The bird from paradise

If there is paradise and if paradise is about all beautiful things then this bird is from paradise. One of the most beautiful birds I have seen, it is an amazing sight to see this bird that is quite appropriately named Paradise Flycatcher. The sheer contrast of colors in male makes it spectacular: white body and bluish black head and crest, streaks of black on the wings. Add to it long white ribbon like central feathers, so when it flies it gives an impression of floating in the air. A terrific combination of looks and grace of movement makes it one of the must watch bird. Also include the fact that these birds prefer pleasant setting like groves near water bodies that is not much disturbed by human presence.

This blogger has seen these elusive birds many times but after purchasing the camera found it quite difficult to photo it (I missed it on three occasions in dense forest of Western Ghats). It is extremely wary of humans. The female paradise flycatcher is quite common (chestnut color) and I have seen it many times if you walk further from Bannerghatta Park, it is here that I also got the glimpse of male one day, it vanished at the very instance into the denser part across the lake. Now a common habit of most birds is to have favorite haunt, they prefer certain trees and there is high probability to catch them on early mornings. So got up early morning next day to try my luck and reached here just in time to catch the male paradise fly catcher on the same tree, it seemed quite busy catching breakfast (being purely arboreal) and I got myself positioned on the shadier part under the tree. The branches of tree with shafts of morning sunlight and the bird flitting across as if some fairy, it felt like some dream. It was mesmerizing.

It is with extreme pleasure I write about Rilke, I was always very fond of his poems. He is one of the best.

Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926) was born in Prague but was multilingual he wrote in German language as also in French, he had somewhat intimate connection with Russian language (traveling to Russia often met Tolstoy, had a seminal influence on Boris Pasternak). In his letters to a young would-be poet (1903-1908) Rilke explained, that "nobody can counsel and help you, nobody. There is only one single way. Go into yourself. Search for the reason that bids you to write; find out whether you would have to die if it were denied you to write." Rilke traveled throughout his life: to Italy, Spain and Egypt among many other places, but Paris served as the geographic center of his life, where he first began to develop a new style of lyrical poetry inspired by the visual arts (very much influenced by sculptor Rodin as also Cezzane).

Many of Rilke’s poems have strong element of infinite in it, a contemplative nature of being, when I first read I thought it must be by an eastern poet. Once you read Rilke it will stay with you forever that is the power of his poems, every time I read it they gives me immense joy. His collection is large, I am posting two of my favorite.

Ignorant Before the Heavens of My Life

Ignorant before the heavens of my life,
I stand and gaze in wonder. Oh the vastness
of the stars. Their rising and descent. How still.
As if I didn't exist. Do I have any
share in this? Have I somehow dispensed with
their pure effect? Does my blood's ebb and flow
change with their changes? Let me put aside
every desire, every relationship
except this one, so that my heart grows used to
its farthest spaces. Better that it live
fully aware, in the terror of its stars, than
as if protected, soothed by what is near.

Buddha in Glory

Center of all centers, core of cores,
almond self-enclosed, and growing sweet--
all this universe, to the furthest stars
all beyond them, is your flesh, your fruit.

Now you feel how nothing clings to you;
your vast shell reaches into endless space,
and there the rich, thick fluids rise and flow.
Illuminated in your infinite peace,

a billion stars go spinning through the night,
blazing high above your head.
But in you is the presence that
will be, when all the stars are dead.

The other day I wrote these

The price I pay

I write this on a paper that was once a tree
where birds reared their young
and pregnant squirrel saved its precious possession for leaner days
leaves with its miracle fed itself from sun
and ants never complained.

Roads I take are over the graveyard
of lives that couldn’t understand the reason
of massacres
and silently endure the humiliation
their faith in redemption
I don’t care

Food I eat are snatched or shamelessly borrowed
with not even a courtesy of acknowledgement
my pride is that of giver
my reasons are peace and compassion.

Home I built displacing living
gravel by blasting mountains
and all habitat on it
sand by quarrying homes
of species I am least bothered to even know.
Power to run my machines
by sucking lives out of valleys.

More I expand more i destroy
more I live more I kill
more I live more I die.
Still I hear no complaint or whispers against me
No bleating of chest or swearing revenge.
All I see are wild flowers bloom amid garbage
and sway in exhaust of passing vehicles
grass grow merrily on soot
paddy bird alight o so delicately on muck water
and dew drops spread its myriad morning magic
on all I can see.