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Autumn Air
The autumn air is clear,
The autumn moon is bright.
Fallen leaves gather and scatter,
The jackdaw perches and starts anew.
We think of each other- when will we meet?
This hour, this night, my feelings are hard.
A Bird of Ill Omen
I wandered lonely in the crowd,
Bereft of rhyme or reason,
A jackdaw whispered in my ear
'You will be hung for Treason! '
I ate a meal of nine inch nails
To satisfy my hunger,
It's a recipe that never fails,
Learnt from an ironmonger;
And then I drank some creosote
To quench my raging thirst -
Some people die when they drink that
So I wouldn't be the first!
And still the jackdaw followed me
And spoke about my death,
I shuddered at his prophecy,
Becoming short of breath.
He laughed and croaked so merrily
And settled on my shoulder,
He said that time was running out,
I wouldn't get much older!
'Leave me alone! Please go away! '
I shouted in my fear,
But still he laughed though silently
He shed a single tear.
Then suddenly there was a bang,
I woke up from my dream.
'Are you alright? ' the neighbour said,
'I heard an awful scream! '
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The crow is a pretty bird when the jackdaw is not present.
What Does The Donkey Bray About?
What does the donkey bray about?
What does the pig grunt through his snout?
What does the goose mean by a hiss?
Oh, Nurse, if you can tell me this,
I'll give you such a kiss.
The cockatoo calls ‘cockatoo,’
The magpie chatters ‘how d'ye do?’
The jackdaw bids me ‘go away,’
Cuckoo cries ‘cuckoo’ half the day:
What do the others say?
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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Disappointed for M lady Ernestine
The Jackdaws are excitedly
feasting on the cast away
remains of someone’s takeaway.
Discarded by them thoughtlessly.
They’re squabbling vociferously
as they jostle for the best place
and very soon there is no trace
of the feast provided free.
The plastic tray is now quite clean,
then they fly off in search of more
It is as if the food had never been.
But one latecomer lone jackdaw
examines the now empty tray.
Squawks his disgust and flies away.
8-Jan-08
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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A Servian Legend
Long, long ago, ere yet our race began,
When earth was empty, waiting still for man,
Before the breath of life to him was given
The angels fell into a strife in heaven.
At length one furious demon grasped the sun
And sped away as fast as he could run,
And with a ringing laugh of fiendish mirth,
He leaped the battlements and fell to earth.
Dark was it then in heaven, but light below;
For there the demon wandered to and fro,
Tilting aloft upon a slender pole
The orb of day-the pilfering old soul.
The angels wept and wailed; but through the dark
The Great Creator's voice cried sternly: sternly: 'Hark!
Who will restore to me the orb of Light,
Him will I honor in all heaven's sight.'
Then over the battlements there dropped another.
(A shrewder angel well there could not be.)
Quoth he: 'Behold my love for thee, my brother,
For I have left all heaven to stay with thee.
'Thy loneliness and wanderings I will share,
Thy heavy burden I will help thee bear.'
'Well said,' the demon answered, 'and well done,
But I'll not tax you with this heavy sun.
'Your company will cheer me, it is true,
And I could never think of burdening you.'
Idly they wandered onward, side by side,
Till, by and by, they neared a silvery tide.
'Let's bathe,' the angel suddenly suggested.
'Agreed,' the demon answered. 'I'll go last,
Because I needs must leave quite unmolested
This tiresome sun, which I will now make fast.'
He set the pole well in the sandy turf,
And called a jackdaw near to watch the place.
Meanwhile the angel paddled in the surf,
And playfully dared his brother to a race.
They swam around together for awhile,
The demon always keeping near his prize,
Till presently the angel, with a smile,
Proposed a healthful diving exercise.
The demon hesitated. 'But,' thought he,
'The jackdaw will inform me with a cry
If this good brother tries deceiving me;
I will not be outdone by him-not I!'
Down, down they went. The angel in a trice
Rose up again, and swift to shore he sped.
The jackdaw shrieked, but lo! a mile of ice
The demon found had frozen o'er his head.
