Matilda died today

[just mercedes]

 Not many changes - I know it can do with more trimming - I'll wait and see what happens.


Edit #1 Matilda died today
 
 
 
She flew squawking from the kitchen
to land on my shoulder. She brought me
the tiny burden of her death.
I caught her up, hugged her
as if I could hold it off;
I breathed into her lungs,
pumped her wings,
tears blinded me
but she wouldn’t come back. I held
her; limp body, neck swinging loose
as if broken, feathers disarrayed
as she would never have them, eyes
shuttered, then closed.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly
she faded to cold.
 
This morning when she hopped
onto my hand, her feet felt cool
instead of their usual warm.
Should I have been warned?
 
Now she’s buried, wrapped
in a pink silk chemise of mine,
under the pohutukawa near the tui’s nest
and a blackbird is singing
her tangihanga.
 
I’m putting away her things. I need
to list them before she’s gone altogether.
 
First, I put her seed dish outside
for the sparrows and finches, blackbirds
who’ll miss her daily leftovers. I’ll fill it
every day until the bags of seed
run out.
 
Her water bowl has rejoined
odd garden stuff. She’d floated
one of her toys - the bowl
of an old wooden spoon -
in it this morning.
I don’t know why.
 
Her swing
with concrete perch to help
trim her claws, her mirror with dangling bell
that never chimed, just clunked,
the boiled lamb bone for her beak,
the cuttlefish, the shell grit - all into the garbage
with the half-explored apricot, the sampled-but-not-finished
apple, the eggplant end, cabbage bone, lettuce leaf, the chewed
and splintered wooden spoon handle, the honey
dripper with its grooves neatly rounded.
Her spirit is still imprinted there
but it’s fading. A fly
just landed on the cage bottom.
 
Now I bend and fold the sprig of leaves
from the big gum on the corner by Ian’s house
near the railway lines - it still has a few
gum nuts on it, not yet chewed.
She smelled of eucalyptus when I breathed her in
just before I put her in the ground
and covered her
just an hour ago, just this morning.
 
Her ladder - she was scared of it at first
but climbing the cage walls hurt her feet
and the ladder made it easier. I lean it
where she’s buried.
 
I throw away her other mirror, that I’d taken
from my mother’s nursing home - a folding
double vanity mirror I’d hooked to the cage
with a key ring from Las Vegas.
 
Matilda died this morning. Already in the past.
 
Last things - that flower John brought her
from Porirua, whose name I still don’t know.
It grew at his place. Tuis and kakas loved it too.
He brought her some each Friday for months;
it had just finished flowering, these were
the last stems.
 
A wilted fag-end of a carrot. The newspaper
dated December 4. A dried-up locquat
and a few feathers. She’d finished her molt
just in time to die
 
and the pink-and-grey rose-covered comforter
I’d bought new when Mum was still alive
that had covered her cage every night
that I lifted every morning
to let the world back in.
 
I won’t need that again.
 
(thank you A D Hope for ‘the tiny burden of her death’ from Death of the bird.)




 First draft
 
She flew squawking from the kitchen
to land on my shoulder. She brought me
the tiny burden of her death.
I caught her up, hugged her to me
as if I could hold it off;
I breathed into her lungs,
pumped her wings, I couldn’t see -
my tears blinded me -
but she wouldn’t come back. I held
her limp body, neck swinging loose
as if broken, feathers disarrayed
as she would never have them, eyes
shuttered, then closed.
Slowly she got cold.
 
This morning when she’d hopped
onto my hand, I’d noticed
her feet were cool. Usually
she’s warm.
 
Now she’s buried, wrapped
in a pink silk chemise of mine,
under the pohutukawa near the tui’s nest
and a blackbird is singing
her tangihanga.
 
I’m putting away her things. I need
to list them before she’s gone altogether.
 
First, I put her seed dish outside
for the sparrows and finches, blackbirds
who’ll miss her daily leftovers. I’ll fill it
every day until the bags of seed
run out.
 
Her water bowl will rejoin
odd garden stuff. She’d floated
one of her toys - the bowl
of an old wooden spoon -
in it this morning.
I don’t know why.
 
Her swing
with a concrete perch to help
trim her claws, her mirror with dangling bell
that never chimed, just clunked,
the boiled lamb bone for her beak,
the cuttlefish, the shell grit - all into the garbage
with the half-explored apricot, the sampled
but not finished apple, the eggplant end,
the cabbage bone, lettuce leaf, and the chewed
and splintered wooden spoon handle, the honey
dripper with its grooves neatly rounded.
Her spirit is still imprinted in them
but it’s fading. A fly
just landed on the cage bottom.
 
