Peering through my window

The Algerian Goldfinch, El Mackneen

Peering through my window

Sometimes goldfinches one by one will drop
From low hung branches; little space they stop;
But sip, and twitter, and their feathers sleek;
Then off at once, as in a wanton freak: 90
Or perhaps, to show their black, and golden wings
Pausing upon their yellow flutterings.
Peering at things through my window, while I was taking my breakfast, at just that moment the screen door opened and my mom threw out a basin of water, it flashed through the air and struck the ground where the light spilled throw the window. A thousand gliming goldfinches lifted from the bushes of thistles in the garden, the instant the water hit the ground, and fell back the instant forward, like an oriental silk carpet, thrown by a rugs merchant in front of you.
A charm of goldfinches, that came from nowhere, stopped by like by enchantment,  and disappeared the second after,  they fed their hunger, a flew a way to fell again down on the railroad paling, at a distance. You can see miles from here.

The goldfinches on the railway paling were worth looking at
A man might imagine then
Himself in Brazil and these birds the birds of paradise

_Patrick Kavanagh

I took my bag, and I went outside, going my way to school.
_ T’was by a lovely morning
_ When the summertime came
_ and just before that school closed
_ Going my way nice and easy, in deed
_ suddenly, I felt inside of me something bleed
_ making my day not so bright
_ a surge of tears, an urge to cry, in despair
_ I had none, something to tell, or to whom to write,
_ nor to recite, this piece of poetry, nor pair
_ that’s when sometimes you got the blues
_ and you had the heart torn away, too loose.
_ I encarved our hearts into a trunk of a tree,
_ At the fork of two roads, I lingered to think,
_ I decided, but to choose that day
_ the one not I always take,
_ I stopped by a river bank, at the school of cutting classes,
where you play at hide, and seek, by the bushes
_ where you learnt the tools of the trades,
the arts and crafts, those small things of life,
state-of-art, of everything,
_ things that people envy you for, gossip about and jibe,
_ but silently wish to do, and dare never did.
_ Sweet sixteen, smoking cigs, makes you feel not at ease,
_ just because to showing off, among friends,
and but just to please.
_ What had left, at last, of things that had to pass,
but then when there is no more of such sweet thing,
_ of see you later, I love you and for forever, alas
_ who fancy, to tell me how? That’s all was fake
_ you, who knows love, where and how to take
_ “and I, the while, the sole unbusy thing,
_ Not honey to make, nor pair, no build or sing”
_ It was all about love, and understanding.
_ Bitterly, this is it, C’est la vie, yes I learnt
_ By the road not always that people took,
_ I went to see the railroads men, and departing train.
_ with pain in my heart, and the day it mights rain
_ I will tell you such, and such where the joy
_ tears, laughter, sorrow, and pain, my friend
_ a broken heart, a wounded limb of a lit’l boy

On a milestone, by the railway I sat
I basked at the swarm of Goldfinches  paling
were worth looking at,
Then all my pain in my heart I forget
An old man came to my way, then he said
Hey, little man, look at them
Aren’t they beautiful, like sunshine paling
A man might imagine then
Himself in Brasil and these birds the birds of Paradise
I don’t know Brasil, I said and where it is
And the old man , what he said and who he was
But I felt warm in heart, and cool like i was in Paradise

“In the poem The Great Hunger by Patrick Kavanagh, the goldfinch is one of the rare glimpses of beauty in the life of an elderly Irish farmer:_ the poem above, at the top of the page”


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I am an autodidact writer, and enough of an artist, to draw upon my imagination_I can't pretend here, to imitate Einstein's expression, nor to profess having enough knowledge of that sort, credit is, where credit is due, noblety obliged, nor to build equations, or quest forlost gravity, still, having this audacity to emitate Mr. Einstein one's expression is a crime of Lese-majeste, and to not being an imbued person, first, pardon my intrusive Introduction, but isn't it imitating someone, the same as, like of gardening and planting coliflowers? Maybe Orchids... Secondo, I just have borrowed his quote _"knowledge is limited, imagination encircles the world ", for the pumps and circumstance, and just for the sake blogging, put it that way down to paper, and to fancy make an old dream of mine comes true, perhaps one day, and if time permitting, a would-be a writer and having enough ingredients for writing prose and possibly poetry _Thankful always to my reader for stopping by, and To all the followers: Thank you for following my blog, regularly, and by your likes on my posts, you're encouraging me each time, to persist and strive to do better for blogging than the sensational, and to take the risk to be boring sometimes ; please send me your feeds Thanks you again extra large for your patience _Modestly speaking: _Inspirational Dr. Seuss's quote: _“You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself any direction you choose. You’re on your own. And you know what you know. And You are the one who’ll decide where to go.” ― Dr. Seuss

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