Night Bird

by Danusha Laméris

Night Bird  by Danusha Laméris

Hear me: sometimes thunder is just thunder.
The dog barking is only a dog. Leaves fall
from the trees because the days are getting shorter,
by which I mean not the days we have left,
but the actual length of time, given the tilt of earth
and distance from the sun. My nephew used to see
a therapist who mentioned that, at play,
he sank a toy ship and tried to save the captain.
Not, he said, that we want to read anything into that.
Who can read the world? Its paragraphs
of cloud and alphabets of dust. Just now
a night bird outside my window made a single,
plaintive cry that wafted up between the trees.
Not, I’m sure, that it was meant for me.





From James Crews:
I've been taken by this week's poem, "Night Bird," by Danusha Laméris for some time now. I love its playful tone, and the way that a deep "not-knowing" rests at the heart of this poem. What she seems to suggest here is that we often try to read too much into our world, instead of keeping a beginner's mind, just allowing things to be as they are. Thunder does not always suggest a coming storm. The play of a child is not always indicative of some deeper pain. And the night bird that lets loose its plaintive cry at the end of the poem, represents nothing more than a kind of communication that we may never fully understand. There is freedom and release in letting things be sometimes, not attaching stories or explanations or anxieties to all that happens around us. "Who can read the world?" the poet asks, and though we may do our best, our capacities are often so limited. Why not let nature, with its "paragraphs of cloud" and alphabets of dust," simply exist, without trying to impose labels or names or our own thoughts on it all?


Invitation for Writing & Reflection: 
Begin with the poet's phrase, "Who can read the world?" and see where that question leads you. As you hold onto a certain "not-knowing," what new insights open up for you?