Now I bend and fold the sprig of leaves
from the big gum on the corner by Ian’s house
near the railway lines - it still has a few
gum nuts on it, not yet chewed.
She smelled of eucalyptus when I breathed her in
just before I put her in the ground
and covered her
just an hour ago, just this morning.
 
Her ladder - she was scared of it at first
but climbing the cage walls hurt her feet
and the ladder made it easier. I put it
where she’s buried, leading up into the sky.
 
I throw away her other mirror, that I’d taken
from my mother’s nursing home - a folding
double vanity mirror I’d hooked to the cage
with a key ring from Las Vegas.
 
Matilda died this morning. Already in the past.
 
Last things - that flower John brought her
from Porirua, whose name I still don’t know.
It grew at his place. Tuis and kakas loved it too,
he shared it with Matilda for months;
it had just finished flowering, these were
the last stems.
 
A wilted fag-end of a carrot. The newspaper
dated December 4. A dried-up locquat
and a few feathers. She’d finished her molt
just in time to die
 
and the pink-and-grey rose-covered comforter
I’d bought new when Mum was still alive
that had covered her cage every night
that I lifted every morning
to let the world back in.
 
I won’t need that again.
 




(thank you A D Hope for '...the tiny burden of her death' from Death of the Bird)

[tectak]

 
 
 
She flew squawking from the kitchen
to land on my shoulder. She brought me
the tiny burden of her death.
I caught her up, hugged her to me
as if I could hold it off;
I breathed into her lungs,
pumped her wings, I couldn’t see -
my tears blinded me -
but she wouldn’t come back. I held
her limp body, neck swinging loose
as if broken, feathers disarrayed
as she would never have them, eyes
shuttered, then closed.
Slowly she got cold.
 
This morning when she’d hopped
onto my hand, I’d noticed
her feet were cool. Usually
she’s warm.
 
Now she’s buried, wrapped
in a pink silk chemise of mine,
under the pohutukawa near the tui’s nest
and a blackbird is singing
her tangihanga.
 
I’m putting away her things. I need
to list them before she’s gone altogether.
 
First, I put her seed dish outside
for the sparrows and finches, blackbirds
who’ll miss her daily leftovers. I’ll fill it
every day until the bags of seed
run out.
 
Her water bowl will rejoin
odd garden stuff. She’d floated
one of her toys - the bowl
of an old wooden spoon -
in it this morning.
I don’t know why.
 
Her swing
with a concrete perch to help
trim her claws, her mirror with dangling bell
that never chimed, just clunked,
the boiled lamb bone for her beak,
the cuttlefish, the shell grit - all into the garbage
with the half-explored apricot, the sampled
but not finished apple, the eggplant end,
the cabbage bone, lettuce leaf, and the chewed
and splintered wooden spoon handle, the honey
dripper with its grooves neatly rounded.
Her spirit is still imprinted in them
but it’s fading. A fly
just landed on the cage bottom.
 
Now I bend and fold the sprig of leaves
from the big gum on the corner by Ian’s house
near the railway lines - it still has a few
gum nuts on it, not yet chewed.
She smelled of eucalyptus when I breathed her in
just before I put her in the ground
and covered her
just an hour ago, just this morning.
 
Her ladder - she was scared of it at first
but climbing the cage walls hurt her feet
and the ladder made it easier. I put it
where she’s buried, leading up into the sky.
 
I throw away her other mirror, that I’d taken
from my mother’s nursing home - a folding
double vanity mirror I’d hooked to the cage
with a key ring from Las Vegas.
 
Matilda died this morning. Already in the past.
 
Last things - that flower John brought her
from Porirua, whose name I still don’t know.
It grew at his place. Tuis and kakas loved it too,
he shared it with Matilda for months;
it had just finished flowering, these were
the last stems.
 
A wilted fag-end of a carrot. The newspaper
dated December 4. A dried-up locquat
and a few feathers. She’d finished her molt
just in time to die
 
and the pink-and-grey rose-covered comforter
I’d bought new when Mum was still alive
that had covered her cage every night
that I lifted every morning
to let the world back in.
 
I won’t need that again.
 




