The feathered Mozart
A Black-crested Bulbul
A 7-inch canvas of
Multi-hued beauty,
Sits on her slender legs,
On a hard transmission line,
In want of a tree,
Still issuing forth—
A merry song to the deaf
World on this warm
March morning;
The trilling notes floating,
In the ethereal space
Inhabited by such tiny fliers,
That were, the sweet and natural notes,
Heard once
By a
Wandering Wordsworth
In the picturesque Lake District and
A young restive Shelley
Dreaming of better worlds;
The same notes,
Now,
Are heard but
By few alert folks
Across the commercialized continents
And dysfunctional homes;
To-day,
In an age of raiders and extreme
Climate changes,
These tiny sugary notes
Constitute a rare symphony
Of various tones and scales,
That , soon,will be heard no more.
2 thoughts on “The feathered Mozart”
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” The feathered Mozart ” struck me with its visual intensity, like one of those movie screen slo-mo tracking shots , where consciousness is isolated in a unique moment of realisation,doubt and regret;everything honed down and compressed,before exploding into the very next moment when the narrative resumes at normal speed.
Dear Louis,
Your comments are so enlightening and refreshingly beautiful as the vistas of snow-capped mountains or the alpine country—always producing newer perspectives and meanings on each subsequent re-visit.
I find them more intelligent than the original posts…as far as my poems are concerned.
Thanks a lot—for encouraging words, as always.