give a gift of coal.
Smooth branchy willow saplings, just a hand's-grip around.
Upsurge from an ivy clump of ground.
A gusty webwork, where, small head-tailed birds flawlessly flit and perch.
Perch and flit from branch to twig, bold punctuations on a musical stave.
More new arrivals perch tier on tier.
Nothing ever, quite so Zen, as small birds.
Infallible flitters with a firm grasp.
Weightless, never subject to volition:
I witness many a tight 'U-turn' on an instant in mid-flight.
While my neighbours sit facing flickering football screens, i stand rapt,
cup in hand, in the kitchen.
Fast fluttering flits from peanut beak to branch, with never, ever, a single mistake.
Is that not cause for wonder?
They are more at one with the wind, than a weatherman will ever be.
If you wish to witness miracle, it will cost you peanuts.
When we were "granted dominion", so it is said, was it not meant that we would attend to our 'furred and feathereds’' needs and seeds.
The only 'reward', is endless wonder.
Willow: 'Saileach', 'Crann saili,' a Taurus-totem tree, to 'the Celts.'
Signifying, 'The Observer.'
Ruled by the moon, and the lunar realm.
Mystical, intuitive, creative, and psychic.
With an understanding of cycles and seasons, (the patience attributed to Taurus).
Bursting with potential, though with a preference to working behind the scenes.
It is the power of perception and memory, which allows the true nature to blossom.
I am blessed with a willow in the window, as well as the wind in the willows.
A welcome compensation, for a Taurean, who spent ten years with nothing but
a blank grey wall in every window.
Previous tenants cut this willow down to the ground four times.
So i'm happy now it's as high as the house.
My most frequent visitors are, sparrows, chaffinches, blue-tits,
(Blue-tits seem to function on a very high frequency.)
Then there may be a blackbird or two, male and female.
Sometimes a sudden band of speckled starlings will descend,
and, a lone robin.
Next in line, when they get wind of the chatter and flurry, are rooks, crows, magpies.
Though my neighbours’ two ring-doves usually hear of it before they do,
and the small birds don't find them threatening.
Unlike the rooks and crows, warily awaiting their opportunity,
from surrounding lookout posts.
Chimney-tops, guttering, roof-ridges and telephone wires.
Then, they swoop like black-cloaked witches in a raid.
Since they eat faster, i put the peanuts between the base
of the willow and the thorny rosebush
as a semi-deterrent to a direct swoop.
They are also, by far the most wary of human intervention,
and instantly alert to a clack of fingernails on a windowpane.
Let no man doubt their mystical cooperative intelligence however,
commanding respect, admiration. Forget 'football.'
When we call them 'greedy', we might stop and wonder,
just who it is we're talking about.
So, no questions asked, why i don't have a cat.
A friend of mine was visited often by a robin, which regularly
came in the open door,
almost to the edge of her plate.
Seasons being somewhat seasonally cyclic, she's the first person i've heard of, to have a much-used robin-flap instead of a cat-flap.
Native peoples and others with long experience, say that the birds are
the sentries of the natural world.
They are aware, (naturally) of significant conditions and aspects of
the changing world around us, and signal it in song.
There is a book, on Amazon, i would like to read. It's called:
'What The Robin Knows.' (How Birds Reveal The Secrets Of The Natural World.)'
Written by, Jon Young.
Intuitively, i've been feeling something in the robin's song for a long time.
It always sounds like a direct message delivered as if with intent.
Always, uncannily close at hand, and at a specific moment,
and slightly modified within the context of the seasons.
I must pay closer attention, and with a silent mind.
Birds don't have a 'larynx' as we do. They have a 'syrinx, located in the 'thorax'. (Syrntax!)
Witness the breast feathers when he sings.
A plaintive, almost wise-sad, tinsel-like ripple
of crystaline quicksilver droplets, dribbled
like a wry timely reminder.
( A wren, apparently, sings about 56 notes per second.
How many do we register from our slower rate of attention?)
I wonder.
I painted ' The Irish Robin' portrait in January 1983.
