Red wattled lapwing is quite a common plover bird that is generally found in pairs in open field next to water bodie
s. A bird most of us have heard many times particularly early mornings as also in the night, the call is fierce that sounds like did-he-do-It did-he-do-it. Quite a pretty looking bird that has white and black plumage light brown wings, a conspicuous red wattle in front of its eye (that gives an impression of being angry), red bills and long bright yellow legs. They never perch on trees and are found on ground when disturbed they fly-seldom too high and give their trade mark shrill note did-he-do-it (o yes I did it !!) to settle down immediately and run in short spurts, they are quite a good flier. The bird seem to be aware of its conspicuous coloration so could be seen standing still or moving with slow measured strides. They are referred to as titeeri in hindi
Bouldaire: Prince of the clouds…
An amazing poem by Charles Baudelaire titled "The albatross"
Often, to amuse themselves, the crew of the ship
Would fell an albatross, the largest of sea birds,
Indolent companions of their trip
As they slide across the deep sea's bitters.
Scarcely had they dropped to the plank
Than these blue kings, maladroit and ashamed
Let their great white wings sink
Like an oar dragging under the water's plane.
The winged visitor, so awkward and weak!
So recently beautiful, now comic and ugly!
One sailor grinds a pipe into his beak,
Another, limping, mimics the infirm bird that once could fly.
The poet is like the prince of the clouds
Who haunts the storm and laughs at lightning.
He's exiled to the ground and its hooting crowds;
His giant wings prevent him from walking.
Bouldaire was one of the greatest French poets, he once wrote “The poet benefits from an incomparable privilege which allows him to be, at will, himself and others. Like those wandering souls in search of a body, he enters, when he so desires, into the character of each individual. For him alone, everything is vacant”. That is quite a grand vision of poet but when it comes to Bou
ldaire it is so much true, he was arguably one of the best. He writes “Multitude, solitude: identical terms, and interchangeable by the active and fertile poet. The man who is unable to people his solitude is equally unable to be alone in a bustling crowd” he continues “The solitary and thoughtful stroller finds a singular intoxication in this universal communion. The man who loves to lose himself in a crowd enjoys feverish delights that the egoist locked up in himself as in a box, and the slothful man like a mollusk in his shell, will be eternally deprived of. He adopts as his own all the occupations, all the joys and all the sorrows that chance offers. What men call love is a very small, restricted, feeble thing compared with this ineffable orgy, this divine prostitution of the soul giving itself entire, all it poetry and all its charity, to the unexpected as it comes along, to the stranger as he passes. It is a good thing sometimes to teach the fortunate of this world, if only to humble for an instant their foolish pride, that there are higher joys than theirs, finer and more uncircumscribed. The founders of colonies, shepherds of peoples, missionary priests exiled to the ends of the earth, doubtlessly know something of this mysterious drunkenness; and in the midst of the vast family created by their genius, they must often laugh at those who pity them because of their troubled fortunes and chaste lives”.
I liked the words “divine prostitution of soul giving”, only Bouldaire could have conceived that one. He had problems with religion but could neither be a Christian nor not be one Baudelaire’s solution was Satanism. ‘Satanism was for him the inevitable but logical way to maintain both his creed and hope for salvation’ (taken from Net). These lines from one of his poem
At last, so you’re my Mary perfectly,
And mixing love with pagan cruelty,
Full of a dark, remorseful joy, I’ll take
The seven deadly sins, and of them make
Seven bright Daggers; with a juggler’s lore
Target your love within its deepest core,
And plant them all within your panting Heart,
Within your sobbing Heart, your streaming Heart!