(thank you A D Hope for '...the tiny burden of her death' from Death of the Bird)

I've just finished plucking five brace of pheasants, a barnacle goose and four black grouse. I cannot see for tears...let alone comment. Back tomorrow after lunch...it's roast mallard on orange and walnut vermicelli with Grand Marniere flambeed dumplings.
Stroll on....
Breast,
tectak
( I know what I'm saying )

[Leanne]

I can't fix anything just now, because your loss is so poignant and painful. The last line is loaded with multiple meanings.

We expect galahs to last nearly as long as we do -- this must have been a horrible shock. I'll come back and suggest a few punctuation fixes but that'll most likely be all.

[just mercedes]

Thanks, both of you. She didn't have much meat on her - not much of a snack. So I'll just have the Grand Marnier, on ice please, with a squeeze of lemon.

[Leanne]

Just as well. Your chemise might not have fit a fatter bird.

[just mercedes]

Just as well.  Your chemise might not have fit a fatter bird.

In both cases.

[crow]

I'm thunderstruck. Soooo wonderful. Since this is in serious, I'll give it a crit, but I'll do it in a particularly tailored, not-super-long way

---

If I can--it feels like editing a diary, and I worry any edits would briquette all of the rich, warm life in it . . .

[Leah S.]

This is a good poem already. I decline to give you a detailed critique because I'm so moved. Later maybe. I do want to know her name sooner in the poem, I think it should be in the first line, really. There are a few places where I can't quite get the sense, but I believe they will be easy to fix. I looked up tangihanga because of this poem. Thank you.

[just mercedes]

This is a good poem already. I decline to give you a detailed critique because I'm so moved. Later maybe. I do want to know her name sooner in the poem, I think it should be in the first line, really. There are a few places where I can't quite get the sense, but I believe they will be easy to fix. I looked up tangihanga because of this poem. Thank you.

Thanks for your read and comments. Her name is in the title of the poem.

[Leanne]

That it is a touching, poignant and personal poem does not excuse it from critique -- in fact, the more personal, the more perfect I'm sure you want it to be.  Now that I have some distance from the strength of your emotion, here are my thoughts.  

After all, this is where we critique the poem, not coddle the author, especially when we have no way of knowing what is true and what is complete fabrication.

 
 
 
She flew squawking from the kitchen
to land on my shoulder. She brought me
the tiny burden of her death.
I caught her up, hugged her to me
as if I could hold it off;
I breathed into her lungs,
pumped her wings, I couldn’t see - -- I am not convinced that you need both "I couldn't see" and "my tears blinded me" -- sonically it's good but there's a redundancy that weakens the idea
my tears blinded me -
but she wouldn’t come back. I held
her limp body, neck swinging loose
as if broken, feathers disarrayed
as she would never have them, eyes
shuttered, then closed. -- all the -ed endings are quite poignant here.  It's blatantly past tense and done with.  
Slowly she got cold. -- not keen on "got"
 
This morning when she’d hopped
onto my hand, I’d noticed
her feet were cool. Usually
she’s warm. -- tense issue?
 
Now she’s buried, wrapped
in a pink silk chemise of mine,
under the pohutukawa near the tui’s nest
and a blackbird is singing
her tangihanga. -- all the senses addressed in this strophe -- lovely!
 
I’m putting away her things. I need
to list them before she’s gone altogether. -- the choice of just two lines here is excellent -- it's an imperative, short and direct
 
First, I put her seed dish outside
for the sparrows and finches, blackbirds
who’ll miss her daily leftovers. I’ll fill it
every day until the bags of seed
run out.  -- and still she continues to give (though I foresee Hitchcock-like problems later on when the birds realise there's no more food!)
 
Her water bowl will rejoin -- rejoin?  Is that where it came from?  If so, I like how organic this whole relationship is/was
odd garden stuff. She’d floated
one of her toys - the bowl
of an old wooden spoon -
in it this morning.
I don’t know why.  -- secret galah business
 
Her swing
with a concrete perch to help
trim her claws, her mirror with dangling bell
that never chimed, just clunked,
the boiled lamb bone for her beak,
the cuttlefish, the shell grit - all into the garbage
with the half-explored apricot, the sampled -- I feel like there should be hyphens here: sampled-but-not-finished
but not finished apple, the eggplant end,
the cabbage bone, lettuce leaf, and the chewed -- not sure why the "and" is here
and splintered wooden spoon handle, the honey
dripper with its grooves neatly rounded.
Her spirit is still imprinted in them -- in or on?
but it’s fading. A fly
just landed on the cage bottom.
 
