Posts Tagged ‘The Waste Land’
Hermit thrush
Another surprise in the morning bird chorus — a Hermit thrush. I have been listening for it all spring and at last, this morning, the ethereal notes.
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How to describe the song of the Hermit thrush? T.S. Eliot described it in The Waste Land, in V: What the Thunder Said :
… sound of water over a rock
Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees
Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop …
and
… who is the third who walks always beside you …
and
… In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing
Over the tumbled graves …
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A technical description of the Hermit thrush song is ‘a beginning note, then several descending musical phrases in a minor key, repeated at different pitches.’
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The song is clear, flute-like. To me the essential characteristics are the change in pitch at the beginning of the new phrase and the hint of water within. If you watch the Hermit thrush while she is singing, she stands tall, tilts her head back, looks into the distance with her bright black eye, lifts her feathers ever so slightly and opens her beak. Her throat swells a little but otherwise you are left to wonder, where do those notes begin?
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If her song was another sound, it would be a flute in the forest.
If it was a smell, it would be the sweet scent of mayflowers, as you part the leaves with the back of your hand.
If it was a touch, it would be lifted hairs at the back of your neck.
If it was a taste, it would be syrup drizzled over iced milk.
If it was an image, it would be guttation drops on strawberries.
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What other words describe the song of the Hermit thrush?
clear
precise
covert
alone
sweet
tremolo
pure
hidden
pensive
thoughtful
thicket
froth on a dancing wave
raindrops trembling on the tips of leaves
the step from rung to rung on a ladder
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If it was a vowel, it would be every vowel
If it was a consonant, it would be ‘c’, ‘l’, ‘r’, or ‘v’
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Hermit thrush
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Catharus guttatus
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neither visceral nor guttural, ethereal
tip-toe in tree tops
air pulled into taffy thread
a flute in the forest
froth on a wave
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rain trembles on leaf tips
guttation drops on strawberry
a lifted curtain of mayflower
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I saw you there
hidden in the thicket
and I followed
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climb the ladder and sing
then step to the rung below
heads up, thoughts of the new day
parting of the beak
pulse at the throat
hairs lift
at the nape
of the neck, fingers
warble the keys
between middle and ring
catharsis
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Copyright 2016 Jane Tims