The Magpie and the Young Dove
On the ground they struck each other
with their wings out stretched.
But the dove was so much smaller
and couldn’t evade the magpie’s pecks.
As feathers flew, it held down the dove
with its powerful grasping claws.
Once, twice, three times, it pecked,
and again several times more.
The tired dove’s resistance vanished
as the magpie took one hop back.
It stood admiring the results of its conflict
before making its final attack.
This brief encounter was nearly over,
the dove turned to face the magpie,
but then a dog approached the scene
and the magpie flew into the sky.
Keeping a close watch over its prey,
it waited in a nearby tree.
The dog lost interest and sauntered away,
giving the magpie opportunity.
One hop then two, it approached for the kill,
but the dog returned to save the day.
This time the magpie didn’t come back,
and the dove recovered to fly away.
poem by Orlando Belo
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Related quotes
On Hearing A White Backed Magpie Singing In The Rain
The white backed magpie singing and skies so gloomy gray
And magpie does sound happy on such a gloomy day
But why is magpie happy what reason for his joy
All in the depths of Winter this morning in July? .
The rain come down in torrents and dark clouds o'er the hill
And freshening winds blow colder the breath of winter chill
The raindrops freely running adown the window pane
And still the magpie singing and whistling in the rain.
Why is the magpie singing what reason for his cheer
On this cold day in winter the wettest of the year?
The wettest day of Winter the wind blow cold and strong
And merry magpie singing his distinct happy song.
The white backed magpie piping his happy melody
On wettest day in Winter on rain soaked blackwood tree
And I ponder the question the simple question why?
The magpie feel so happy on wet day in July.
poem by Francis Duggan
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3. Unfair Trade
The magpie had opened a jeweller’s
With his liking for silver and gold
Went shopping for stock in the sunlight
Where it shone till his beak took a hold
He wasn’t too keen on the rubies
Though a diamond could shine pretty bright
A gold pocket watch with it’s chain on
Filled magpie with such great delight
Alas his shop put up the shutters
Poor magpie to jail now has gone
Raven police said stocks not paid for
And all got claimed back one by one
poem by David Threadgold (2008)
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Two Birds Wished To Be Friendly
1 Two birds wished to be friendly
I was the messenger winged
Hither thither cuckoo and magpie
Two birds wished to be friendly
'Come here, o' dear, come here'
coo~~coo~~coo~~~in rising notes
Two birds wished to be friendly
I was the messenger winged
2 Hither thither cuckoo and magpie
Two birds wished to be friendly
I was the messenger winged
Hither thither cuckoo and magpie
Warbling, whistling, fluty trilling
Magpie just couldn't let me read
Hither thither cuckoo and magpie
Two birds wished to be friendly
3 Two birds wished to be friendly
I was the messenger plucked punished
Gloomed cuckoo, confused magpie
Two birds wished to be friendly
Reading failing, messaging failing
Loamy homey cuckoo angry with me
Two birds wished to be friendly
I was the messenger plucked punished
poem by Indira Renganathan
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Legend
The blacksmith's boy went out with a rifle
and a black dog running behind.
Cobwebs snatched at his feet,
rivers hindered him,
thorn branches caught at his eyes to make him blind
and the sky turned into an unlucky opal,
but he didn't mind.
I can break branches, I can swim rivers, I can stare out
any spider I meet,
said he to his dog and his rifle.
The blacksmith's boy went over the paddocks
with his old black hat on his head.
Mountains jumped in his way,
rocks rolled down on him,
and the old crow cried, You'll soon be dead.
And the rain came down like mattocks.
But he only said,
I can climb mountains, I can dodge rocks, I can shoot an old crow any day,
and he went on over the paddocks.
When he came to the end of the day, the sun began falling,
Up came the night ready to swallow him,
like the barrel of a gun,
like an old black hat,
like a black dog hungry to follow him.
Then the pigeon, the magpie and the dove began wailing
and the grass lay down to pillow him.
His rifle broke, his hat blew away and his dog was gone and the sun was falling.
But in front of the night, the rainbow stood on the mountain,
just as his heart foretold.
He ran like a hare,
he climbed like a fox;
he caught it in his hands, the colours and the cold -
like a bar of ice, like the column of a fountain,
like a ring of gold.
The pigeon, the magpie and the dove flew up to stare,
and the grass stood up again on the mountain.
The blacksmith's boy hung the rainbow on his shoulder
instead of his broken gun.
Lizards ran out to see, snakes made way for him,
and the rainbow shone as brightly as the sun.