He swore an oath, and gathered all his force,
And broke the ice, to see the sun, of course,
Held firmly in the radiant angel's hand,
Who sailed away toward the heavenly land.
He gave pursuit. Wrath lent speed to his chase;
All heaven leaned down to watch the exciting race.
On, on they came, and still the Evil One
Gained on the angel burdened with the sun.
With bated breath and faces white as ghosts,
Over the walls leaned heaven's affrighted hosts.
Up, up, still up, the angel almost spent,
Threw one foot forward o'er the battlement.
The demon seized the other with a shout;
So fierce his clutch he pulled the bottom out,
As the good angel, fainting, laid the sun
Down by the throne of God, who cried: 'Well done!
Thy great misfortune shall be made divine:
Man will I create with a foot like thine!'
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Jackaw of Rheims
The Jackdaw sat on the Cardinal's chair!
Bishop, and abbot, and prior were there;
Many a monk, and many a friar,
Many a knight, and many a squire,
With a great many more of lesser degree,--
In sooth a goodly company;
And they served the Lord Primate on bended knee.
Never, I ween,
Was a prouder seen,
Read of in books, or dreamt of in dreams,
Than the Cardinal Lord Archbishop of Rheims!
In and out
Through the motley rout,
That little Jackdaw kept hopping about;
Here and there
Like a dog in a fair,
Over comfits and cates,
And dishes and plates,
Cowl and cope, and rochet and pall,
Mitre and crosier! he hopp'd upon all!
With saucy air,
He perch'd on the chair
Where, in state, the great Lord Cardinal sat
In the great Lord Cardinal's great red hat;
And he peer'd in the face
Of his Lordship's Grace,
With a satisfied look, as if he would say,
'We two are the greatest folks here to-day!'
And the priests, with awe,
As such freaks they saw,
Said, 'The Devil must be in that little Jackdaw!'
The feast was over, the board was clear'd,
The flawns and the custards had all disappear'd,
And six little Singing-boys--dear little souls!
In nice clean faces, and nice white stoles,
Came, in order due,
Two by two,
Marching that grand refectory through!
A nice little boy held a golden ewer,
Emboss'd and fill'd with water, as pure
As any that flows between Rheims and Namur,
Which a nice little boy stood ready to catch
In a fine golden hand-basin made to match.
Two nice little boys, rather more grown,
Carried lavender-water, and eau de Cologne;
And a nice little boy had a nice cake of soap,
Worthy of washing the hands of the Pope.
One little boy more
A napkin bore,
Of the best white diaper, fringed with pink,
And a Cardinal's Hat mark'd in 'permanent ink.'
The great Lord Cardinal turns at the sight
Of these nice little boys dress'd all in white:
From his finger he draws
His costly turquoise;
And, not thinking at all about little Jackdaws,
Deposits it straight
By the side of his plate,
While the nice little boys on his Eminence wait;
Till, when nobody's dreaming of any such thing,
That little Jackdaw hops off with the ring!
There's a cry and a shout,
And a deuce of a rout,
And nobody seems to know what they're about,
But the Monks have their pockets all turn'd inside out.
The Friars are kneeling,
And hunting, and feeling
The carpet, the floor, and the walls, and the ceiling.
The Cardinal drew
Off each plum-colour'd shoe,
And left his red stockings exposed to the view;
He peeps, and he feels
In the toes and the heels;
They turn up the dishes,--they turn up the plates,--
They take up the poker and poke out the grates,
--They turn up the rugs,
They examine the mugs:--
But, no!--no such thing;--
They can't find THE RING!
And the Abbott declared that, 'when nobody twigg'd it,
Some rascal or other had popp'd in, and prigg'd it!'
The Cardinal rose with a dignified look,
He call'd for his candle, his bell, and his book!
In holy anger, and pious grief,
He solemnly cursed that rascally thief!
