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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