All the world said, Nobody is braver, nobody is bolder,
nobody else has done
anything equal to it. He went home as easy as could be
with the swinging rainbow on his shoulder.
poem by Judith Wright
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The Best Day Of The Year
This morning very early I heard the magpie sing
And suddenly it dawned on me it's the first day of Spring
The dawning of September and on the stringybark
The white backed magpie whistled sweet music in the dark.
The first day of September the best day of the year
That is if you are living in the Southern Hemisphere
For Spring the Season of beauty and of greenery and youth
A time of bloom and grass growth when seedlings take to root
The Spring came in at midnight from places far away
She crept in through the darkness for her annual three months stay
And magpie he woke early on the stringybark tree
And for the welcome visitor piped his sweetest melody.
This morning very early before the dawn of day
The magpie welcomed the visitor from places far away
And the first day of September the best day of the year
That is if you are living in the Southern Hemisphere.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Dove of Dacca
The freed dove flew to the Rajah's tower—
Fled from the slaughter of Moslem kings—
And the thorns have covered the city of Gaur.
Dove—dove—oh, homing dove!
Little white traitor, with woe on thy wings!
The Rajah of Dacca rode under the wall;
He set in his bosom a dove of flight—
`If she return, be sure that I fall."
Dove—dove—oh, homing dove!
Pressed to his heart in the thick of the fight.
"Fire the palace, the fort, and the keep—
Leave to the foeman no spoil at all.
In the flame of the palace lie down and sleep
If the dove—if the dove—if the homing dove
Come, and alone, to the palace wall."
The Kings of the North they were scattered abroad—
The Rajah of Dacca he slew them all.
Hot from slaughter he stooped at the ford,
And the dove—the dove—oh, the homing dove!
She thought of her cote on the palace-wall.
She opened her wings and she flew away—
Fluttered away beyond recall;
She came to the palace at break of day.
Dove—dove—oh, homing dove,
Flying so fast for a kingdom's fall!
The Queens of Dacca they slept in flame—
Slept in the flame of the palace old—
To save their honour from Moslem shame.
And the dove—the dove—oh, the homing dove,
She cooed to her young where the smoke-cloud rolled!
The Rajah of Dacca rode far and fleet,
Followed as fast as a horse could fly,
He came and the palace was black at his feet;
And the dove—the dove—the homing dove,
Circled alone in the stainless sky.
So the dove flew to the Rajah's tower—
Fled from the slaughter of Moslem kings;
So the thorns covered the city of Gaur,
And Dacca was lost for a white dove's wings.
Dove—dove—oh, homing dove,
Dacca is lost from the Roll of the Kings!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Wings Of A Dove
Let me fly in the wings of a dove
Above the Manhattan sky
So that all the yankies can see me
At least I will be safe in the wings of a dove
And I can sleep while I am fling in the wings of a dove
I love to fly in the wings of a dove
But the feeling of being high in the sky is great
But God gave me a chance to fly in the wings of a dove
When the opportunity came I didn't even think for a minute
I just jumped right in this opportunity
And I am glad I did it
Because I am having the greatest time when I am flying in the wings of a Dove
But I woke up at midnight and the sky was already dark
Eventhough the dove was still flying
The dove took me all the way to Chigago the windy city
Men I must tell you that it was very windy inthe sky in chicago
But we landed safe in Chicago by the shore
And I sleept in the shore of Chicago for the night
To me it was almost like being inside a movie scream when I woke up the next morning at the Shore of Chicago
poem by Aldo Kraas
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Good Morning Mr Magpie
'Good Morning Mr Magpie'
She saluted, then returned to her grounded
fact-based faith in her own impersonal reality.
Dismissal of her own superstitions,
seemed impossible.
She'd put it down to hard-ass habits
and the cudgels of conditioning
with which we all are kneaded.
Meanwhile in the treetops,
the wood pigeons were rallying.
The magpie's attention saw no salutes,
just a glint of an egg in a ray from the sun.
He cared not who had moved the branch
that let the sunlight through.
He cared not how, an avalanche
had spawned a breeze that this way blew.
He cared not how the leaves had parted
just as he had chanced to fly
through places where the pigeons darted,
inviting his unwelcomed eye.
He held no concept of the quandry
filling his spectator's mind.
She paused, when pegging out her laundry,
and branded Nature, so unkind.
Cold coveter of shiny things, just as so many men...
'Good Morning Mr Magpie', she saluted once again.
poem by Hola Mentirosa
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It's Raining In Wonthaggi
On the gum tree in the garden white backed magpie flutes his song
But it's raining in Wonthaggi and the wind is blowing strong
Two days back it was so balmy around twenty five degrees
It was perfect Summer weather with the faintest cooling breeze.