He cursed him at board, he cursed him in bed;
From the sole of his foot to the crown of his head;
He cursed him in sleeping, that every night
He should dream of the devil, and wake in a fright;
He cursed him in eating, he cursed him in drinking,
He cursed him in coughing, in sneezing, in winking;
He cursed him in sitting, in standing, in lying;
He cursed him in walking, in riding, in flying,
He cursed him in living, he cursed him in dying!--
Never was heard such a terrible curse!
But what gave rise
To no little surprise,
Nobody seem'd one penny the worse!
The day was gone,
The night came on,
The Monks and the Friars they search'd till dawn;
When the Sacristan saw,
On crumpled claw,
Come limping a poor little lame Jackdaw!
No longer gay,
His feathers all seem'd to be turn'd the wrong way;--
His head was as bald as the palm of your hand;
His eye so dim,
So wasted each limb,
That, heedless of grammar, they all cried, 'THAT'S HIM!--
That's the scamp that has done this scandalous thing!
That's the thief that has got my Lord Cardinal's Ring!'
The poor little Jackdaw,
When the Monks he saw,
Feebly gave vent to the ghost of a caw;
And turn'd his bald head, as much as to say,
'Pray, be so good as to walk this way!'
Slower and slower
He limp'd on before,
Till they came to the back of the belfry door,
Where the first thing they saw,
Midst the sticks and the straw,
Was the Ring in the nest of that little Jackdaw!
Then the great Lord Cardinal call'd for his book,
And off that terrible curse he took;
The mute expression
Served in lieu of confession,
And, being thus coupled with full restitution,
The Jackdaw got plenary absolution!
--When those words were heard,
That poor little bird
Was so changed in a moment, 'twas really absurd.
He grew sleek, and fat;
In addition to that,
A fresh crop of feathers came thick as a mat!
His tail waggled more
But no longer it wagg'd with an impudent air,
No longer he perch'd on the Cardinal's chair.
He hopp'd now about
With a gait devout;
At Matins, at Vespers, he never was out;
And, so far from any more pilfering deeds,
He always seem'd telling the Confessor's beads.
If any one lied,--or if any one swore,--
Or slumber'd in pray'r-time and happen'd to snore,
That good Jackdaw
Would give a great 'Caw!'
As much as to say, 'Don't do so any more!'
While many remark'd, as his manners they saw,
That they 'never had known such a pious Jackdaw!'
He long lived the pride
Of that country side,
And at last in the odour of sanctity died;
When, as words were too faint
His merits to paint,
The Conclave determined to make him a Saint;
And on newly-made Saints and Popes, as you know,
It's the custom, at Rome, new names to bestow,
So they canonized him by the name of Jim Crow!
poem by Richard Harris Barham
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Jackaw of Rheims, The
The Jackdaw sat on the Cardinal's chair!
Bishop, and abbot, and prior were there;
Many a monk, and many a friar,
Many a knight, and many a squire,
With a great many more of lesser degree,--
In sooth a goodly company;
And they served the Lord Primate on bended knee.
Never, I ween,
Was a prouder seen,
Read of in books, or dreamt of in dreams,
Than the Cardinal Lord Archbishop of Rheims!
In and out
Through the motley rout,
That little Jackdaw kept hopping about;
Here and there
Like a dog in a fair,
Over comfits and cates,
And dishes and plates,
Cowl and cope, and rochet and pall,
Mitre and crosier! he hopp'd upon all!
With saucy air,
He perch'd on the chair
Where, in state, the great Lord Cardinal sat
In the great Lord Cardinal's great red hat;
And he peer'd in the face
Of his Lordship's Grace,
With a satisfied look, as if he would say,
'We two are the greatest folks here to-day!'
And the priests, with awe,
As such freaks they saw,
Said, 'The Devil must be in that little Jackdaw!'
The feast was over, the board was clear'd,
The flawns and the custards had all disappear'd,
And six little Singing-boys--dear little souls!
In nice clean faces, and nice white stoles,
Came, in order due,
Two by two,
Marching that grand refectory through!
A nice little boy held a golden ewer,
Emboss'd and fill'd with water, as pure
As any that flows between Rheims and Namur,
Which a nice little boy stood ready to catch
In a fine golden hand-basin made to match.
