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Lewis - Sparrow Tree

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Lewis Sparrow Tree
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Cover; Description; Title Page; Dedication; Acknowledgements; Contents; SYRINX; Sparrow Tree; Taxonomy; Field Guide to Dementia; Guest; What Do Birds Say?; Murmuration; Birder; Virgin; LOGOS; Small Brown Job; Love Poem; Splinter; Imaginary Walks in Istanbul; FEATHER; Quilting for Childless Women; 1 Pine Trees (Crib Quilt); 2 Broken Plates; 3 Tumbling Blocks; 4 Crazy Quilt; 5 Broken Star; 6 Triangles; 7 Double Wedding Ring (for H.W.); 8 Log Cabin, Barn Raising Variation (Crib Quilt); 9 Ocean Waves (for A.J.); 10 Bricks in Bars; 11 Crosses and Losses.;?Roland Mathias Poetry Award (Wales Book of the Year) Gwyneth Lewiss highly inventive Sparrow Tree puts nature writing in a spin, presenting a huge variety of birds, both British and American: blue tits, blackbirds, egrets, juncos, starlings, herons and humming-birds as well as the sparrows of the title. The book explores birds as mouthpieces for inhuman song and the wild inside the mind. Launching flights of avian fancy or fantasy on several levels, Sparrow Tree moves from birdsong as proto-language to birds as decorative beings. The collection includes her already well-known How to Knit a P.

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GWYNETH LEWIS
SPARROW TREE
Roland Mathias Poetry Award (Wales Book of the Year) Gwyneth Lewiss highly inventive Sparrow Tree puts nature writing in a spin, presenting a huge variety of birds, both British and American: blue tits, blackbirds, egrets, juncos, starlings, herons and humming-birds as well as the sparrows of the title. The book explores birds as mouthpieces for inhuman song and the wild inside the mind. Launching flights of avian fancy or fantasy on several levels, Sparrow Tree moves from birdsong as proto-language to birds as decorative beings. The collection includes her already well-known How to Knit a Poem, commissioned by BBC Radio 4, and ends with images of the human word as a form of love. These are poems that gather darkly and peck. They feint and play hazardously with their beaks and sometimes take to wing These are poems more concerned with the mechanisms of song both human and avian than they are with the song itself, and it is this resistance that makes the poems so often mesmerising What Lewis pulls offfeels like an avian feat: she strikes a fine, improbable balance between gravity and levity.

Even as her speaker struggles to access the language, to get the voice right, she gets us off the ground and ungiddily bids us, look Elyse Fenton, New Welsh Review COVER PAINTING
We Live in Air (2008) by Lamar Peterson For Leighton

Many of these poems were written while I was a Fellow at the Radcliffe Institute for Advanced Study at Harvard University, others while I was a Fellow at the Stanford Humanities Center. Im deeply grateful to both institutions. Glaucoma was commissioned by the Calouste Gulbenkian Foundation for the anthology Signs and Humours, ed. Lavinia Greenlaw (2007). How to Knit a Poem was part of four programmes commissioned by BBC Radio 4 and produced by Penny Arnold. Prayer for Horizon was commissioned by BBC Radio 3s The Verb, Spectrum by the Dean and Chapter of St Pauls Cathedral for the Advent Procession 2005.

An earlier version of Voice was commissioned by the Shell BBC Singer of the Year competition 2008. Some of these poems have appeared in Agenda, Harvard Divinity Bulletin, Harvard Review, Michigan Quarterly Review, New Welsh Review, PN Review, Poetry Review, Salamander, Times Literary Supplement and The Tower. I owe the individual poem titles of Quilting for Childless Women to Amish Abstractions: Quilts from the Collection of Faith and Stephen Brown, exhibited at the de Young Museum, San Francisco.

CONTENTS
I had this tree Where sparrows nested, My aviary. I welcomed a blackbird, Which was wrong. That, A better class of song Went calling on the sparrows nest. Guess the rest.

You think Ive blackbirds? They moved on To kill elsewhere. No tune, no subject. Yes, imaginary birds, But theyre no use. So, start again With thorns, an invitation.

Dusky junco, dusky junco, jay, Towhee, testy towhee, testy towhee go Swallow, swallow, swallow, swift, Culture, give me cultured kite. Oh no, The butcher bird.

