Ooh! Pablo Neruda loves them too. In exactly the perfect way. Sometimes I worry people will think I am plagiarising what he thinks wrt seagulls because it is SO EXACTLY TRUE:
Ode to the Seagull To the seagull above the pinewoods of the coast, on the wind the sibilant syllable of my ode.
Sail along in my verse, shining boat, banner with two wings, body of silver, lift up your emblem across the shirt of the cold firmament, O sky-sailor, smooth serenade of flight, arrow of snow, calm ship in the transparent storm, you raise your equilibrium while the hoarse wind sweeps the meadows of the sky.
After your long journey, feathered magnolia, triangle that the air holds up into the heights, slowly you come back to your form closing your silver garment, ovaling your brilliant treasure, becoming once again a white bud of flight, round seed, egg of beauty.
Another poet at this point would end his triumphant ode. I cannot allow myself just the white luxury of the useless foam. Forgive me, seagull, I am a poet of reality, a photographer of the sky. You eat, eat, eat, there's nothing you don't devour, over the water of the bay you bark like a poor man's dog, you run after the last scrap of fish guts, you peck at your white sisters, you steal the despicable prize, the crumbling heap of oceanic garbage, you scout for rotten tomoatoes, the discarded refuse of the cove. But you transform alll of it into pure wing, white geometry, the ecstatic line of your flight.
That's why, snowy anchor, sky-sailor, I celebrate you as a whole: with your overwhelming voraciousness, with your screech in the rain or your rest like a snowflake detached from the storm, with your peace or your flight, seagull, I consecrate to you my earthly words, a clumsy attempt at flight, to see if you will scatter your birdseed in my ode.
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Date: 2006-05-08 04:17 pm (UTC)Ode to the Seagull
To the seagull
above
the pinewoods
of the coast,
on the wind
the sibilant
syllable of my ode.
Sail along
in my verse,
shining boat,
banner with two wings,
body of silver,
lift up
your emblem across
the shirt
of the cold firmament,
O sky-sailor,
smooth
serenade of flight,
arrow of snow, calm
ship in the transparent storm,
you raise your equilibrium
while
the hoarse wind sweeps
the meadows of the sky.
After your long journey,
feathered magnolia,
triangle that the air
holds up into the heights,
slowly you come back
to your form
closing
your silver garment,
ovaling your brilliant treasure,
becoming once again
a white bud of flight,
round
seed,
egg of beauty.
Another poet
at this point
would end
his triumphant ode.
I cannot
allow myself
just
the white luxury
of the useless foam.
Forgive me,
seagull,
I am
a poet
of reality,
a photographer of the sky.
You eat,
eat,
eat,
there's
nothing you don't devour,
over the water of the bay
you bark
like a poor man's dog,
you run
after the last
scrap
of fish guts,
you peck
at your white sisters,
you steal
the despicable prize,
the crumbling heap
of oceanic garbage,
you scout for
rotten tomoatoes,
the discarded
refuse of the cove.
But
you transform
alll of it
into pure wing,
white geometry,
the ecstatic line of your flight.
That's why,
snowy anchor,
sky-sailor,
I celebrate you as a whole:
with your overwhelming voraciousness,
with your screech in the rain
or your rest
like a snowflake detached
from the storm,
with your peace or your flight,
seagull,
I consecrate to you
my earthly words,
a clumsy attempt at flight,
to see
if you will scatter
your birdseed in my ode.