The Stuffed Owl

“…untired comforter,
The presence even of a stuffed owl for her
Can cheat the time…”
The Stuffed Owl,
William Wordsworth.

“I rejoice that there are owls. Let them do the idiotic and maniacal hooting for men… They represent the stark twilight and unsatisfied thoughts which all [men] have.”
Walden,
Henry David Thoreau.

Outside, a summer storm was swelling, while in my one-room, lofty dwelling,
A heady deadline came propelling – a lyric-verse was overdue.
No Aristolean priming in poetic form or rhyming
Could have made it worth the climbing to start libretti now anew.
Could afflatus pierce the gloaming, bringing with it verse anew
To this room without a view?

My muse held me in such contempt, she left my pages white and empty,
While my mind and heart turned ashen, desolation’s natural hue.
Gone were all the fine Ambrosian adjectives I might have chosen.
The flow of poetry was frozen, except a few lines that broke through.
But what congealed, confusing poesy! that somehow wended its way through,
And presently I offer you.

I, in perturbance, scanned the attic, resting on the emblematic
Bird of night that now is static, nailed in state, when once it flew.
Thus entering my sight’s arena, this totem of the wise Athena
Tugged a little on my vena cava and aorta too;
For my lyric inspiration, like the owl, was fixed there too
Fixed in place, when once it flew.

There, perched upon my writing desk, a comic hint at the grotesque,
Struggling to be statuesque, its wings askance and legs askew.
What ghoul would dare to taxiderm him! This philosoph amongst the vermin.
His glassy stare that makes me squirm in, in this room without a view.
That glassy stare that seems resolved to put across his point of view
But convey the point to who?

Deformed by permanent repose, he seemed to scrutinise my poesy,
Looking down his beaky nose, he gave a look hard to construe.
It was as if the bird were taunting with its belletristic haunting,
The silence just a way of flaunting a secret truth only he knew.
What could be the mystic truth that only sand-filled creatures knew?
His countenance gave not a clue.

Sickened by his disapproval, I contemplated his removal -
Down the stair with such despair as plagued this room without a view.
Maniacally, I sought to clutch it, but could find no strength to touch it.
After all, he cost so much, it would be a silly thing to do.
And in this room without a view, there are more pressing things to do -
A lyric-verse is overdue.

What peace! if some pernicious pussy had sunk its teeth into the juicy
Meat and downy feathers sparing the taxidermist’s glue.
Or, if some skilled veterinarian would look on my defunct librarian,
This solitary parliamentarian, and somehow his esprit renew.
Perhaps the physic could work two-fold and simultaneously renew
My faculty for poesy too.

Strange to think, this squalid, low-thing could inspire in me such loathing
As to rend and rip my clothing in tempestuous ado.
For I am such a gentle figure that no strigadae should trigger
That there rage that just got bigger, beyond containment as it grew.
What a frivolous and a pitiless bitterness it was that grew
That I could only just subdue.

For love was meant as my expression, but such emotion knows discretion;
The stylus still left no impression, when with its inky end I drew.
And there is something uninviting about the actual act of writing,
As, though the subject is exciting, the composition’s hard to do.
What reasoning could I then give for the work I try to do?
To wit, the bird replied: “To woo.”