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, and it is that redrafted version you can read below. There's another web page with the original version "written in one mad afternoon", and yet another page with the two versions side-by-side.
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
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.
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,
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."
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.
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
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 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.
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.
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.
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 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
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.
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'll be history, I will have gone.
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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