• Chloe Fenech

Poems Inspired By Nature

Today I felt like sharing a different source of inspiration whilst also connection with my favourite muse: nature of course! Instead of browsing through my travel photos or watching Attenborough yet again, I decided to dig out some old books and some favourite poets. Poets have an extraordinary way of connecting with nature that its hard for painters or photographers to do. Every word becomes a past, a present, a scene frozen into memory. I hope you enjoy reading these as much as I did!

The Starlings – Charles Kingsley Early in spring time, on raw and windy mornings, Beneath the freezing house-eaves I heard the starlings sing- ‘Ah dreary March month, is this then a time for building wearily? Sad, sad, to think that the year is but begun.’

Late in the autumn, on still and cloudless evenings, Among the golden reed-beds I heard the starlings sing- ‘Ah that sweet March month, when we and our mates were courting merrily; Sad, sad, to think that the year is all but done.’

Pigeons – Richard Kell They paddle with staccato feet In powder-pools of sunlight, Small blue busybodies Strutting like fat gentlemen With hands clasped Under their swallowtail coats; And, as they stump about, Their heads like tiny hammers Tap at imaginary nails In non-existent walls. Elusive ghosts of sunshine Slither down the green gloss Of their necks in an instant, and are gone.

Summer hangs drugged from sky to earth In limpid fathoms of silence: Only warm dark dimples of sound Slide like slow bubbles From the contented throats.

Raise a casual hand – With one quick gust They fountain into air.

Sonnet VIII – Pablo Neruda If your eyes were not the color of the moon, of a day full [here, interrupted by the baby waking — continued about 26 hours later ] of a day full of clay, and work, and fire, if even held-in you did not move in agile grace like the air, if you were not an amber week,

not the yellow moment when autumn climbs up through the vines; if you were not that bread the fragrant moon kneads, sprinkling its flour across the sky,

oh, my dearest, I could not love you so! But when I hold you I hold everything that is — sand, time, the tree of the rain,

everything is alive so that I can be alive: without moving I can see it all: in your life I see everything that lives.

Cats no less liquid than their shadows – Arthur Seymour John Tessimond Cats no less liquid than their shadows Offer no angles to the wind. They slip, diminished, neat through loopholes Less than themselves; will not be pinned

To rules or routes for journeys; counter Attack with non-resistance; twist Enticing through the curving fingers And leave an angered empty fist.

They wait obsequious as darkness Quick to retire, quick to return; Admit no aim or ethics; flatter With reservations; will not learn

To answer to their names; are seldom Truly owned till shot or skinned. Cats no less liquid than their shadows Offer no angles to the wind.

*Blog image by Grey Feather Photography

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#writing #Poetry #Nature #literature #birds #animals #pigeons #poem #ArtDiaries

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