Thursday October 9th 2003 was National Poetry Day, and as part of it, Julia and a number of other poets were given the command to "Go Somewhere Small and Write a Poem about It." In her weblog, she describes how "I cycled up to the West End, thinking I would visit an Asian Sari shop. However, no one wanted to talk to me up there. I think they thought I was a spy. So I ended up in the stuffed birds section of the Hancock Museum, feeling sad about how so many birds are nearly extinct, and writing a poem called The Lost Birds of England."
Subsequently, Julia redrafted the poem, very fittingly making it smaller. You can read the two versions side-by-side below, with the revised version on the left and the original version "written in one mad afternoon" on the right. If you would prefer to read just one version, here are links to the original poem and the latest redraft.
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I start out large; a flapping bird on a bike, wide eared and keen, and the day is an unshaken mat, the muscles in my shins are tight I'm in flight. I'm heading west |
I started out too large, a flapping shape On a bicycle, wide eared, over zealous, With the day a grey shaken blanket, Leaves rolling around turning spokes, The walkways hot with nervy students, afraid of the tall doors of knowledge. I'm pedalling and wheeling, on the pavement, I'm singing in the tunnels, I'm a screech. Feel the tight little muscles in my shins, The way my fingers grip the handlebars. I'm in flight. I'm flying out west. |
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past the mouthy dental school. (lost a molar there in 84.) scooting on to Spital Tongues, to Stanton Street, men look from doors, like I'm a stranger in their town. |
Up I go past the mouthy dental school. Lost a wisdom tooth there in 84. I'm scooting on up to Spital Tongues, Up and over, then sweet Nun's Moor, Stanton Street, where men stand round cars Watching, like I'm galloping down their highway, To the sound of Bangra thrumming from the radio. |
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Too big, too big. I look unlikely, striding into Pasha Fabrics, a corner world, of rolls of satin, embroidered crepe, slidey silk, a man in grey looks up sideways, |
Too big, too big. Scare the pigeons. I push open the door of Pasha Fabrics, A corner world, of rolls of silk and glitter Shantung, embroidered crepe, slidy blues. A grey coated man leans over the counter |
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says "Winter's coming, close the door." "True!" I shout "but I'm a poet? I'm here, I rather like your shop!" He sinks down lower, peeps, and glowers. "I know nothing. I'm not talking." |
"It's chilly now," he says "winter coming." "True!" I shout "did you know I am a poet? I'm large and I kind of like your shop!" "No," he says "I know nothing. I'm not talking." He sinks down lower, he peeps, he glowers. |
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So that's that. I get the message. I'm too loud to find the poem I tiptoe on to Sweets of Fenham, a cave of bursts, cakes made of jewels: spun sugar balls, crimson, gold. |
So that's that. It begins. I get the message. I'm too loud. I'll never find the underneath. I go tripping into Sweetmeats of Fenham, A place of bursts, twists, cakes made of jewels Baklava, sugar balls, gold and crimson, |
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A tiny bride and groom hold hands On the icing top of a high rise cake. I buy a bright green square of coconut, and go and sit on sweet Nun's Moor. I nibble it, it makes me strong |
I buy a bright blue square of coconut, I nibble it, it makes me tipsy. I see a tiny bride and groom holding hands At the top of a high rise cake. |
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and smaller too, my wide ears wilt. I pause outside Bev's fruit and veg, (she who gave me fruit for my baby,) but Bev is gone, and three hard white men sit grimly amongst plums and grapes. |
I'm smaller now, my ears are trembling. I go and shiver outside Bev's fruit and veg Who once gave me a hamper for my baby, But Bev is gone, and in her stead three white men Sit lazily amongst pomegranates, pumpkins. |
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I'm on the bike and I'm gliding down Tamworth Road, to Philip Street. There's a café, with a felt tip sign, says Come In , Make Friends So I do, but don't. I order tea. |
Now I'm back on the bike and I'm gliding Down Tamworth Road, to Philip Street. There's a café, with God on the menu, With a sign says Come In And Make Friends So I do, but I don't. They give me tea. |
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They give me sugar on a silver spoon. Christians watch me stirring, sipping, Watch me looking at Christian menus. Watch me listening to the radio crooning I'm sitting On the Dock of the Bay. |
They give me sugar on a silvery spoon. Two men watch me stir, watch me thinking, Watch me watching, watch me look at geraniums. Watch me listening to the radio crooning I'm sitting On the Dock of the Bay. |
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Avoid hypothermia says a poster. They point to the clock above my head, say 'It's getting dark. Time to close.' And I slip out, trying to be smaller, still too big, still unwieldy. |
Then they point to the clock above the counter Say "It's time to close. Time for you to go." Avoid hypothermia says the poster, And I slip out, trying to be smaller, Still too big, still too bulky, still unwieldy. |
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I'm tired as a lost bird of England after an international flight. I know this because I read it on a label, In the Museum For Those Who Are Extinct after hours of shrinking, sucking in. |
I'm tired as an American purple Gallinule After an international flight. I know this because I read it on a label, After hours of deflating, sucking in. |
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I decreased my scale, left the bike, I had to, to survive. I'm learning the art of guile and camouflage. Stuffed birds are interested in poets, they look with cocked enquiring heads |
I thought smaller, imagined dinosaurs were dogs, I decreased my scale. I got rid of the bike. It's a secret where I am. I've learnt quietness. Learnt to wriggle out of sight, to camouflage. And stuffed birds are really very friendly. They look at you with cocked enquiring heads |
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and let you share their worms, and nests. They tell you the details of their births, their habitats, their tragic ends. I'm pally with the brown Scops owl, the blue-cheeked thrush nests in my hair. |
And let you share their plastic worms, and nests. They provide you with the details of their births, Their habitats, the tragedy of their loss. I'm pally with the Scops owl and the warbler, The blue-cheeked bee eater's nuzzling my hair, |
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I'm with the lost birds of England, and they are small, and so am I. Like the dotterel, you won't see me, though I may sigh, but by the time you've pulled out your New Age binoculars |
I'm with the little lost birds of England, And they are truly small, and so am I. Like the dotterel, you won't often see me, You might hear me whistle by, but by the time You've pulled out your National Trust binoculars |
| I'll be history, I will have gone. |
I will have disappeared, I will have gone. |
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But I'm not really lost, I'm in the dark, With a pen, noting visitors, observing sorrow, In the small corners of our dusty city. Here's a poem, let it fly up like a bird. |
Copyright © 2003, Julia Darling
On other pages: How To Behave With The Ill, Inside Out, National Poetry Day 2004, Sudden Blossoms, The Manifesto For Tyneside Upon England, The Great British Public Attachments Cold Calling The Writer's Choice, Personal Belongings, The Last Post and Posties Doughnuts like Fanny's and Eating the Elephant.
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Created by Julia Darling and Cornwell Internet. |
Last updated on 20 November 2003 by Roger Cornwell.
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