Poets across time and space have tuned into birdsong. Take the 9th-century Chinese Zen hermit poet, Han Shan (Cold Mountain):
| 寒山棲隱處
絕得雜人過 時逢林內鳥 相共唱山歌 瑞草聯谿谷 老松枕嵯峨 可觀無事客 憩歇在巖阿
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Where Cold Mountain dwells in peace isn’t on a travelled trail when he meets forest birds each sings their mountain song sacred plants line the streams old pines cling to crags there he is without a care resting on a perilous ledge
Collected Songs of Cold Mountain, trans. by Red Pine (Copper Canyon Press, 2000), pp. 218-19
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At the 2022 Translation Festival, Sally Flint in tandem with Hugh Roberts, Martin Sorrell and Yue Zhuang ran a session to ‘translate’ a favourite bird into a poem in a short burst of creative writing.
To celebrate National Poetry Day, here are the quick-fire poems produced at that session:
No sound, but a joyous song
A cold January morning in the garden alone.
Dad had died the day before.
A robin perched on a wheelbarrow.
Soundless – one eye watching.
The dark brown eye winked.
Like Dad’s pale blue eye,
It was a joyous song.
Bruce Currey
morning coffee
this birdsong is the first sign of spring
it sounds like an “ouh-ouh” to my ear
when I hear it I can feel the sun on my cheek
I can smell my dad’s morning coffee
I can even see the leaves resurfacing
and everything turning into shades of green
I didn’t know where it came from when I was six
but I knew it would be back next spring
Laurine Collardeau
black and white portrait
Fly. Perch. Now!
Down. Up. Check.
Velociraptor walk.
Inspect. Check. Look.
Eat. Pause. Check. Eat.
Eat. Pause. Check. Eat.
Cleverer than clockwork.
Cleverer than you.
Monochrome rainbow.
Hugh Roberts
And Martin Sorrell shared his beautiful translation of the ‘Chanson de l’oiseleur’ of the much-loved French poet, Jacques Prévert:
THE BIRD-CATCHER’S SONG
The bird that flies on silent wings
The bird that flies straight into things
The bird as red and warm as blood
The mocking bird the bird of love
The bird that’s eager to take flight
The bird that suddenly takes fright
The bird that has a panic fit
The bird that so much wants to live
The bird that so much wants to cheep
The bird that so much needs to weep
The bird as red and warm as blood
The bird that flies on silent wings
That bird’s your heart you poor wee thing
Your heart that’s fluttering its wings
Inside its cage of firm young ribs.
Translated by Martin Sorrell
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