The woodpecker's nap

Isn't he beautiful? I am totally in love. I was sitting at the dining table working on the haiku anthology. And he ate and ate and ate suet. My camera was at my elbow, so I didn't have to get up to get it and scare him off. The lines of the window screen are visible in this picture; sometimes they don't show quite this much.

Then he paused a bit and ate some more. I typed in some haiku.

And then he stopped and TOOK A NAP! I swear it! See how relaxed he is; his eyes are closed. He slept for quite some time. When he woke up he ate some more suet.

And all the time, while the woodpecker was monopolizing the feeder, chickadees were dive-bombing the feeder zone, one at a time, from different directions. But not one ever landed on the feeder. Once in a while, one sat on the fence, like this, just looking. But the big bird was King of the Hill. Until he flew.

Tonight I have been looking at the poems in Canadian Nature Poems, which I got because Roo Borson is in it.  The link is to previous posts in which her poems appear.

I found some good poems; then I thought, wouldn't it be wonderful if there was a subject index? And there is! And there is a poem about the Pileated Woodpecker (no nap, though.) Here it is.

from "A Question of Questions"

v.

for R.D.l.

The error lies in

the state of desire

in wanting the answers

wanting the red-crested 

woodpecker to pose

among red berries

of the ash tree

wanting its names

its habitations

the instinct 

of its ways for

my head-travelling

wanting its colours

its red, white, its black

pressed behind my eyes

a triptych

three-fold

and over

and wanting the bird

to be still and

wanting it moving

whiteflash of underwings

dazzling all questions

out of me, amazement

and outbreathing

become a form

of my knowing.

I move and it moves

into a cedar tree.

I walk and I walk.

My deceiving angel's

in-shadow joins me

paces my steps and threatens

to take my head

between its hands.

I keep walking. 

Trying to think.

Here on the island

there is time

on the Isabella 

Point Road.

We pass a dead

deer on the beach.

Bloated. It stinks.

The angel insists, 'Keep 

walking.' It has all the time

in the world. Is sufficient.

Is alone. 'Keep walking.'

it says and flies off

with my head.

What's left of me

remembers a funny song

also a headless

man on rockface

painted in red

by Indian finger spirits.

The red-crested woodpecker swoops down

and sits on my trunk. Posing.

Dryocopus pileatus. 'Spectacular, black,

Crow-sized woodpecker with a red crest,

great size, sweeping wingbeats, flashing

white underwing.' Pileated woodpecker.

Posing. Many questions.

'The diggings, large oval or oblong holes,

indicate its presence.'

Zen Master,

(1980)

Phyllis Webb

From Open Wide a Wilderness; Canadian Nature Poetry, 

Wilfrid Laurier University Press, 2009, page 213-214.

I don't know what the bits just before and just after the poem mean; I have copied them as they were presented in the book. Phyllis Webb's selected poems won the Canadian Governor General's Award in 1982.

Look at the effect of the many short lines in this longish poem. Try this out yourself. And it is always fun to put in bits of information you find in the bird book. Sleep well. Dream of flight.