In south Gippsland's changing weather it can change from day to day
And the old timers who live here say it's always been this way
And when it's raining in Wonthaggi there's a strong wind from the sea
And on such inclememt weather indoors is the place to be.
And the magpie he keeps singing I can see him through the pane
And for some strange sort of reason he seems happy in the rain
Though birds sing their best and sweetest on their breeding days in Spring
On wet and changing weather you can also hear them sing.
It is windy in Wonthaggi and the rain is pouring down
And storm water drains are flooded all around the country Town
But the magpie seems quite happy he feels moved to melody
And he celebrate the downpour on high branch of old gum tree.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Magpiety
The same and not quite the same, I walked through oak forests
Amazed that my Muse, Mnemosyne,
Has in no way diminished my amazement.
A magpie was screeching and I said: Magpiety?
What is magpiety? I shall never achieve
A magpie heart, a hairy nostril over the beak, a flight
That always renews just when coming down,
And so I shall never comprehend magpiety.
If however magpiety does not exist
My nature does not exist either.
Who would have guessed that, centuries later,
I would invent the question of universals?
poem by Czeslaw Milosz
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The Seventh Of June
The tiny frogs singing in the roadside drain
And the sky overcast it is looking like rain
And though not in any way cold enough for to snow
The wind from the hill with a chilly breath blow.
The bird who does sing every day of the year
The silvery billed magpie so pleasant to hear
Once heard him one never could hope to get wrong
Familiar to all is his beautiful song.
For the seventh day of June it is not a bad day
And Spring after all is not that far away
In the nearby park I can hear the pee wee
And the sparrows are chirping on the garden tree.
The Autumn is over and Summer long gone
And on the first week of Winter the clock ticking on
The magpie is fluting his beautiful tune
It is not a bad day for the seventh of June.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Magpie's Nest, Or A Lesson Of Docility
A FABLE
When the arts in their infancy were,
In a fable of old 'tis exprest,
A wise magpie constructed that rare
Little house for young birds, called a nest.
This was talked of the whole country round,
You might hear it on every bough sung,
'Now no longer upon the rough ground
Will fond mothers brood over their young.
'For the magpie with exquisite skill
Has invented a moss-covered cell,
Within which a whole family will
In the utmost security dwell.'
To her mate did each female bird say,
'Let us fly to the magpie, my dear;
If she will but teach us the way,
A nest we will build us up here.
'It's a thing that's close arched over head,
With a hole made to creep out and in;
We, my bird, might make just such a bed,
If we only knew how to begin.'
To the magpie soon every bird went,
And in modest terms made their request,
That she would be pleased to consent
To teach them to build up a nest.
She replied, 'I will show you the way,
So observe every thing that I do.
First two sticks cross each other I lay'-
'To be sure,' said the crow; 'why, I knew
'It must be begun with two sticks,
And I thought that they crossëd should be.'
Said the pie, 'Then some straw and moss mix,
In the way you now see done by me.'
'O yes, certainly,' said the jackdaw,
'That must follow of course, I have thought;
Though I never before building saw,
I guessed that without being taught.'
'More moss, straw, and feathers, I place,
In this manner,' continued the pie.
'Yes, no doubt, madam, that is the case;
Though no builder myself, even I,'
Said the starling, 'conjectured 'twas so;
It must of necessity follow:
For more moss, straw, and feathers, I know,
It requires, to be soft, round, and hollow.'
Whatever she taught them beside,
In his turn every bird of them said,
Though the nest-making art he ne'er tried,
He had just such a thought in his head.
Still the pie went on showing her art,
Till a nest she had built up half way;
She no more of her skill would impart,
But in anger went fluttering away.
And this speech in their hearing she made,
As she perched o'er their heads on a tree,
'If ye all were well skilled in my trade,
Pray, why came ye to learn it of me?'-
When a scholar is willing to learn,
He with silent submission should hear.
Too late they their folly discern;
The effect to this day does appear:
For whenever a pie's nest you see,
Her charming warm canopy view,
All birds' nests but hers seem to be
A magpie's nest just cut in two.
poem by Charles Lamb
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Brought From Beyond
The magpie and the bowerbird, its odd
predilection unheard of by Marco Polo
when he came upon, high in Badakhshan,
that blue stone’s
embedded glint of pyrites, like the dance
of light on water, or of angels
(the surface tension of the Absolute)
on nothing,
turned, by processes already ancient,
into pigment: ultramarine, brought from
beyond the water it’s the seeming
color of,
and of the berries, blooms and pebbles
finickingly garnishing an avian
shrine or bower with the rarest hue
in nature,
whatever nature is: the magpie’s eye for
glitter from the clenched fist of
the Mesozoic folding: the creek sands,
the mine shaft,
the siftings and burnishings, the ingot,
the pagan artifact: to propagate
the faith, to find the metal, unearth it,
hoard it up,
to, by the gilding of basilicas,
transmute it: O magpie, O bowerbird,
O Marco Polo and Coronado, where do
these things, these
fabrications, come from—the holy places,
ark and altarpiece, the aureoles,
the seraphim—and underneath it all
the howling?