Alone, in my small caravan, out on The Burren. County Clare,
where i lived for three and a half years.
I clearly remember, working on it, painstakingly.
Sitting close to the window for the remaining daylight.
All those tiny feathers!
It was cold, even with the wood stove.
I award myself a tiny feather, for persistence.
'Robin Redbreast'. (A robin is not 'red'. though the american equivalent may be.)
It's orange with a hint of brown. There was no english word for orange till the 1600's.
A twenty foot caravan in a field of cows. Very remote, very silent, quite alone.
It was snowing. Large soft slow silent flakes.
No 'facilities', such as electricity. Just gaslight and candle.
My water supply, the river, a field's walk away. Toilet?
An overhang of hawthorn hedge, a mulch of old leaves.
The painting was photographed two or three years later.
I gave the painting later on, to the youngest son of an ex-partner. On his request.
He's now taller than i am.
When he was quite young we shared art interactions.
That is, i supplied him with endless paper and he created, the most astonishing things.
One time, with a stack of creations which he explained to me in profound detail,
I said, "Chris do you need more paper?"
"No", he said. "I've taught you enough for today."
This is a celebration of, and a prayer for, birds:
'Words For Birds.'
{" I am very thankful for birds. May they not fall foul of 'chemtrails.'}
(I say that, in 13 words, and may it be so.)
True peace, and strength, is to be found
dwelling in the heart, not in the mind alone.
I give thanks, to everything,
without which, nothing would be.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~martin rainbowmaker~ Jan. 2013
Small words, for small birds. Common or garden words.
Words worthy of song for songbirds.
Almost empty, the brown paper bag of peanuts under the kitchen sink.
Feeding a small fire. Down to my last bit of coal, awaiting delivery.
Plenty of chopped spruce chunks though.
Stand them on end in the hearth, to dry out.
Economizing on the coal. Fastidious and precise,
the frugal art of getting through, staying warm.
Small things mean something. Small things matter.
Civilizations waging war over vanishing gold and silver.
Twin logs hiss in the grate, like rain. Shift, settle, to crackle and spark.
'Mystic-peach' glow, loud sharp cracks. Yellow flame.
Black tongues give a gift of coal.
Smooth branchy willow saplings, just a hand's-grip around.
Upsurge from an ivy clump of ground.
A gusty webwork, where, small head-tailed birds flawlessly flit and perch.
Perch and flit from branch to twig, bold punctuations on a musical stave.
More new arrivals perch tier on tier.
Nothing ever, quite so Zen, as small birds.
Infallible flitters with a firm grasp.
Weightless, never subject to volition:
I witness many a tight 'U-turn' on an instant in mid-flight.
While my neighbours sit facing flickering football screens, i stand rapt,
cup in hand, in the kitchen.
Fast fluttering flits from peanut beak to branch, with never, ever, a single mistake.
Is that not cause for wonder?
They are more at one with the wind, than a weatherman will ever be.
If you wish to witness miracle, it will cost you peanuts.
When we were "granted dominion", so it is said, was it not meant that we would attend to our 'furred and feathereds’' needs and seeds.
The only 'reward', is endless wonder.
Willow: 'Saileach', 'Crann saili,' a Taurus-totem tree, to 'the Celts.'
Signifying, 'The Observer.'
Ruled by the moon, and the lunar realm.
Mystical, intuitive, creative, and psychic.
With an understanding of cycles and seasons, (the patience attributed to Taurus).
Bursting with potential, though with a preference to working behind the scenes.
It is the power of perception and memory, which allows the true nature to blossom.
I am blessed with a willow in the window, as well as the wind in the willows.
A welcome compensation, for a Taurean, who spent ten years with nothing but
a blank grey wall in every window.
Previous tenants cut this willow down to the ground four times.
So i'm happy now it's as high as the house.
My most frequent visitors are, sparrows, chaffinches, blue-tits,
(Blue-tits seem to function on a very high frequency.)
Then there may be a blackbird or two, male and female.
Sometimes a sudden band of speckled starlings will descend,
and, a lone robin.
Next in line, when they get wind of the chatter and flurry, are rooks, crows, magpies.
