Pablo Neruda on Joining a Conversation with Birds
Intimate images reveal the hidden beauty of birds
I lose track of time when I am surrounded by birds. There is so much to see and hear and experience in every moment. A flock of House Sparrows in my backyard is as engaging to me as Bald Eagles on the Illinois River. In some ways, House Sparrows and other common birds are more intriguing. Close daily contact fosters a connection with these beautiful beings.
The more we can open ourselves and our minds to the mystery of birds, the more fascinating they become. Across the broad sweep of human cultures that have developed over the past 200,000 years, birds have been seen as deities, guides, tricksters, and healers. We have always revered birds, which led to a kinship embedded within a general appreciation for mutual relationships. Some human cultures view birds as people in another dimension.Â
If birds are people, they are chatty people. The increasingly sunlit days of mid-February are filled with birdsong. Birds feel the pull of spring. Pablo Neruda describes how birds draw him into nature, where he invites himself to join their conversation.Â
A provincial poet and birder, I come and go about the world,
unarmed,
just whistle my way along,
submit
to the sun and its certainty,
to the rain’s violin voice,
to the wind’s cold syllable.
In the course
of past lives
and preterit disinterments, I’ve been a creature of the elements
and keep on being a corpse in the city:
I cannot abide the niche,
prefer woodlands with startled
pigeons, mud, a branch of
chattering parakeets,
the citadel of the condor, captive
of its implacable heights,
the primordial ooze of the ravines adorned with slipperworts.
Yes yes yes yes yes yes,
I’m an incorrigible birder,
cannot reform my ways -
though the birds
do not invite me
to the treetops,
to the ocean
or the sky,
to their conversation, their banquet,
I invite myself,
watch them
without missing a thing …
A people’s poet,
provincial and birder,
I’ve wandered the world in search of life:
bird by bird I’ve come to know the earth…
One of the things I love about photography is the way it reveals details about birds that are hard to discern with the naked eye. The black tip on the wavy blue bill of a Mourning Dove and the lumpy irregular bowling pin shape of the intricate and colorful Mallard. The way Bald Eagles’ delicately folded feet combine grace and power. The mysterious rictal bristles or fine hairs that curve out and around the bill on House Sparrows. No one really knows what these hairs are for. They may serve to protect the eyes from debris. They are also sensitive to touch, airflow, and vibrations, and likely play a role in birds sensing their environment in ways that are beyond our understanding.Â
The tiny ring of feathers that surrounds their eyes is another surprising detail. And those eyes! Glowing from within in an incredible mix of vivid colors. The hypnotic, haunting, bright yellow eyes of short-eared owls. The impossibly bright yellow eye of a Goldeneye and the radiant red eye of a mature Cooper’s Hawk.
Slow down and take a close look at these images. Open to the mystery. Â
Thanks for the morning bird meditation. Neruda wrote so many great poems about birds . . . some to specific birds and some about birdwatching in general. You probably already know them all, but here's one:
Now
Let's look for birds!
The tall iron branches
in the forest,
The dense
fertility on the ground.
The world
is wet.
A dewdrop or raindrop
shines,
a diminutive star
among the leaves.
The morning time
mother earth
is cool.
The air
is like a river
which shakes
the silence.
It smells of rosemary,
of space
and roots.
Overhead,
a crazy song.
It's a bird.
How
out of its throat
smaller than a finger
can there fall the waters
of its song?
Luminous ease!
Invisible
power
torrent
of music
in the leaves.
Sacred conversations!
Clean and fresh washed
is this
day resounding
like a green dulcimer.
I bury
my shoes
in the mud,
jump over rivulets.
A thorn
bites me and a gust
of air like a crystal
wave
splits up inside my chest.
Where
are the birds?
Maybe it was
that
rustling in the foliage
or that fleeting pellet
of brown velvet
or that displaced
perfume? That
leaf that let loose cinnamon smell
- was that a bird? That dust
from an irritated magnolia
or that fruit
which fell with a thump -
was that a flight?
Oh, invisible little
critters
birds of the devil
with their ringing
with their useless feathers.
I only want
to caress them,
to see them resplendent.
I don't want
to see under glass
the embalmed lightning.
I want to see them living.
I want to touch their gloves
of real hide,
which they never forget in
the branches
and to converse with
them
sitting on my shoulders
although they may leave
me like certain statues
undeservedly whitewashed.
Impossible.
You can't touch them.
You can hear them
like a heavenly
rustle or movement.
They converse
with precision.
They repeat
their observations.
They brag
of how much they do.
They comment
on everything that exists.
They learn
certain sciences
like hydrography.
and by a sure science
they know
where there are harvests
of grain
You are a brave soul, Bill, in adding your prose in proximity to that lovely Neruda poem. But you pulled it off. Congrats!