Birds and guidance, featuring work by Anne Frydman, Gordon Grilz and Sandy Longley.
7 minutes
TRANSCRIPT
On this episode of Burning Bright, three pieces about birds in memory of John James Audubon. Audubon was born in Haiti in April 26, 1775 and died 76 years later in New York. According to the Audubon Society website, he did despicable things even by the standard of the day. He committed academic fraud and plagiarism. And even though his mother may well have been of mixed race—he enslaved Black people and criticized emancipation. And he stole human remains and sent the skulls to a colleague who used them to assert that whites were superior to non-whites. And yet, he’s still one of the best known and one of the most accurate painters of North American birds.
First, the title poem from Ann Frydman’s book The Three O’Clock Bird.
Spring night in New York, late,
the last bus groans up the Drive
streetlights plaid the ceiling
and the streets go quiet
then from the trees
of the deserted park
a bird’s voice calls
solo bird sings solo, many hear
and think they hear alone
many awake: mothers with new babies,
fathers with new babies, the sick
or unhappy in love
or happy in love
solo bird sings solo, or speaks
night bird mutter
years ago first heard
from the dark trees
out windows dark or lit
in quilted city light
years I thought: brave
to sing without a sign of dawn
years I thought: faith
years I thought: lonely
bird who sings alone
years I thought:
maybe a mockingbird rehearsing
even long since I wondered
was it a hermit thrush
bashful and tender
singing (new me)
(new bird) same song
now I think:
how many years to hear it
how changed I am
life skewered, more sleepless
still loving the city’s
stippled dark
still want the bird’s voice
deeply loved to reach
you through this poem
Ann Frydman’s “Three O’Clock Bird.”
Gordon Grilz lives in the Santa Rita Unit of the Arizona State Prison Complex where he’s serving a sentence resulting from a crime of passion he committed in 1981. Here are some excerpts from his short story “Lakota Justice” that appeared in Passager’s brand new issue 78.
Samuel Redbear was 73 when he entered the federal prison in South Dakota. He was a medicine man, a Wichasa Wakan, of the Oglala Sioux and came from a long line of holy men.
The first day on the recreation field, Samuel sat by himself in the grass. A large black raven swooped in and landed in front of him. Those who saw it said it looked like they were talking. Samuel took a piece of bread out of his jacket and shared it with his brother. This continued every time Samuel came out for rec. The odd thing was that Samuel didn’t come out on the same days or at the same time because the schedule rotated. And this was the only time the raven was ever seen.
One day Lt. Goolsby was on the wall with a correctional officer. When he saw the interaction between the old man and the bird, he turned to the C. O. and asked, “What the hell is is that old Indian up to?” He decided to put a stop to it.
The next time Samuel had rec, the Lt. came out on the yard.
As he approached Samuel, the raven took off and flew right at Lt. Goolsby who had to dive out of the way. “The next time this happens, I’ll put you in the hole for 30 days.” Samuel said nothing.
At Samuel’s next rec, the Lt. came out on the yard with backup, his squad and a guard dog that was rumored to be part wolf. As they closed in on Samuel and the raven, the dog growled and snarled.
They took him off the leash to move in. Suddenly a flock of thirty or more large ravens dove in. They attacked the dog, the squad, and Lt. The dog ran away yelping as the ravens pecked at him. The guards swatted at the ravens to no avail. One officer was knocked down and lost an eye to the birds. The Lt. got on his radio, but a raven snatched it out of his hands and flew away. Through all of this, Samuel never moved.
Excerpts from “Lakota Justice,” Gordon Grilz, from Passager Issue 78.
And finally, “Conversation with Crow” by Sandy Longley from her book Mothernest.
Me: My sister died this morning.
Crow: I’m sorry. Was she shot? Poisoned?
Me: No. I don’t know what to do.
Crow: We often form a circle around the body, then fly off and return with twigs and leaves for cover, maybe something shiny.
Me: I can’t do that – her body is gone.
Crow: Oh. Then tonight I will dream of her from my roost. Tomorrow watch for me on that pine branch and listen to my song of loss and sorrow for you.
Me: Thank you.
Crow: From now on look for her radiance on every blade of grass, in every drop of water. Will you do that?
Me: Yes, I will try to.
Crow: Now, close your eyes, breathe – fold both wings over your heart.
Me: Like this?
Sandy Longley’s “Conversation With Crow.”
To buy Sandy’s book Mothernest or Anne Frydman’s book The Three O’Clock Bird or to subscribe to or learn more about Passager and its commitment to writers over 50, go to passagerbooks.com. Passager offers a 25% discount on the books and journal issues featured here on Burning Bright. Visit our website to see what’s on sale this week.
For Kendra, Mary, Christine, Rosanne, and the rest of the Passager staff, I’m Jon Shorr.
Due to the limitations of online publishing, poems may not appear in their original formatting.
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