Two nice little boys, rather more grown,
Carried lavender-water, and eau de Cologne;
And a nice little boy had a nice cake of soap,
Worthy of washing the hands of the Pope.
One little boy more
A napkin bore,
Of the best white diaper, fringed with pink,
And a Cardinal's Hat mark'd in 'permanent ink.'
The great Lord Cardinal turns at the sight
Of these nice little boys dress'd all in white:
From his finger he draws
His costly turquoise;
And, not thinking at all about little Jackdaws,
Deposits it straight
By the side of his plate,
While the nice little boys on his Eminence wait;
Till, when nobody's dreaming of any such thing,
That little Jackdaw hops off with the ring!
There's a cry and a shout,
And a deuce of a rout,
And nobody seems to know what they're about,
But the Monks have their pockets all turn'd inside out.
The Friars are kneeling,
And hunting, and feeling
The carpet, the floor, and the walls, and the ceiling.
The Cardinal drew
Off each plum-colour'd shoe,
And left his red stockings exposed to the view;
He peeps, and he feels
In the toes and the heels;
They turn up the dishes,--they turn up the plates,--
They take up the poker and poke out the grates,
--They turn up the rugs,
They examine the mugs:--
But, no!--no such thing;--
They can't find THE RING!
And the Abbott declared that, 'when nobody twigg'd it,
Some rascal or other had popp'd in, and prigg'd it!'
The Cardinal rose with a dignified look,
He call'd for his candle, his bell, and his book!
In holy anger, and pious grief,
He solemnly cursed that rascally thief!
He cursed him at board, he cursed him in bed;
From the sole of his foot to the crown of his head;
He cursed him in sleeping, that every night
He should dream of the devil, and wake in a fright;
He cursed him in eating, he cursed him in drinking,
He cursed him in coughing, in sneezing, in winking;
He cursed him in sitting, in standing, in lying;
He cursed him in walking, in riding, in flying,
He cursed him in living, he cursed him in dying!--
Never was heard such a terrible curse!
But what gave rise
To no little surprise,
Nobody seem'd one penny the worse!
The day was gone,
The night came on,
The Monks and the Friars they search'd till dawn;
When the Sacristan saw,
On crumpled claw,
Come limping a poor little lame Jackdaw!
No longer gay,
As on yesterday;
His feathers all seem'd to be turn'd the wrong way;--
His pinions droop'd--he could hardly stand,--
His head was as bald as the palm of your hand;
His eye so dim,
So wasted each limb,
That, heedless of grammar, they all cried, 'THAT'S HIM!--
That's the scamp that has done this scandalous thing!
That's the thief that has got my Lord Cardinal's Ring!'
The poor little Jackdaw,
When the Monks he saw,
Feebly gave vent to the ghost of a caw;
And turn'd his bald head, as much as to say,
'Pray, be so good as to walk this way!'
Slower and slower
He limp'd on before,
Till they came to the back of the belfry door,
Where the first thing they saw,
Midst the sticks and the straw,
Was the Ring in the nest of that little Jackdaw!
Then the great Lord Cardinal call'd for his book,
And off that terrible curse he took;
The mute expression
Served in lieu of confession,
And, being thus coupled with full restitution,
The Jackdaw got plenary absolution!
--When those words were heard,
That poor little bird
Was so changed in a moment, 'twas really absurd.
He grew sleek, and fat;
In addition to that,
A fresh crop of feathers came thick as a mat!
His tail waggled more
Even than before;
But no longer it wagg'd with an impudent air,
No longer he perch'd on the Cardinal's chair.
He hopp'd now about
With a gait devout;
At Matins, at Vespers, he never was out;
And, so far from any more pilfering deeds,
He always seem'd telling the Confessor's beads.
If any one lied,--or if any one swore,--
Or slumber'd in pray'r-time and happen'd to snore,
That good Jackdaw
Would give a great 'Caw!'
As much as to say, 'Don't do so any more!'
While many remark'd, as his manners they saw,
That they 'never had known such a pious Jackdaw!'
