Poem: Magpie

Like ravens, owls, and vultures, magpies don’t have a great reputation. While swans symbolize beauty and self-sacrifice, ravens are associated with magic, owls represent death, and magpies have a reputation for stealing shiny things and serving as a bad omen. I’ve never been much for superstition, but I enjoy symbolism. 

When I first saw a magpie in England I was surprised to learn that this particular subspecies had blue on its wings. This detail inspired a poem. I decided to combine my observations of the magpies and their thieving reputation with my experiences studying in Nottingham.

Personally, I like magpies—they’re allusive but pretty. If my poem seems a little too dark for my opinion of the birds, note that I have also compared magpies with the struggles of depression. There were plenty of times during my studies that I wondered whether or not all my efforts mattered. This poem is meant to be an exploration of emotion and nature. I suppose you could say writing poetry is one of my ways of coping with the world. 

Disclaimer: This poem is meant to be about birds and education, not race and politics. 

Magpie

Justice isn’t always black and white.
That’s why those colors adorn the Magpie,
full-time court jester, part-time thief—
and you thought your words were your own—
tell me, what is originality?

He laughs at your fumbling
with your bike lock, tripping over your responsibilities,
musing on your literature on Addison’s Walk—
who needs sophistication?
Your degree, your sheets of paper mean nothing
to a bird donned with all he needs—feathers.

Did I ever mention these thieves are camera shy?
Taking nothing they need, they strut, they chortle,
they spread their blue-tipped wings
to form a shadow o’er your confidence, o’er your joy
‘til you’re left with nothing but empty pockets.


***

Similar posts: The Crow and the Heron, Pile of Words, and Shadows

Let’s chat! What’s your take on birds and their symbolism? Do you have a creative outlet? What helps you relax? 

Bury Me: A Poem

I’ve been meaning to write more travel poetry, considering how many places I’ve seen, so this month’s poem focuses on cathedrals, but it also concerns death and writers. This summer, I had the privilege of going back to London, this time with one of my best friends and fellow writers, Faith Boggus. On this particular trip, we saw many places I hadn’t been to before, including Westminster Abbey.

Not only is it the famous designated cathedral for crowning monarchs, but it’s also the resting place of over two-thousand famous persons from kings and queens to scientists and people whose stones have been tread on so much nobody can decipher the names anymore. Perhaps the section that stands out most in my mind is Poets’ Corner, the section where many famous writers have been buried who were influential throughout English Literature.

As I’ve traveled throughout Europe, I’ve found that no two churches are the same, no matter what anybody else says. Even buildings similar in architecture cannot have the same frescos or people buried in the floor. Yes, they have buried people in the floor. And if you think that’s more disturbing than a cemetery, the Sedlec Ossuary (Prague, Czech Republic) has decorations made of hundreds of human bones. It’s definitely something I will never forget.

Bury Me

I’m surrounded by a forest of words,

these weathered leaves and bleeding ink
sticky as pine sap, with branches from Geoffrey Chaucer
to Arthur Conan Doyle stretching to the sky.

Don’t ask me why I find comfort

among the dead words, written on forest green and jet-black spines,
the tombstones of authors lined up on a shelf.
Their eulogies are in their lasting words,
coming to life and dancing across the attic of my mind,
sweeping away cobwebs of boredom and dust from life’s stress,
unpacking emotions, thoughts, and dreams I never knew I had.
Read me a story, mommy. That child buries her nose in a book
when she should be making friends. If worms eat up the decay of earth,
what are full-grown bookworms, devouring leaf after leaf?

I set foot in a gray abbey, each step echoing across the halls
of time. Nobody told me the place was a tomb.
The hall of kings and queens, ancestors and forgotten names—
their tombstones worn on the floor from countless feet—
poets survived by words. I’ve gasped at rows of books,
but never before have I been surrounded by rows of dead authors.

My search for Lewis’ plaque discovered Chaucer,

Eliot, Dryden. I stopped before Spenser and Milton,
marveling how life is oft’ separated by generations,
but in death two poets are separated by stone a book’s width.
Poor Dickens denied his last request;
my friend was standing on his grave.
I passed over countless corpses under the floor—
would that I could recall their names,
but I’m awful with remembering the names of the living.

Weeks ago, I jokingly told my mother

that should I die before I turn twenty-five
burn me like the Vikings of old.
Forget a sorry cremation when I’m ground to dust,
but give me a pyre fit for a book burning.
But in all seriousness, I’d rather rest
under the green leaves of a willow.
Let the trees weep and do not cry—
I’ll let my tombstone etch a weathered lullaby,
drowned in rain and washed away—
Do not cry. We all must die. 

***

Let’s chat. What’s the most sobering place you’ve ever visited? Which author(s), living or dead would you like to meet/have met?

Do What YOU Enjoy

When I was a kid, I used to daydream about how soon I’d be out of school. If the average American graduated high school at 18 then spent four years at college, then I would be free from school by 22. But life doesn’t always turn out the way you plan. As my dad would always say, “If you want to hear God laugh, tell Him your plans for the future.”

As I neared the end of my senior year in college, I said I’d never go to grad school. I’d heard too many horror stories of people who went to grad school only to give up reading because they never wanted to touch another book again or others who had grad school completely kill their creativity. What kind of torture could possibly make anybody stop reading and writing? How could I survive? Then there was the workload. I cried after a grad student came into our senior seminar class to talk to us about what it was like to study English Literature at a master’s level.

That’s when I made up my mind I’d NEVER go to grad school. Long story short, God had other plans, and now I’m studying English Literature at the university of my choice. During my first semester, I decided I’d be creative anyway, despite what everybody else said. So what if other people found postgraduate studies to have killed their creativity? That didn’t mean it had to kill mine.

So it was that I’d spend most of the week reading for classes, stressing out on a weekly basis, and editing my novel as study breaks. That’s right. My study breaks. Yeah, sure, I’d still pick up a book every now and then, though I’d try to limit it to the weekends because I tended to get sucked into the novels and neglect my coursework until I got to the end of the book. That only lasted a semester though. Last spring, for every book I read for school, I read two for fun.

Double rainbow during one of my many bike rides.

If anything, I’d say that studying at a postgraduate level has made me more creative. Every other week, I jot down a poem, which I didn’t use to do. Whenever I get a rejection letter from a literary agent, I just send out another query. And I set aside every Sunday to ignore my school completely and just write. Or read. Or go for bike rides to my local park.

Aside from all the stuff I’ve been learning in my classes, I’ve learned that my circumstances don’t have to determine what I enjoy. Just because my coursework can get pretty overwhelming doesn’t mean I should give up doing what I enjoy. No two people are alike, so why should I become less creative just because somebody else was? Life is too short to stop doing the things I’m passionate about just because I struggle with my day job as a full time student.

So if you enjoy writing or painting or whatever, go for it! Make your passions a priority. And don’t let other people determine what you can and cannot do.

While I may not have all the time in the world to write, I look forward to the day when I can write more often. Perhaps even on a daily basis. And I still look forward to graduation. As for the possibility of my studying at a doctorate level—well—it would take a miracle. But my mom always used to say God has a great sense of humor…

***

What are you passionate about? Were there ever times when your studies/work conflicted with your passions?