Hearing the glorious sounds of blackbirds this morning reminded me of a poem I wrote almost a year ago on a similarly lovely morning:

The Blackbird Doesn't Know His Song

The blackbird doesn't know his song
is filled with music, just that he
is bursting with it, may explode -
unless he vents his urgency.

The brown bird though, may know her mate
is singing for a chance to breed;
to generate, not celebrate:
a symphony that sings of need.

Soon, cocooned, their young lie still,
but yet they hear their lullaby,
and learn of all the songs they'll spill
upon us - idle passers-by.

Roy

Poetry on the Fly - I wrote this directly onto this blog immediately after reading a review of Tony Harrison's latest collections, Collected Poems and Collected Film Poetry in today's Times Books supplement.

A rhyming poem seemed so caught
to poets with their freer hearts
who needed space to lay their thoughts
away from rhyming's stops and starts.

But rhyme can help a poet find,
as Tony Harrison remarked,
the undercurrent of the mind,
the path on which we'd once embarked.

The fact remains that rhyming's place
is safe, while thought takes effort still:
We're likelier to win the race
when running faster down the hill.

Roy