He long lived the pride
Of that country side,
And at last in the odour of sanctity died;
When, as words were too faint
His merits to paint,
The Conclave determined to make him a Saint;
And on newly-made Saints and Popes, as you know,
It's the custom, at Rome, new names to bestow,
So they canonized him by the name of Jim Crow!
poem by Richard Harris Barham
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Jackdaw
ALOOF from his tribe
On the elm-tree's top,
A jackdaw perched
A hand-reach up.
Silent he sat
On the branch, nor stirred,
And I saw m him
A changeling bird.
Grass was worn
Round pots and a pan,
A flea-bitten horse,
And a tilted van,
Where tinker's or gypsy's
Brats at play
Made vagrant's game of
Some citizen's way.
I watched the daw
On the branch, beguiled:
I saw a vagrant
From the wild.
The entail broken
What had he?
The humour of one
Out of his degree.
The franchise of one
Without kith or kind,
And only the pauper's
Single mind!
The daws on the elms
Kept tribal speech,
And he perched there,
Within a hand's reach-
He flew; his flight
Neither high nor wide
Was a vagabond's
To a seedman's stride.
A dog on the ground
Was rubbing for fleas;
Rags were there
He fluttered to these:
Held a bright rag up
Like a banner won,
And went and hid it
Behind a stone!
poem by Padraic Colum
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Fools Let It Fly
Success has wings
It never perches
On a branch longer ,
It flies from one to another
wise waits
with a cage to catch
but fools let it fly
and meet with failure
which has broken wings
perches on a branch longer.
poem by Abdul Wahab
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About These Poems
On winter pavements I will pound
Them down with glistening glass and sun,
Will let the ceiling hear their sound,
Damp corners-read them, one by one.
The attic will repeat my themes
And bow to winter with my lines,
And send leapfrogging to the beams
Bad luck and oddities and signs.
Snow will not monthly sweep and fall
And cover up beginnings, ends.
One day I'll suddenly recall:
The sun exists! Will see new trends,
Will see-the world is not the same;
Then, Christmas jackdaw-like will blink
And with a frosty day explain
What we, my love and I, should think.
The window-halves I'll throw apart,
In muffler from the cold to hide,
And call to children in the yard,
'What century is it outside?'
Who trod a trail towards the door,
The hole blocked up with sleet and snow,
The while I smoked with Byron or
Was having drinks with Edgar Poe?
While known in Darial or hell
Or armoury, as friend, I dipped
Like Lermontov's deep thrill, as well
My life in vermouth as my lips.
poem by Boris Pasternak
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Will One Day Go.
Sorry about
your granddad's death
Judith said
as you stood
beside her
by the pond
at the back
of the house
in the woods
the autumn sun
lighting up patches
of the water's skin
it was sudden
you said
my uncle told me
she took
your hand
in hers
and squeezed
her soft skin
on yours
her thumb
rubbing
the back
of your hand
best remember him
as he was
she said
living and smiling
not some place
lying dead
you nodded
trying
to conjure up
when you'd
seen him last
sitting in
the back garden
of his house
months earlier
talking
of his flowers
he'd grown
from seed
his white hair
moved slightly
by the breeze
he liked my new suit
you said
thought it looked smart
she kissed your cheek
and said
hold on
to things
like that
your memories
place them
in a drawer
inside your head
a jackdaw flew
across the skin
of the pond
the black and white
of wings and tail
reflected
in the water
below
what comes
from God
she whispered
whether
nature's beauty
or ones
we love
will one day
sadly go.
poem by Terry Collett
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Winter Poem
Tonight the wind gnaws with teeth of glass
The jackdaw shivers in caged branches of iron
The stars have talons
There is hunger in the mouth of vole and badger
Silver agonies of breath in the nostril of the fox
Ice on the rabbit’s paw
Tonight has no moon, no food for the pilgrim
The fruit tree is bare, the rose bush a thorn
And the ground is bitter with stones
But the mole sleeps and the hedgehog lies curled in a womb of leaves
And the bean and the wheat seed hug their germs in the earth
And a stream moves under the ice
Tonight there is no moon
But a star opens like a trumpet over the dead
And tonight in a nest of ruins the blessed babe is laid
And the fir tree warms to a bloom of candles
And the child lights his lantern and stares at his tinsel toy
And our hearts and hearths smoulder with live ashes
In the blood of our grief the cold earth is suckled
In our agony the womb convulses its seed
And in the last cry of anguish
The child’s first breath is born
poem by Laurie Lee
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Christmas Landscape
Tonight the wind gnaws
With teeth of glass,
The jackdaw shivers
In caged branches of iron,
The stars have talons.