No! Not the shrike! I will do, maybe, phalarope. Ee, ah, oo, oh, oriole.

To see you is egret, No, red kite high On a thermal, Holding your hand Is wagtail, comfort. I think some cuckoos laid An egg of darkness in my head. Words have migrated, I forget their calls. Quite.
A blue tit pecks at the window pane Of your eye.
A blue tit pecks at the window pane Of your eye.

It shatters, letting bird explode In stars and auras on your retinal veins Then up the optical nerve to your brain, Like an idea. Painful, no doubt. Me, Id not want my visitor out.

Friday, a sparrow cried: Me! Me! That was difficult. Saturday it was: You! I liked this no better.
I fell among starlings, Birds of the damned.
I fell among starlings, Birds of the damned.

I understand myself to be single, A rebel. Im off! They catch me, Filing to magnetic field, Fireless smoke. Sighing, like electricity, We settle on our chosen tree, Bloody with berries. I tell you, we had That bush by the throat.

(i.m. my aunt Megan 1924-2009)
I
Midwinter, season for seeing through Time and space.

Before the War, You were sparrow. Now I hear Geese in your breathing, oboe sighs. Overhead theyre leaving too. Each birds A letter, making sense For a moment, then not. Cirrus of snow Lays over the woods.

II
Morning performance on the stage Under the feeder.
II
Morning performance on the stage Under the feeder.

Enter wild turkeys, A corps de ballet in copper tutus. Solo of startle entrechat, entrechat,Pas de bourres then the tom Leads off his harem, one by one, No curtsey, no curtain call. Then gone.

III
Fashion show: a black-eyed junco Models its species train, Down jacket (in white and slate), Then profile. When I die I want to hear birds ricochet Outside my window, feel the strobe Of small flocks feeding.
IV
Its no small thing to have lived your life In cardinals and tree-creepers eyes.
IV
Its no small thing to have lived your life In cardinals and tree-creepers eyes.

Theyll feel you first as a rendezvous missed, Then hunger. Your bodys the birds Waiting as they rise and scatter To a final slam of the kitchen door.

1
You cant save me. I Want hummingbirds. My hearts a fountain Attracting jays Which jeer and bicker. I want to be seen By a vicious eye Beaks needle In the quantum blur Of iridescence.

Thats it! There!

2
(Yawn) once You dont need them, Theyre everywhere.
May you be led on all your walks By an unidentified bird Flitting ahead, at least one branch, The tease, between you And it. Is that an eye Stripe? Epaulette? Your desire For a name grows stronger. Chaffinch? Warbler? This is spinning Gold from straw. Youre in good hands.
I want to be as close to you as the name San Juan de Aznalfarache when you struggle to say it.
I want to be as close to you as the name San Juan de Aznalfarache when you struggle to say it.

A tune in the head you cant forget. A name full of vitamins. A word so rich that I catch in your fillings. A rhythm, a taste. A place where, once, a poet was king of Mudejar origin. San Juande Aznalfarache.

SanJuan de Aznalfarache. Stumble, stutter me before moving on to the African citadels. Make your tongue touch, ever so gently, the back of your teeth. No. Let me show you.

(for Finnley, aged 3) In years to come, they will lodge in his heart.
(for Finnley, aged 3) In years to come, they will lodge in his heart.

I wont be me with a sterilised pin Dislodging dashes of wooden rain Aslant in his sole. He says it doesnt hurt, I dont believe him. One fragments stubborn. Dig deeper. If I were a mosquito Id anaesthetise his novice skin Before each stab. And then Id suck With more conviction and no less zeal Than Helen, mother of Constantine, Who scoured the length and breadth of Christendom For a piece of the real cross.

Got it! Kiss his reliquary skin.

1
Its time I made my daily promenade to nowhere special round the footstool and parlour. Just as Sren Kierkegaard and father took imaginary strolls inside looking out, not needing travel. I apologise now to Istanbul never been there but I find myself full of mosques and ferries, crosses and crusades, a journey thats purely fictional. Ive drunk cool sherbert and lemonade in Bosphorus villas: quarters of mind. Untaken photographs will never fade because theyre unreal.
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