From Verses on Bird - Poem - Excerpt

Literary Review, Wntr, 2003 by Er Zhang, Eleni Sikelianos

From Verses on Bird

   I.

   Bird-watching weaves in and out of imagined space. Autumn
   sunlight
   Hopes, even hints, that clouds are detaching.
   The fiver is green, a thick soup enriched with terminologies.
   It squeezes out the orderly tree lines along the fiver. If only
   all these
   Trees really belonged to the language--one vowel
   Altering its sound track from the backdrop might sing out the
   surprise of all the world.

   No bird, for the bird is not in the trees, on clotheslines, in
   chimneys.

   Those solid feathered wings softly wave in
   Events we are eager to net. Bird exists, a flicker,
   If you can see through yourself, to follow the next
   Desire, its rising, landing, do not blink.

   II.

   The observer's observation gives way to
   The concept of flight accumulated (and reiterated) by the
   camera.
   A curve exhibits the physics of the bird and
   These freeze frames follow the wind's trends.
   An eye watches another eye through the lens, what it saw
   Varies less than the verb.

   The bird misses you, you miss the bird.

   Maybe one should look for another method by which to uncover
   the secret of flight
   Or study the quietude written in quill long ago:
   The stroke gliding and circling pushes you
   Down an empty page, a stepless fall, into
   Or out of the blue.

   III.

   All the travel photos could not contain the bird. When wrought
   Into a sonata its singing will seem heavy, it will
   Not reveal the blush of a freshly cut wound. When reading poetry,
   You do not pay attention to the story, even if the background
   hammers
   Out the rhythm of a travelogue with no drama, the daily
   Mornings at home, or at dusk, being born, or dying.

   The mineral composition of tears is similar to that of the sea.

   Therefore nature casually tumbled onto the paper must be
   twisted
   Into unnatural positions. We'll have to deliberately detach the
   picture from
   The cobble stone path, lawn, flower beds below, give up gardening,
   Stroll up to the roof, not thinking, and then remembered the
   minute
   The bird flew by.

   IV.

   The river is moving. The blackbird must be flying.
   From classical fugues to Romanticism, this effort produced
   Schubert. When storms attack, the nightjar's cry
   Swells. The noble revolution will require great
   Sacrifice, yet do not ask me to capture this process on the black
   And white keys, nor to switch to another tone.

   I could not find two birds with identical pitch.

   With nothing to induce it, innocence makes me walk
   Into rushing water as if I were brave. Empty space is great, but
   nothing
   Repeats itself there. Whether I do
   Or whether I don't; from each, the sum of the piano's voice will
   rise.
   Not to be doubted: bird writes poem, one vowel at a time.

   V.

   That sudden pause, in midair, turn,
   A form puts me into a formless feeling--freedom.
   "To put it all down would be one way
   To leave it all out would be another, truer, way."
   Bird ground circling light
   something like line by line

   I touch the bird, which is breathing.

   Leaves fall down without moving, spread the wings of the words
   And await an excuse to pause on my windowsill. Temporary
   window;
   Temporary pause. The wind blows; the water must be moving.
   Can the weight between the stretched shoulders balance itself in
   this nervous
   Anticipation?

   VI.

   First observing the bird, Andre Kertesz then entered the book.
   The reader has a simple fire, is consumed by words, words
   Won't let go. In this world of motion, we keenly need readers;
   yet all these readers' heads
   Bend over the book, praying to reach
   Another world. Camera angle fixed, I can't make
   Out the readers' features; a wind may flutter the book's pages,
   like leaves.

   Let the river stop at that moment, at this.

   Later on, a thought may skew brightness in the viewfinder, snow
   Might bring new sensitivity to light. The parallel lines of the
   book's spine
   Have more stability than our hurried lives--
   Therefore a bird printed on the page exposes only
   A bird's-eye view.

   VII.