There is hunger in the mouth
Of vole and badger,
Silver agonies of breath
In the nostril of the fox,
Ice on the rabbit’s paw.
Tonight has no moon,
No food for the pilgrim;
The fruit tree is bare,
The rose bush a thorn
And the ground is bitter with stones.
But the mole sleeps, and the hedgehog
Lies curled in a womb of leaves,
The bean and the wheat-seed
Hug their germs in the earth
And the stream moves under the ice.
Tonight there is no moon,
But a new star opens
Like a silver trumpet over the dead.
Tonight in a nest of ruins
The blessed babe is laid.
And the fir tree warms to a bloom of candles,
And the child lights his lantern,
Stares at his tinselled toy;
And our hearts and hearths
Smoulder with live ashes.
In the blood of our grief
The cold earth is suckled,
In our agony the womb
Convulses its seed;
In the first cry of anguish
The child’s first breath is born.
poem by Laurie Lee
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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In Springtime
My garden blazes brightly with the rose-bush and the peach,
And the koil sings above it, in the siris by the well,
From the creeper-covered trellis comes the squirrel's chattering speech,
And the blue jay screams and flutters where the cheery sat-bhai dwell.
But the rose has lost its fragrance, and the koil's note is strange;
I am sick of endless sunshine, sick of blossom-burdened bough.
Give me back the leafless woodlands where the winds of Springtime range --
Give me back one day in England, for it's Spring in England now!
Through the pines the gusts are booming, o'er the brown fields blowing chill,
From the furrow of the ploughshare streams the fragrance of the loam,
And the hawk nests on the cliffside and the jackdaw in the hill,
And my heart is back in England 'mid the sights and sounds of Home.
But the garland of the sacrifice this wealth of rose and peach is,
Ah! koil, little koil, singing on the siris bough,
In my ears the knell of exile your ceaseless bell like speech is --
Can you tell me aught of England or of Spring in England now?
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Thinking Round Corners
All of you sit up in bed. dont think in straight lines ahead.
Cant sleep? head spin? dont think in circles, itll do you in.
Think back to the dream you had; no sense of being good or bad.
Jump to the left, jump to the right. think round corners into night.
Lets go in wet corridors: dive down drains.
Draw strength from machinery, its al] the same.
Thinking round corners. think round corners, I say.
Pretty girl with neon eyes: best man between white thighs.
Bridegroom didnt know a thing: got his love in lights,
She wears two rings.
Think back to that dream you had.
Blue boy sorry, pink girl sad.
Yellow cow, big-eyed moon all coming round the corner soon.
Lets stand in rapids: cling to carnivals.
Spit life from the maypole in savage ceremony.
Lets go in wet corridors: dive down drains.
Draw strength from machinery, its all the same.
Thinking round corners. think round corners, I say.
Paper cowboys, tin drums banging where the white man comes.
Landowners with whips and chains but soft in bed amidst
Warm rains.
Thinking back to the dream they had. jack and jill.
Jack the lad.
Homestead. home free. how about leaving some for me?
Lets bathe in malt whisky: covet gold finery
Through the eyes of a jackdaw, dressed to the nines.
Lets go in wet corridors: dive down drains.
Draw strength from machinery, its all the same.
Thinking round corners. think round corners, I say.
Thinking round corners.
song performed by by Jethro Tull
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The vulture perches on the trees because it does not feel sure on the groung.
Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul.
quote by Emily Dickinson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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melting snow
the raven perches
on a budding branch
haiku by John Tiong Chunghoo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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