Gena St. David
From high in a nut-tree,
birds call to me:
“I know what you should do, but
I’m not telling!”
Bobbing their heads
they clock my steps and
read my fortune:
“You’ll meet with demise.”
I brace for rain and
squint at the skies.
“By lightning? Today?”
I demand.
“Maybe so,” they say,
“Maybe so (maybe so),
I know, but
I’m not telling.”
They whistle to friends:
“See, her brain is a blur!”
“Her train is impure!”
“Her drain needs a stir!”
“Yes, yes,” they agree.
“Yes, yes, her pain has a cure, but
I’m not telling.”
I shake my umbrella
to give them a fright,
“Then what would you
have me do?”
“No, no (no, no),”
they rap in reply,
“the question is right, but
I’m not telling.”
“I suppose you’ll tell me
to hollow my bones?
Sprout wings?
Turn blue, like you?
Shall I rise from this mud pit?
Lift my arms high?”
“You know best!”
they hoot and chatter.
“Or, better yet, waste
hours in rest? Getting soft,
writing lofty songs in my nest?
Shall I hide away
in some leafy balcony?”
“Oh how she chirps!”
they flap and clatter.
“I bet you prefer me
nose to the ground,
hopping around,
conspiring with the ant!
Well, I can’t imagine
a more dreadful way
to squander a day!
I presume next you’ll say that
sticks are gold; the
sky, a giver; and
feeding the hungry
(from your belly’s own hold)
is reward enough to deliver you
happy each morning,
singing your knowledge
to the sun (though to me
you have never confessed it)!”
“Well, what a show,”
they clamor and crow,
“She’s a comedian!
(Who would’ve guessed it?)”
They pick at the bark.
“Listen up beetles,
it’s not snake oil
she’s selling!
And she’s got it half right.
But which half? Yes, I know,
but I’m not telling.”
For years poetry has been a helpful vehicle for exploring my feelings about bird songs — let’s be real, sounds — which appear to be nothing more than a nonstop narration of my flaws along with unsolicited advice I can never interpret. My SXSW submission last year, “On the Nonsense of Birds,” gave me a chance to examine the question, “Whose nonsense is it, really?” This year’s submission “On the Nonsense of (Debating) Birds” gives an entertaining view into my inner criticism and a dose of laughter for listeners.
Gena St. David
