New Yorker: the arts~

Posted: June 7, 2010 in Uncategorized

by David Huddle~

Cardinal, goldfinch, titmouse, turkey buzzard—

dear companions of my afternoons—

above this field, high clouds dream of blizzards

to snow me in till spring ends my solitude.

Sober’s my binge now, nature my saloon.

Wren, mourning dove, house finch, turkey buzzard—

for your entertainment, I sing the words

of old fifties songs, use baby talk, croon

as I walk the field beneath great blizzard-

dreaming clouds. You gaudy pretties, sweet birds

of my senior years—my later’s my soon.

Catbirds flit through cedars in the graveyard,

turkey buzzards swirl their patterns overhead,

across the mountainside sunlight bows a tune

rising to blue eternity but heard

by the heron fishing the creek, wizard

of stillness, creature designed by the moon.

Bluebird, jay, chipping sparrow, turkey buzzard,

clouds, and field—I dream this life, walk this world.

Read more:

My favorite part about the New Yorker is probably the poetry. And I chose this poem because I love birds, obviously XD
My interpretation of the poem is of the author watching the birds and the clouds in a peaceful setting, and then predicting what will happen. He talks to the birds; he lives by himself, yet considers the birds his company. The poem makes lavish descriptions for some of the birds–my favorite is the heron. It’s a very serene piece of writing, not like some of the more raucous poems shared in the magazine. But those are good, too.
* * *
And you should check out this, too:
All drawn on an iPhone. I envy their neat handwriting XD

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