Life is a broken-winged bird ~ Hughes

Today was Maya Angelou day. As a poet (though I'm not one yet), I appreciate the visceral roots from which her poetry derives. She's fiery, angry, ardent, singing, and screaming loud as a caged bird for the plight of her people and others similarly caged. Other times, she's passionate with the power of love.

the free bird thinks of another breeze / and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees

but a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams 

his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream 

his wings are clipped and his feet are tied

so he opens his throat to sing

we grow despite the horror that we feed on our own tomorrow

poignant as rolled eyes, sad as summer parasols in a hurricane

I also read some more cummings. I can understand the countless years of study and practice of poetry. I'm impatient, so I'm reading hundreds, maybe a thousand poems a day (slight embellishment. I think I actually read ~200-300 today at least), and although I rarely linger long on any single one, for analysis or careful dissection, just now, I'm learning what I sought.

Today, I noticed a trend of birdsong in my reading of poetry. Maya Angelou frequently references birdsong as a motif of freedom; cummings in a similar fashion; Wendell Berry often as a naturalistic leaning or as a chord in the agrarian song-life; Walt Whitman and Pablo Neruda and Emily Dickinson all include birdsong in quite a number of their poems as well, from what I recall. Those in the city view it as freedom from it; though in the country as their lot and pride - an exemplar of their chosen life. Sometimes, it is even contrasted with more obnoxious bird calls, such as the crows cawing. 

What to write today?

You cannot drop what's never held. The sleep-silent window mirrors - if the future, it won't tell - but leaves insipid tastes. The past's present, present's past, and heaven's hammer strikes the tolling bell, persistent as the permanence of time. Truly, when gazing into the sun, shadows fall behind. Upon a vitrine, framed to dusty fate, does it still beat? Mornings, when eastern sun streaks through yon window, even abandoned glass shines, reflecting grainy lines, beating light against the wall. Then, scraping open this grumpy display, wiping away the grime of time, you're perched on the mantle now, heart of mine, or under. Pulse with the rhythm of fire. 

The beginning of writing stories is upon me. I'm not sure to what capacity this writing, here, will be accomplished in the coming month. But we'll see. I made a bet with myself, so I shall continue. I always win, and lose, against myself. This will be no different. Back to reading Maya Angelou to close the night. 

Hold fast to dreams

For if dreams die

Life is a broken-winged bird

That cannot fly.

~ Langston Hughes