“O you virtuous
owle,
The wise
Minerva’s only fowle.” — Sir Philip Sidney
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| SOURCE |
“A serious writer
is not to be confounded with a solemn writer. A serious writer may be a hawk or
a buzzard or even a popinjay, but a solemn writer is always a bloody owl.”— Ernest Hemingway
Midweek
Motif ~ The Owl
Owls have been
appearing in literature since a long time. To the Bard, the owl was a merry
note; an elegant fowl to Edward Lear but to many others owl brought gloom.
Let’s see how you
look at this most written about bird of prey.
A few owl poems
for you:
Owl
by Sylvia Plath
Clocks belled
twelve. Main street showed otherwise
Than its suburb of woods : nimbus—-
Lit, but unpeopled, held its windows
Of wedding pastries,
Diamond rings, potted roses, fox-skins
Ruddy on the wax mannequins
In a glassed tableau of affluence.
From deep-sunk basements
What moved the pale, raptorial owl
Then, to squall above the level
Of streetlights and wires, its wall to wall
Wingspread in control
Of the ferrying currents, belly
Dense-feathered, fearfully soft to
Look upon? Rats' teeth gut the city
Shaken by owl cry.
Than its suburb of woods : nimbus—-
Lit, but unpeopled, held its windows
Of wedding pastries,
Diamond rings, potted roses, fox-skins
Ruddy on the wax mannequins
In a glassed tableau of affluence.
From deep-sunk basements
What moved the pale, raptorial owl
Then, to squall above the level
Of streetlights and wires, its wall to wall
Wingspread in control
Of the ferrying currents, belly
Dense-feathered, fearfully soft to
Look upon? Rats' teeth gut the city
Shaken by owl cry.
The Judge Is Like The Owl
by Emily Dickinson
The Judge is like
the Owl—
I've heard my Father tell—
And Owls do build in Oaks—
So here's an Amber Sill—
That slanted in my Path—
When going to the Barn—
And if it serve You for a House—
Itself is not in vain—
About the price—'tis small—
I only ask a Tune
At Midnight—Let the Owl select
His favorite Refrain.
I've heard my Father tell—
And Owls do build in Oaks—
So here's an Amber Sill—
That slanted in my Path—
When going to the Barn—
And if it serve You for a House—
Itself is not in vain—
About the price—'tis small—
I only ask a Tune
At Midnight—Let the Owl select
His favorite Refrain.
The Owl
by Edward Thomas
Downhill
I came, hungry, and yet not starved;
Cold,
yet had heat within me that was proof
Against
the North wind; tired, yet so that rest
Had
seemed the sweetest thing under a roof.
Then
at the inn I had food, fire, and rest,
Knowing
how hungry, cold, and tired was I.
All
of the night was quite barred out except
An
owl’s cry, a most melancholy cry
Shaken
out long and clear upon the hill,
No merry note, nor cause of merriment,
But one telling me plain what I escaped
And others could not, that night, as in I went.
And salted was my food, and my repose,
Salted and sobered, too, by the bird’s voice
Speaking for all who lay under the stars,
Soldiers and poor, unable to rejoice.
Please share your
new poem using Mr. Linky below and visit others in the spirit of the community—
(Next week Susan’s Midweek
Motif will be ~ Abundance)
