Ode to a Catbird
Gunnen: Dutch: Finding happiness in someone’s happiness because you love them so much
“‘Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, But being too happy in thine happiness, — That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees In some melodious plot Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Singest of summer in full-throated ease.”
— “Ode to a Nightingale” by John Keats
To awake before the dawn seems foolish — But it’s the early nurseryman who wins While the shadows on the vines seem ghoulish; The vines this morning seem like twisted strings — And the red berries hide in the moonlight, Shielded beneath the enclosures of green; But bashful, not, is the color scarlet; I seek my breakfast before your dawn’s flight Like prowlers upon the scene, routine, Like a game, we aim for the same target.
O, for that flavor tart we both adore — The night cools the raspberries with blessings; At least within my shelter I can store — But that nectar serves as your dressings — As I would address a bowl of salad. But I’ve grown tired of this morning game — The seeds don’t settle well in my belly! The sun conducts a vivace ballad — A thrilling trill of vines we each can claim; Can I, at least, harvest some for jelly?
Unlike the finches, I am not afraid Of you as you sit on the patio You made to mind; you harbored in the shade; For this feast, you know, you’re fine, Daddy-O! Don’t you relish how I hang upside down? And I’m in heaven, already, today! No technology makes me a machine! And need I gas to fly around town? Do I owe any dude a debt to pay? “I’m a catbird. But please call me Eugene!”
You know, these slender barbed stalks don’t sting me Like they nettle you. Is that why you ceased? I know you have a wife, man, where is she? During my feast, I delight you, at least. For why would you ponder there all alone With never any artificial sound To cover my musings to you, my friend? We each, right, seem to know something unknown? Something profound planted here in the ground? Dangling on the vine where we both depend?
How you warble, Gene, for moving water! O! how you squawk for the bird bath refilled! O! how like that of, then, my young daughter! Both! O! how they thrilled! How they chilled, spilled! You love the natural water from the drum, Sans chlorine from the plastic garden hose. Yes, and then you frolic and roll and shake — My daughters would water dance until numb! Glowing blue with rapturous joy to their toes! The cold lake would snap anything awake.
You’re awake, of course, now while I’m asleep. I have trouble drowsing due to unease. At times, at night, I wander in too deep. My bed takes on water from inner seas; But then I think of you — your happiness — And I recall jumping from the Crow’s Nest — Leaping from Dad’s boat on the Chesapeake — That boy again in all his flashiness! And the decades seem they have never left. With such faith, I could fly to any peak!
“Gene, it’s the type of night made for lovers!” Has my friend retired to his chamber? With the others under with summer covers? My wife wanted to meet our new neighbor. The patio, we have, and the garden — Alone, for the first time, in awhile — With lights, and the scent of gardenias — No bistro could match this bargain. Yes, we have travelled miles with smiles — For us — my catbird sings — a cadenza.
Thank you for reading!
PS: Editorial Note : Paper poetry conducts themed poetry series every month. This month’s theme is of Dutch origin, Gunnen: If you want to be a part of this, kindly read this.
