Summary

"For the Eyes of God and Birds" is a reflective free verse poem by Christina Ward that contemplates the enduring act of writing poetry despite the potential for obscurity or the absence of an audience.

Abstract

The poem "For the Eyes of God and Birds" by Christina Ward delves into the poet's commitment to the craft of poetry, even if her words are unread or lost. It explores the idea that the act of creation, the birth of a poem, is an inherent part of the poet's identity, independent of recognition or impact. Ward envisions her poems taking on a life of their own, becoming part of the natural world, influencing the environment, and resonating with the rhythm of life itself. The poem suggests that poetry can be as transient as the tide yet as enduring as the landscape, with the potential to shape both the external world and the internal worlds of its readers.

Opinions

The poet expresses a deep-seated need to write poetry regardless of whether it is read or acknowledged by others.
There is a sense of poetry as a primal, almost spiritual act, with the poet acting as a conduit for the words that demand to be born.
The poem conveys a belief in the immortality and transformative power of poetry, likening it to natural processes and elements such as trees, mountains, and the sea.
Ward seems to find solace and purpose in the act of writing itself, rather than in the reception of her work.
The poem suggests that the essence of poetry is in its creation and release into the world, where it can influence and become part of the fabric of life, much like the cycle of seasons or the beating of a heart.

For the Eyes of God and Birds

A free verse promise — I will write a poem.

Listen to the soundcloud recording while you read for background sounds and a reading of the poem:

If tomorrow my words get swallowed up in darkness become swept away, sucked under dismantled, disarrayed — I will still, write a poem.

If no eyes bend side to side scan, absorb, and envision my metaphor, paint within a fluid scene, and linger there — I will still write a poem.

If I woke up tomorrow with sand beneath my face, the gentle nudging of white-lipped waves pushing and pulling at my feet, if I didn’t know who I was or how I got there or how I’d ever get out of that deserted, tropical place I’d have to find some kind of way to write a poem —

Perhaps I could scratch it out in the sand for the eyes of God and birds pull the long fingers of a palm frond together and trace out the lettering words upon words to settle with the currents of wind to be taken with the tide one dissolved thought after another —

Even in the washing away of them I’d still write poems

Let trees rise from my words. Let mountains rise and puncture the sky, a gentle nod to earth.

Let the dust of these words lift and disperse, carry on into measures of songs to be sung, of heartbeats to be drummed of the breathing in and out of seasons upon seasons

eternal, these births of poetry I am the womb that they be born the matter at hand

whether they swim racing into currents, riding the backs of greens loggerheads, or twist themselves back into conchs (from whence they likely came) or whether they burrow into minds and disrupt synapses twist into memory — it is no matter to me.

Whether of seahorses (genus Hippocampus) adrift in seaweed hideaways spurning young, gathering plankton futures tied to the life of coral beds, bleaching death-white Or whether of mind matters (also, Hippocampus) adrift in coffee conversations between humans interacting with humans, their predilections just behind the pursing of lips

it is no matter to me a poem is birthed, nonetheless where it goes afterward is on the whims of wind

the un-birthed poem reaches out to me and asks to be given voice

not eyes, not destination not purpose, necessarily —

The fetus poem kicks and claws for birth, squirms and rages and screams and sings and begs for life — not eyes, not eyes, but voice

Without the scanning of eyes across the horizon of words it is of no consequence to me

I will write a poem —

I’ll release it to the sea. Let the breath of conchs devour their own.

Christina Ward is a poet and nature writer from North Carolina. She is the admin of a Facebook Group named Poets on Medium (POM), the editor of seven publications, and a Top Writer in seven tags. You may follow her work or become a fan here: Fiddleheads & Floss Poetry

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