I found this poem quite interesting not only in the way words are chosen but as one writer points out “sadistic pleasure taken in the murder of this Madonna can be felt in the final triple present participle whose trisyllabic regularity rhythmically mimics a male orgasm”. Now this form of poetry is quite new to me wherein you create syllable rhythm to emote. Quite an incredible use of language, maybe I should try this technique one of these days. Baudelaire’s greatness was his capacity to blend dark sides with conventional feelings.
s. A bird most of us have heard many times particularly early mornings as also in the night, the call is fierce that sounds like did-he-do-It did-he-do-it. Quite a pretty looking bird that has white and black plumage light brown wings, a conspicuous red wattle in front of its eye (that gives an impression of being angry), red bills and long bright yellow legs. They never perch on trees and are found on ground when disturbed they fly-seldom too high and give their trade mark shrill note did-he-do-it (o yes I did it !!) to settle down immediately and run in short spurts, they are quite a good flier. The bird seem to be aware of its conspicuous coloration so could be seen standing still or moving with slow measured strides. They are referred to as titeeri in hindi Bouldaire: Prince of the clouds…
An amazing poem by Charles Baudelaire titled "The albatross"
Often, to amuse themselves, the crew of the ship
Would fell an albatross, the largest of sea birds,
Indolent companions of their trip
As they slide across the deep sea's bitters.
Scarcely had they dropped to the plank
Than these blue kings, maladroit and ashamed
Let their great white wings sink
Like an oar dragging under the water's plane.
The winged visitor, so awkward and weak!
So recently beautiful, now comic and ugly!
One sailor grinds a pipe into his beak,
Another, limping, mimics the infirm bird that once could fly.
The poet is like the prince of the clouds
Who haunts the storm and laughs at lightning.
He's exiled to the ground and its hooting crowds;
His giant wings prevent him from walking.
Bouldaire was one of the greatest French poets, he once wrote “The poet benefits from an incomparable privilege which allows him to be, at will, himself and others. Like those wandering souls in search of a body, he enters, when he so desires, into the character of each individual. For him alone, everything is vacant”. That is quite a grand vision of poet but when it comes to Bou
ldaire it is so much true, he was arguably one of the best. He writes “Multitude, solitude: identical terms, and interchangeable by the active and fertile poet. The man who is unable to people his solitude is equally unable to be alone in a bustling crowd” he continues “The solitary and thoughtful stroller finds a singular intoxication in this universal communion. The man who loves to lose himself in a crowd enjoys feverish delights that the egoist locked up in himself as in a box, and the slothful man like a mollusk in his shell, will be eternally deprived of. He adopts as his own all the occupations, all the joys and all the sorrows that chance offers. What men call love is a very small, restricted, feeble thing compared with this ineffable orgy, this divine prostitution of the soul giving itself entire, all it poetry and all its charity, to the unexpected as it comes along, to the stranger as he passes. It is a good thing sometimes to teach the fortunate of this world, if only to humble for an instant their foolish pride, that there are higher joys than theirs, finer and more uncircumscribed. The founders of colonies, shepherds of peoples, missionary priests exiled to the ends of the earth, doubtlessly know something of this mysterious drunkenness; and in the midst of the vast family created by their genius, they must often laugh at those who pity them because of their troubled fortunes and chaste lives”.I liked the words “divine prostitution of soul giving”, only Bouldaire could have conceived that one. He had problems with religion but could neither be a Christian nor not be one Baudelaire’s solution was Satanism. ‘Satanism was for him the inevitable but logical way to maintain both his creed and hope for salvation’ (taken from Net). These lines from one of his poem
At last, so you’re my Mary perfectly,
And mixing love with pagan cruelty,
Full of a dark, remorseful joy, I’ll take
The seven deadly sins, and of them make
Seven bright Daggers; with a juggler’s lore
Target your love within its deepest core,
And plant them all within your panting Heart,
Within your sobbing Heart, your streaming Heart!
I found this poem quite interesting not only in the way words are chosen but as one writer points out “sadistic pleasure taken in the murder of this Madonna can be felt in the final triple present participle whose trisyllabic regularity rhythmically mimics a male orgasm”. Now this form of poetry is quite new to me wherein you create syllable rhythm to emote. Quite an incredible use of language, maybe I should try this technique one of these days. Baudelaire’s greatness was his capacity to blend dark sides with conventional feelings.