   A bird glides along a river's surface, from which it knows a dozen
   bodily things.
   Ink dark as water, therefore, may symbolize that the storm in the
   picture frame
   Flirts, singing "Stand by me."
   The weight of the word was submerged by the bird and a (full
   cavity of) desire to sing
   Now add some melancholish colors on this side; like iron
   They sink, and we barely lick the minimalism's new scar.

   Facing death, how would you choose a few bright feathers?

   And be able to foresee sitting fat and pretty after the storm
   Fighting for the last crumbs in the mud of language? A word's
   double means
   Plant the consciousness of our animal nature; spreading
   One's legs might or might not be "Give me sex," or, for love.

   VIII.

   Stripped of leaves, only then does the tree belong to the bird.
   Can the lead-gray sky stuff all ears with feathers not to hear
   Each beak clamor an existence you do not solicit?
   Bird is elevated to this height (the tree, symbols) but not in
   order to not covet:
   Ancient temperaments, tradition, shower shadows on us:
   Sudden spread, sudden retreat, a shadow's too fragile to pick up.

   Eyes shut, one shot destroys a tree full of birds.

   Thus one escapes troubling over the meaning of a self in the
   leanest of acts.
   Even though itemized taxonomy originated in an eagerness to
   simplify
   winter approaching, defining robin, pigeon
   will probably fail to file us back at the root, rid of branches and
   leaves.

   IX.

   When the sea is out of view, water surrounds me on all sides.
   No need to struggle for breath, or hold onto a sense of
   responsibility;
   life, a short sentence, drifting; There is light to stand the
   weight of the wing; what would
   Guarantee that the dream flies according to the wing's
   water-level twist,
   Or sink language's wild roots in itineran waves?

   When the moonlight was mirrored on the water's surface,
   I heard the sound of nature,

   A wordless breathing, naked. Skin warms
   Up only to squeeze the thighs tight, a lost opportunity,
   While the bird takes off, leaving indulgence to the page.
   From the dream of the sea, the bird traveled, dripping desire
   like a river; blood.

   X.

   Flowers, grasses, and tea cups are collaged from summer into a
   winter's frame.
   Should the grass be cut? Summer's dilemma.
   Not a concern for the bird, for there are few birds singing.
   Summer of changing feather, rain washes bird space.
   Practical bird, grows up in a hurry.
   Bird possesses summer, summer possesses fruit and insects.

   You remember early spring when the bird stood on a branch to
   advertise its sex.

   Names of wild flowers noted down in a summer diary
   Are suddenly moving, even now in winter;
   Their set has been forgotten, the summer's collection never
   re-thought
   But they make us sit down with tea in deep winter, facing each
   other; we even try to say
   something.

   XI.

   Wake up, bird's singing, to a day not fit for outdoors.
   We will all grow more or less languidly old.
   The bed kicks the body out,
   The drizzle of day to day, a slow, infinite toothache;
   Penthouse days--each a.m. is sky-blue on the windowsill;
   The bright orange tail of dusk presses close to a seasonless
   mood.

   One has to keep a certain distance to recognize things within a
   field of vision.

   Yet the elaborate procedure of getting from bed to bathroom
   must stretch
   Along a hallway which reflects inner organs.
   I peristalize, wholeheartedly, no distance from the body--
   Live day to day, day to day, get old.

   II.

   Painter Sophia drinks from the mouth of the spring she painted
   herself, spray and light spread,
   The generous sun pours down a promise, golden river, Washington
   Square immediately exhibits spring after a long migration.
   Empty is still empty overhead. Bend
   To mix the earth-brown into the oil base,
   From back to forward, backward to forth, one stroke pulls out so
   many uncertain lines.

   When are you going to arrive? Are you flying toward a sea-blue
   image?

   A real effort and the ease of erasing and repainting
   Cannot only fulfill the colorful monotype technique
   But can perhaps ensure the appropriate balance of solid vs. void
   on the palette
   And in the enclosed space free the void (fountain or bird).