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.