Speckled Bird

fishing lines and fingerlings

He is somewhere distant from me again.

Out on the waters, hunting

the great fish: poetry.

 

A season ago, through a foot of snow

he'd disappeared the week long - beyond the hills.

I, myself, kept company a speckled bird

and fed the kitchen fire.

 

Then out from the tree line he lumbered,

with his neck muscles full:

a roebuck draped squarely on his back.

Come early Spring we lay on the hide;

love making; sharing lines of

Winter softening on the pane...

 

He is somewhere distant from me again.

Coursing for Ahab’s whale this time:

tracking those scars in his own white blood

for a song known yet

to a speckled bird.

Author's Note

Some writing about the differences we have in our approach to writing.

Reviews

[peter Duggan]

nice write Charlie. Me, I just write whatever comes to me. I never care whether I write good or bad, I just let the words come true. I have never read poetry in my life. I just like to write what I feel. never really caring whether it is acknowledged or not. I have been writing for over sixty years. I enjoyed your poem, my friend...Peter

[charlie]

You, too, have heard the speckled bird, peter! Thanks for dropping by. I appreciate your visit, as I do your poems.

[Corset]

A metaphorical delight, we hunt the words down, we sometimes get what we went for, but on some occasions we bring home something different entirely than what we originally set out for. Poetry and art is like this, as is romance and love. sometimes we bring home a much better prize than what we thought would sustain us, it's always a happy accident when that happens.

[charlie]

Hi, C. Yes you're right: sometimes a piece of writing takes on a life of its own, steers the course for you instead of the other way 'round. Makes for interesting process. Thanks for taking time here.

[Lyn Anderson]

It is interesting, how some people search and others watch, others wait for observation/divine inspiration -- what makes us different makes us uniquely appealing to some but not others ... I must admit I am confounded by some writers who seem to make sense to everyone else, and understand perfectly other writers whose words are lost to some ... it is just the way we think, and relate to the world. The most beautiful thing is a good writer who can see the beauty in writing that is not of his or her particular style ...

[charlie]

A nice thought, indeed. Thanks for your remarks, Lyn.

[Mari' Emeraude]

I was so puzzled by this marvelous poem until I read your brief explanation. I figured it was regarding the quest of poetry? There was something earthy and woodsy about the lines, as if you were watching this bird from a rustic log cabin.

[charlie]

Thanks, for your kind words, Mari. Yes: this is about the quest for poetry. Do you know any writers beside yourself? How, you might be trying to talk to them but there eyes are glazed in the distance, half listening only, because they're searching for the next line, or phrase, or master piece, some such...

[Lorry]

We do indeed take diffrent paths and scenic detours in our writing, or is it the paths we are given to get there, from fabled muse?
This is why being on a writing site helps us see the patterns and routes others take, which will eventually be stored in that great big compendium of our learning, the brain.
I love when I find myself writing in anothers style, it is how we all evolve as writers. Your portrayal of seasons passing and longing for the thaw are an excellent way to see the journey unfold.

[charlie]

Thank you, Lorry.