Though my neighbours’ two ring-doves usually hear of it before they do,
and the small birds don't find them threatening.
Unlike the rooks and crows, warily awaiting their opportunity,
from surrounding lookout posts.
Chimney-tops, guttering, roof-ridges and telephone wires.
Then, they swoop like black-cloaked witches in a raid.
Since they eat faster, i put the peanuts between the base
of the willow and the thorny rosebush
as a semi-deterrent to a direct swoop.
They are also, by far the most wary of human intervention,
and instantly alert to a clack of fingernails on a windowpane.
Let no man doubt their mystical cooperative intelligence however,
commanding respect, admiration. Forget 'football.'
When we call them 'greedy', we might stop and wonder,
just who it is we're talking about.
So, no questions asked, why i don't have a cat.
A friend of mine was visited often by a robin, which regularly
came in the open door,
almost to the edge of her plate.
Seasons being somewhat seasonally cyclic, she's the first person i've heard of, to have a much-used robin-flap instead of a cat-flap.
Native peoples and others with long experience, say that the birds are
the sentries of the natural world.
They are aware, (naturally) of significant conditions and aspects of
the changing world around us, and signal it in song.
There is a book, on Amazon, i would like to read. It's called:
'What The Robin Knows.' (How Birds Reveal The Secrets Of The Natural World.)'
Written by, Jon Young.
Intuitively, i've been feeling something in the robin's song for a long time.
It always sounds like a direct message delivered as if with intent.
Always, uncannily close at hand, and at a specific moment,
and slightly modified within the context of the seasons.
I must pay closer attention, and with a silent mind.
Birds don't have a 'larynx' as we do. They have a 'syrinx, located in the 'thorax'. (Syrntax!)
Witness the breast feathers when he sings.
A plaintive, almost wise-sad, tinsel-like ripple
of crystaline quicksilver droplets, dribbled
like a wry timely reminder.
( A wren, apparently, sings about 56 notes per second.
How many do we register from our slower rate of attention?)
I wonder.
I painted ' The Irish Robin' portrait in January 1983.
Alone, in my small caravan, out on The Burren. County Clare,
where i lived for three and a half years.
I clearly remember, working on it, painstakingly.
Sitting close to the window for the remaining daylight.
All those tiny feathers!
It was cold, even with the wood stove.
I award myself a tiny feather, for persistence.
'Robin Redbreast'. (A robin is not 'red'. though the american equivalent may be.)
It's orange with a hint of brown. There was no english word for orange till the 1600's.
A twenty foot caravan in a field of cows. Very remote, very silent, quite alone.
It was snowing. Large soft slow silent flakes.
No 'facilities', such as electricity. Just gaslight and candle.
My water supply, the river, a field's walk away. Toilet?
An overhang of hawthorn hedge, a mulch of old leaves.
The painting was photographed two or three years later.
I gave the painting later on, to the youngest son of an ex-partner. On his request.
He's now taller than i am.
When he was quite young we shared art interactions.
That is, i supplied him with endless paper and he created, the most astonishing things.
One time, with a stack of creations which he explained to me in profound detail,
I said, "Chris do you need more paper?"
"No", he said. "I've taught you enough for today."
This is a celebration of, and a prayer for, birds:
'Words For Birds.'
{" I am very thankful for birds. May they not fall foul of 'chemtrails.'}
(I say that, in 13 words, and may it be so.)
True peace, and strength, is to be found
dwelling in the heart, not in the mind alone.
I give thanks, to everything,
without which, nothing would be.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~martin rainbowmaker~ Jan. 2013
art : the irish robin, martin law, january, 1983
in the private collection of Chris
artwork : digital pan play - photographic image reconstruction & definition, JAN 13 - wfp for moo
in the private collection of Chris
artwork : digital pan play - photographic image reconstruction & definition, JAN 13 - wfp for moo
I still have the painting, it has traveled to the usa. Cris
ReplyDelete. . . thanks for the update Cris. (Is your name spelled without the 'h'?) Do you have any of your art for us to see here? -ed!
Delete