Mews 

'And whereas the Muses had been their own mistresses, the goddesses were now declared to be servants of the Greeks' own god of inspiration, Apollo.'

'Before she was an artefact of culture, the muse was a natural force…'

The Goddess Path, Patricia Monaghan 

'Falconry's appeal was based on such factors as the spectacular nature of the falcon's stoop, the drama and uncertainty of the hawk's hunt, the power of being able to recall a free flying wild creature and the knowledge that the practice of the sport was an indicator of membership in the social elite.'

The Kings and Their Hawks - Falconry in Medieval England,

Robin S. Oggins

What's in a Name

The kestrel is Euterpe, but here she is not glad. And though

Calliope, the gyrfalcon is not fair voiced, she tells us tales

of daring and true flight when we're in moult. Thalia - now

she is aptly named! She clowns and makes us laugh. Urania

is aloof but cannot see the stars - not through this shingled roof.

She glares at Terpsichore who shuffles on her perch and tings

her silver bells. Polymnia, Clio and Erato are seeled and not yet

                                                                        manned.

Melpomene the peregrine - who sulks - dreams of the lureless dive.

He was inspired to name us thus, our lord. But the austringer

begged leave to call the haggard what he chose. He is little read.

Tisiphone. We put our faith in her. She preens and bides her time.

Taking Flight

The exhilaration

of the kill

of nailing it

in one swift blow

was all our own. Now

there's the invisible

elastic of the lure

as he, without the bite

of beak, or talon

on surrogate wings

plays at God.

One swing

and like Icarus

we return

to the ignominous earth

of his fist.

Manning

No food. No sleep.

No light. Eyelids sewn up -

seeled tight. Feet stayed

by jesses through

a varvel threaded.

Talons blunted

Then on a fist

ignobly shunted

from dark to dark

and back a day, a night.

And when she's fed

after so long -

conditioned

to a bar of song

which equals food.

Rhythm

The French call us rowers

because our rapid wing beats scull

the air. While hawks are sailors -

they fan their tails and soar.

We dive and strike our quarry in mid

flight. A hawk stays hidden

surprises from below. Its feet

grip tight to wring the meaning out.

Haggard

The size of a tiercel,

his strength, his span

of ours a mere third.

And so it is that we are

prised from the wild

more often. Bound

for the air brought

low. We, who could

put the wind to rights

beneath our wings

and grip a living branch

beneath our feet,

exchange this

for a cadge

and the curse

of a falconer's glove.

Quill

In this prison of mutes

and moult (only in perfect

plumage may we hunt,

so are confined) the fountain's

sound is distant. It spews forth

stale water from the brazen

heads of leopards. Can we

compose ourselves?

Our flight feathers grow

straight. These quills

are not our own.

End of our tether

It serves him right - in spite

of all of his secondhand

attempts at flight

clichés are all that's left.

We won't beat around the bush.

Hoodwinked for all those years -

under the thumb

so long!  We don't give two hoots!

Fed up. Ready to rouse

a mews. It was no fair exchange.

A Lanner Falcon Called Tisiphone

Tisiphone sits

fierce as a harpy

but rendered

blind as Phineus

by her hood.

She is just as wise.

Her name

is germinating.

She preens

her plumes

and wills them brass

just like those birds

which bred by

Lake Stymphalia.

Her cry can

shred silence.

Her talons

are sharp still

and for the air alone.

Her master, he grows old.

Only the opportunity

is wanting.