Flowerpeckers: little birds that have tremendous impact

There are few species of Flowerpeckers found in India: Thick billed, Tickell’s and Plain (or Nilgiri). Tickell’s flowerpecker and plain flowerpecker are same in every respect except that in Tickell’s the bill is fleshy coloured while in Plain they are dark. Flowerpeckers could be mistaken for female sunbird for its dull plumage. It is one of the smallest birds (about 3 inches) but it makes up for its size by its deed. Feeds mainly on fruits of harmful parasitic plant of the genus loranthus (Dendrophthoe), they in turn are responsible for spreading this plant. Purely arboreal these are restless birds and flies from one tree to another with a characteristic incessant chik chik squeak. The berry is tested with its beak and ripe ones are gulped, after downing few berries it sits motionless and soon seeds are defecated- the whole digestion seems to last few minutes, and off the bird goes chirping. These defecated seeds covered with mucous get stuck to the branches and help sprouting the parasitic plant. With the help of these tiny birds the plant spread to other trees in the vicinity. For a small bird that is quite an effort!. (Pictures taken near Dubare elephant camp).

Canadian poet Bliss Carman (1861-1929): I came across some splendid collection of poems by Carman in Gutenberg.org. Most poems are quite long I am quoting few lines that I prefer. He is quite a fun to read...

Joys of the road

Now the joys of the road are chiefly these:
A crimson touch on the hard-wood trees;

A vagrant's morning wide and blue,
In early fall when the wind walks, too;

A shadowy highway cool and brown,
Alluring up and enticing down

From rippled water to dappled swamp,
From purple glory to scarlet pomp;

The outward eye, the quiet will,
And the striding heart from hill to hill;

Few more stanzas from the same poem…

No fidget and no reformer, just
A calm observer of ought and must,

A lover of books, but a reader of man,
No cynic and no charlatan,

Who never defers and never demands,
But, smiling, takes the world in his hands,—

Seeing it good as when God first saw
And gave it the weight of his will for law.

And O the joy that is never won,
But follows and follows the journeying sun

In the wings
The play is Life; and this round earth,
The narrow stage whereon
We act before an audience
Of actors dead and gone.

There is a figure in the wings
That never goes away,
And though I cannot see his face,
I shudder while I play.

His shadow looms behind me here,
Or capers at my side;
And when I mouth my lines in dread,
Those scornful lips deride.

Sometimes a hooting laugh breaks out,
And startles me alone;
While all my fellows, wondering
At my stage-fright, play on.

I fear that when my Exit comes,
I shall encounter there,
Stronger than fate, or time, or love,
And sterner than despair,

The Final Critic of the craft,
As stage tradition tells;
And yet-perhaps ’twill only be
The jester with his bells.

These few lines from the poem “At the Granite Gate”

There paused to shut the door
A fellow called the Wind.
With mystery before,
And reticence behind,
A portal waits me too
In the glad house of spring,
One day I shall pass through
And leave you wondering.
It lies beyond the marge
Of evening or of prime,
Silent and dim and large,
The gateway of all time

This one “In the Workshop” is such a charming poem…(and how does he comes out with name like Beezlebub?!!)

Once in the Workshop, ages ago,
The clay was wet and the fire was low.

And He who was bent on fashioning man
Moulded a shape from a clod,
And put the loyal heart therein;
While another stood watching by.

"What's that?" said Beelzebub.
"A lover," said God.
And Beelzebub frowned, for he knew that kind.

And then God fashioned a fellow shape
As lithe as a willow rod,
And gave it the merry roving eye
And the range of the open road.

"What's that?" said Beelzebub.
"A vagrant," said God.
And Beelzebub smiled, for he knew that kind.

And last of all God fashioned a form,
And gave it, what was odd,
The loyal heart and the roving eye;
And he whistled, light of care.

"What's that?" said Beelzebub.
"A poet," said God.
And Beelzebub frowned, for he did not know.

These two poems I wrote the other day…

Introspection

The soul closes its window
and deems it opportune to interrogate itself
Tumbles down mishaps, vagrant sins
and some nasty surprises.
Embarrassed confessions
and transgressions that ask for forgiveness.
Just in time it wavers
and all punishments abdicate for self love
The case dismissed with not as much
a warning.

Morning walk in the countryside

Nothing ever failed the specter
the flowers indeed beam
in the mesh of early sun
herons float over verdant green
O what a delight this moment
the gush of the breeze
and clapping leaves