poem by Amy Clampitt
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Wings Of A Dove
Take time for your pleasure
And laugh with love
Take the hand of another
And sing for the wings of a dove
Woah woah, for the wings of a dove
Woah woah, for the wings of a dove
Look up at the rooftops
When youre walking round
Dont think for a moment
Of looking down
Woah woah, (yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah) for the wings of a dove
Woah woah, for the wings of a dove
Woah woah, for the wings of a dove
Woah woah, for the wings of a dove
Ha-lellujah (lellujah)
Ha-lellujah (lellujah)
Look up at the rooftops (the roof)
When youre walking round
Dont think for a moment
Of looking down
At a room at the top
Where were not allowed
Cheer to the echo
Can you hear the sound
Woah woah, (yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah) for the wings of a dove
Woah woah, (yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah) for the wings of a dove
Woah woah, for the wings of a dove
Woah woah, for the wings of a dove
Yeah yeah yeah (etc.)
Woah woah, for the wings of a dove
Woah woah, for the wings of a dove
Et cetera
Blue train!
Blue train taking me from you....
song performed by by Madness
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Spring's First Day
The sun shines in the sky of blue and gray
It is a cool and rather breezy day
The magpie lark in the Townpark does sing
Pee wee pee wee on the first day of Spring.
The Goddess of Spring she flew in overnight
And no one see her in her silent flight
She is in the South for her annual three months stay
The warmer weather soon will come our way.
In her stick nest on the blackwood the magpie her eggs incubate
Her territory is guarded by her mate
He warns the other magpies in his flute like song
That this patch of ground to her and him belong.
Were I a poet to read or to recite
A song of welcome to the Spring I'd write
To the Goddess of Spring who spreads around her green
No greater beauty than her's I have seen.
The day is windy, sunny, bright and clear
And Spring is in the Southern Hemisphere
And the wattle trees laden in their blooms of gold
Stirring in the breezes lovely to behold.
poem by Francis Duggan
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You And I Could Fly High Into The Blue Sky
If you were my morning dove
What is love dove
Could we fly through the air dove
Would it be enough
If you and I could fly
Could you and I try
Not to shed tears and cry
I will not lie
To thee my dove
You and I could fly high into the blue sky
poem by Edwin Tanguma
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Cicely Bathing
The brook told the dove
And the dove told me
That Cicely's bathing at the pool
With other virgins three.
The brook told the dove
And the dove told me
That Cicely floating on the wave
Woke music in the tree.
The brook told the dove
And the dove told me
That Cicely's drying in the sun,
A snowy sight to see.
poem by Norman Rowland Gale
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One for Sorrow; Two for Joy
Good morning Mr Magpie
alone again, like me
I greet you then I bless myself
and hope that I shall see
your lady busy in the trees
up here in Jagger Green.
The wind is soft and urgent
on the pale green Yorkshire hills
rooks fuss in high bare branches
looking down on silent mills
and the magpie is a single bird
up here in Jagger Green.
I watched him as he rested
in the Mayday morning light
then hard and low and straight there came
another flash of black and white
and the sun is like a woman's kiss
up here in Jagger Green.
poem by Hugh Mitchell
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Hangover
You don't have the power.
Cigarettes' smoking
Drinking snorkelling
Sex disposal, used body.
Neglected mind.
The wick soul, his losing power.
Noisy morning, framed by rumours' pictures.
Morning kitchen.
Blur view
Ash butts
Coffee jar, mugs
Coffee stains in a teaspoon.
Chemical bottle spray.
Flies
Observing from the little door, falling spelling magnets
Knives, sharper water bath.
Mirrors reflecting, vanishing vanity.
Birds quarrelling in my head.
Vicious birds devour tree of blood cherry.
Magpie, magpie, have you lost your shying & white feather?
poem by Luca Menin
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The Confused Birds
Sometimes things happen the way you don't want them to,
There was a Pigeon and a Dove to guide the life through,
Together they ate, Together they flew,
The pigeon was ready to wait a life long,
But the Dove had a rough stance that you move on,
The Dove always wanted the Pigeon to be comfortable,
But always thrash think that she didn't deserve such awesome individual,
The matter was closely watched by a gardener,
He called them...
The Confused Birds.
poem by Vikrant Jog
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