Now I bend and fold the sprig of leaves
from the big gum on the corner by Ian’s house
near the railway lines - it still has a few
gum nuts on it, not yet chewed.
She smelled of eucalyptus when I breathed her in
just before I put her in the ground
and covered her
just an hour ago, just this morning. -- circling back as the brain does -- scents leave the greatest imprint, of course
 
Her ladder - she was scared of it at first
but climbing the cage walls hurt her feet
and the ladder made it easier. I put it
where she’s buried, leading up into the sky.  -- I am not convinced that you need "leading up into the sky" -- it's heading into cheesy territory (or Led Zeppelin...)
 
I throw away her other mirror, that I’d taken
from my mother’s nursing home - a folding
double vanity mirror I’d hooked to the cage
with a key ring from Las Vegas.  -- that you discard the link to your mother is telling
 
Matilda died this morning. Already in the past.
 
Last things - that flower John brought her
from Porirua, whose name I still don’t know.
It grew at his place. Tuis and kakas loved it too,
he shared it with Matilda for months; -- the punctuation here is problematic
it had just finished flowering, these were
the last stems.
 
A wilted fag-end of a carrot. The newspaper
dated December 4. A dried-up locquat
and a few feathers. She’d finished her molt
just in time to die
 
and the pink-and-grey rose-covered comforter -- this strophe is perfect.
I’d bought new when Mum was still alive
that had covered her cage every night
that I lifted every morning
to let the world back in.
 
I won’t need that again.
 




(thank you A D Hope for '...the tiny burden of her death' from Death of the Bird)

[just mercedes]

Thanks Leanne - I've posted an edit but will probably do more. A bit later.

[Leah S.]

This is a good poem already. I decline to give you a detailed critique because I'm so moved. Later maybe. I do want to know her name sooner in the poem, I think it should be in the first line, really. There are a few places where I can't quite get the sense, but I believe they will be easy to fix. I looked up tangihanga because of this poem. Thank you.

Thanks for your read and comments. Her name is in the title of the poem.

Sorry, jumped straight to the poem. Just read your edit. I love this poem. I still don't want to critique it, because it made me cry, and also because your edit made significant improvements. The ending is like the turn in a sonnet. It really packs a punch, and the subtlety of the symbolism in the "comforter" never being lifted to let the world back in any more.....is eloquent.

[StanleyZ]

 Not many changes - I know it can do with more trimming - I'll wait and see what happens.


Edit #1 Matilda died today
 
 
 
She flew squawking from the kitchen
to land on my shoulder. She brought me
the tiny burden of her death.
I caught her up, hugged her
as if I could hold it off;
I breathed into her lungs,
pumped her wings,
tears blinded me
but she wouldn’t come back. I held
her; limp body, neck swinging loose
as if broken, feathers disarrayed
as she would never have them, eyes
shuttered, then closed.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly
she faded to cold.
 
This morning when she hopped
onto my hand, her feet felt cool
instead of their usual warm.
Should I have been warned?
 
Now she’s buried, wrapped
in a pink silk chemise of mine,
under the pohutukawa near the tui’s nest
and a blackbird is singing
her tangihanga.
 
I’m putting away her things. I need
to list them before she’s gone altogether.
 
First, I put her seed dish outside
for the sparrows and finches, blackbirds
who’ll miss her daily leftovers. I’ll fill it
every day until the bags of seed
run out.
 
Her water bowl has rejoined
odd garden stuff. She’d floated
one of her toys - the bowl
of an old wooden spoon -
in it this morning.
I don’t know why.
 
Her swing
with concrete perch to help
trim her claws, her mirror with dangling bell
that never chimed, just clunked,
the boiled lamb bone for her beak,
the cuttlefish, the shell grit - all into the garbage
with the half-explored apricot, the sampled-but-not-finished
apple, the eggplant end, cabbage bone, lettuce leaf, the chewed
and splintered wooden spoon handle, the honey
dripper with its grooves neatly rounded.
Her spirit is still imprinted there
but it’s fading. A fly
just landed on the cage bottom.
 
Now I bend and fold the sprig of leaves
from the big gum on the corner by Ian’s house
near the railway lines - it still has a few
gum nuts on it, not yet chewed.
She smelled of eucalyptus when I breathed her in
just before I put her in the ground
and covered her
just an hour ago, just this morning.
 
Her ladder - she was scared of it at first
but climbing the cage walls hurt her feet
and the ladder made it easier. I lean it
where she’s buried.
 
