If there is one species of birds that are difficult to classify then they are Warblers/wren. Even seasoned birdwatchers are flummoxed by the variety and spread of these small birds. These birds are really quite difficult to identify, and I had to spend quite a long time to classify the above-finally I think it is Greenish Willow Wren (again I could be still wrong!!).
A migrant from Himalayas these birds have characteristic chi-wee note, must say it is quite penetrating. A subdued bird found creeping in foliages searching for insects; these birds have pale yellowish streak above the eyes, dull olive green upper plumage and yellow white lower half.
Phillis Wheatly
Creation smiles in various beauty gay
While day to night, and night succeed to day
Phillis Wheatly was bought as a slave girl from Africa to America in 1761 when she was about seven years old. We don’t ev
en know her real name as this name was given by her master. She learned English in matter of few years and was writing poems. She was first Afro-American to be published, it was published in England as Americans refused to acknowledge and doubted that slave girl could write these; indeed they put her into interrogation to check the authenticity. Wheatly died when she was just 31 years old, despite her acclaim as a poet she died in poverty. Frankly I was quite saddened to read all these. More saddened since her talent were being used to please the masters, most of her poems are elegy to kith and kin of whites (I found that repulsive) with strong religious undertones, probably the reason why these were published. In one place she even mentioned Africa as ‘pagan land’ ‘May be refin'd, and join th' angelic train’, despite these constraints some lines shine through “While an intrinsic ardor prompts to write, The muses promise to assist my pen”. In the 1830s, abolitionists reprinted her poetry and the powerful ideas contained in her deeply moving verse stood against the institution of slavery.
Imagination! Who can sing thy force?
Or who describe the swiftness of thy course?
Soaring through air to find the bright abode,
Th’ empyreal palace of the thund’ring God,
We on thy pinions can surpass the wind,
And leave the rolling universe behind:
From star to star the mental optics rove,
Measure the skies, and range the realms above.
There in one view we grasp the mighty whole,
Or with new worlds amaze th’ unbounded soul.
These lines from Hymn to Morning
To shield your poet from the burning day:
Calliope awake the sacred lyre,
While thy fair sisters fan the pleasing fire:
The bow'rs, the gales, the variegated skies
In all their pleasures in my bosom
See in the east th' illustrious king of day!
His rising radiance drives the shades away--
But Oh! I feel his fervid beams too strong,
And scarce begun, concludes th' abortive song
From the poem “On the Death of a young Lady of Five Years
of Age”
Perfect in bliss she from her heav'nly home
Looks down, and smiling beckons you to come;
Why then, fond parents, why these fruitless groans?
Restrain your tears, and cease your plaintive moans.
Freed from a world of sin, and snares, and pain,
Why would you wish your daughter back again?
No--bow resign'd. Let hope your grief control,
And check the rising tumult of the soul.
Calm in the prosperous, and adverse day,
Adore the Lord who gives and takes away
Eye him in all, his holy name revere,
Upright your actions, and your hearts sincere,
Till having sail'd through life's tempestuous sea,
And from its rocks, and boist'rous billows free,
Yourselves, safe landed on the blissful shore,
Shall join your happy babe to pa
Its about the rains !!
I could never appreciate rains in the cities, but there are acres of beautiful gardens in Bangalore that does give the experience of rain. O the joy of going to these gardens the morning after heavy downpour. Quaint things in life, my top priority ‘things to do’. In contrast beaches go wild with the fury of ocean, another great sight.
Two of my scribbles, don’t know what to title maybe Rain series!!
When it rains I am what I am
all that is me come out to dance,
the pouring rain, surging blood
come around tapping in tiny circles
ankle deep and still rising
I’m drowning
I’m drowning
What will life be
without a drop of rain
not too less not too more
just right enough
for parched earth
and the soul
