Like a Tree, Walking
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About this ebook
Vahni Capildeo
Vahni Capildeo’s multilingual, cross-genre writing is grounded in time experienced through place. Her DPhil in Old Norse literature and translation theory, her travels, and her Indian diaspora/Caribbean background deepen the voices in the landscapes that inspire her. Her poetry (six books and four pamphlets) includes Measures of Expatriation, awarded the Forward Prize for Best Collection in 2016. She has worked in academia; in culture for development, with Commonwealth Writers; and as an Oxford English Dictionary lexicographer. Capildeo held the Judith E. Wilson Poetry Fellowship and the Harper-Wood Studentship at Cambridge. She is currently a Douglas Caster Cultural Fellow at the University of Leeds.
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Like a Tree, Walking - Vahni Capildeo
WHEN I CALLED
IN PRAISE OF BIRDS
In praise of high-contrast birds, purple bougainvillea
thicketing the golden oriole.
In praise of civic birds, vultures cleansing the valleys,
hummingbird logos on the tails of propeller planes; in praise
of adaptable birds, the herring gull that demonstrates its
knowledge of how to use a box junction, and seems to want
to cross the road.
In praise of birds eaten by aeroplane engines; in praise of
birds trained to hunt drones; in praise of birds that, having
nothing to do with human processes, crash aeroplanes.
In praise of suicidal birds, brown ground doves forgetful of
wingèdness, in front of cars, slowly crossing the road.
In praise of perse birds like fish smashing out of a bowl.
In praise of talk being cheep, and in praise of men who shut
up about birds.
In praise of birds of death and communication, Garuda
the almost-but-more-than-an-eagle vehicle of the darkly
bejewelled and awfully laughing Lord of Death.
In praise of badly drawn birds.
In praise of white egrets, sitting on mud, hippos, and lines
about old age.
In praise of Old English birds of exile, the gannet’s laughter,
swathes of remembered seabirds booming and chuckling,
the urgent cuckoo blazing on about summer, mournful
and mindblowing, driving the sailor over the edge towards
impossible targets, scornful of gardens, salty about city life – I
can’t stand not setting off; far is seldom far enough.
In praise of a turn of good cluck.
In praise of the high-dancing birds carried on the heads of
masqueraders and built by wirebenders to carry the spirit of
an archipelago of more than seven thousand isles.
In praise of grackles quarrelling on the lawn.
In praise of unbeautiful birds abounding in Old Norse,
language of scavenging ravens, thought and memory, a
treacherous duo. The giantess down from the mountain
complained – I couldn’t sleep in a coastal bed because of the
yammering of waterfowl. Every morning that blasted seagull
wakes me.
In praise of the peacocks invading the car park at the Viking
conference in York, warming their spread tails on the bodies
of cars.
In praise of the early bird who liberates the dewy worm from
glaucous grass.
In praise of birds of timetelling: green-rumped parrots for
morning, kiskadees dipping at night: and the absence of birds
of timetelling, the unreeled horror of humanly meaningless
time.
In praise of the bird of the soul that flies out when the body
is molested, and in praise of that bird recalling the abuse
room as if perched on the highest point of the pinewood
press.
In praise of the blueblack grassquit, which is inky and small.
In praise of the albatross, in praise of the double doors to a
swimming baths hall.
In praise of birds of concussion, notes in the air being all the
brain can cope with.
In praise of birds as edible and in praise of birds as angels
and in praise of birds as stones and in praise of Thoth the
Ibis.
In praise of the birds of climate change, forest warblers
bringing a new song to the suburbs, late-leaving Arctic tern
teenagers blizzarding the beach.
In praise of ducking and diving, and without praise of the
cruelty of quills.
In praise of birds that are not punctuation, that are not
calendars, that are not words.
In praise of birds that occupy and disrupt a lyrical musical
staff.
In praise of birds that singing still do shit, shitting ever
singing, above a low-rent skylight, on a diet of chips.
In praise of triangulation and three unseen corncrakes by
whose calls guests may recognize the way to the house on the
tipsy hill.
In praise of increasingly grotesque fossil remains of proto-
birds, and the discovery of normality as never having been
such.
In praise of birds plucked for dream armour, flame fur, plate
plume, and in praise of women who fight like cranes and
swans.
In praise of thump and slime.
In praise of fine feathers, prophecies, and export regulations.
In praise of Quetzalcoatl. Tremble to say more.
In praise of the birds of prognostication, gutted, magnetic, or
altering their calls.
In praise of rare and less showy doctors refraining