I throw away her other mirror, that I’d taken
from my mother’s nursing home - a folding
double vanity mirror I’d hooked to the cage
with a key ring from Las Vegas.
 
Matilda died this morning. Already in the past.
 
Last things - that flower John brought her
from Porirua, whose name I still don’t know.
It grew at his place. Tuis and kakas loved it too.
He brought her some each Friday for months;
it had just finished flowering, these were
the last stems.
 
A wilted fag-end of a carrot. The newspaper
dated December 4. A dried-up locquat
and a few feathers. She’d finished her molt
just in time to die
 
and the pink-and-grey rose-covered comforter
I’d bought new when Mum was still alive
that had covered her cage every night
that I lifted every morning
to let the world back in.
 
I won’t need that again.
 
(thank you A D Hope for ‘the tiny burden of her death’ from Death of the bird.)




 First draft
 
She flew squawking from the kitchen
to land on my shoulder. She brought me
the tiny burden of her death.
I caught her up, hugged her to me
as if I could hold it off;
I breathed into her lungs,
pumped her wings, I couldn’t see -
my tears blinded me -
but she wouldn’t come back. I held
her limp body, neck swinging loose
as if broken, feathers disarrayed
as she would never have them, eyes
shuttered, then closed.
Slowly she got cold.
 
This morning when she’d hopped
onto my hand, I’d noticed
her feet were cool. Usually
she’s warm.
 
Now she’s buried, wrapped
in a pink silk chemise of mine,
under the pohutukawa near the tui’s nest
and a blackbird is singing
her tangihanga.
 
I’m putting away her things. I need
to list them before she’s gone altogether.
 
First, I put her seed dish outside
for the sparrows and finches, blackbirds
who’ll miss her daily leftovers. I’ll fill it
every day until the bags of seed
run out.
 
Her water bowl will rejoin
odd garden stuff. She’d floated
one of her toys - the bowl
of an old wooden spoon -
in it this morning.
I don’t know why.
 
Her swing
with a concrete perch to help
trim her claws, her mirror with dangling bell
that never chimed, just clunked,
the boiled lamb bone for her beak,
the cuttlefish, the shell grit - all into the garbage
with the half-explored apricot, the sampled
but not finished apple, the eggplant end,
the cabbage bone, lettuce leaf, and the chewed
and splintered wooden spoon handle, the honey
dripper with its grooves neatly rounded.
Her spirit is still imprinted in them
but it’s fading. A fly
just landed on the cage bottom.
 
Now I bend and fold the sprig of leaves
from the big gum on the corner by Ian’s house
near the railway lines - it still has a few
gum nuts on it, not yet chewed.
She smelled of eucalyptus when I breathed her in
just before I put her in the ground
and covered her
just an hour ago, just this morning.
 
Her ladder - she was scared of it at first
but climbing the cage walls hurt her feet
and the ladder made it easier. I put it
where she’s buried, leading up into the sky.
 
I throw away her other mirror, that I’d taken
from my mother’s nursing home - a folding
double vanity mirror I’d hooked to the cage
with a key ring from Las Vegas.
 
Matilda died this morning. Already in the past.
 
Last things - that flower John brought her
from Porirua, whose name I still don’t know.
It grew at his place. Tuis and kakas loved it too,
he shared it with Matilda for months;
it had just finished flowering, these were
the last stems.
 
A wilted fag-end of a carrot. The newspaper
dated December 4. A dried-up locquat
and a few feathers. She’d finished her molt
just in time to die
 
and the pink-and-grey rose-covered comforter
I’d bought new when Mum was still alive
that had covered her cage every night
that I lifted every morning
to let the world back in.
 
I won’t need that again.
 




(thank you A D Hope for '...the tiny burden of her death' from Death of the Bird)

I think this is a wonderful poem. The build up of suspense in the first few stanzas make this poem seem like it's about a human, and the repeated mention of the mother makes it seem like this poem is as much about her as it is about the bird. Even a little death can be impacting. I love the mention of the birds things, but to be honest from the looks of what the speaker was feeding this bird, it's no wonder she ended up dead, that's a joke of-course... Then again at one point you made it seem like you were giving this creature CPR, how does one give a bird CPR? On the same note I was building up for some kind of angel metaphor where Matilda was an angel or something. That misleading angle starting the poem payed off in the end though. I respect the tension created by the twist when I realized you were talking about a bird. I think this bird was described as human throughout the entire poem in a way, what do you call that again, allegory? I really like this poem!