The Nestling (2nd revision 3 Aug 08), FV Options

[Eisa]

I wrote this a few years ago and it is a true story. It's been through a few revisions, but I've never been completely happy with it ... so I've just written another revision.
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2nd Revision 3/08/08

. .

The Nestling

She flinches; a featherless bird
tumbles, landing breathless.
Thoughts surge back forty years--

He arrived quietly
entwined in his lifeline,
hurriedly wrapped
in a hospital blanket.
Voices were hushed
as they rushed him away.

They thought it humane
to shroud his existence;
no whispered goodbyes.
She ached to nestle her son,
stroke his soft face and
sway him to lullabies.

One glimpse; never seen again.

Memories are tucked away in the attic:
the blue unused crib,
a hand crocheted shawl
to snuggle him in her arms.

Mother bird screeches
from a lifeless nest …

grief swoops like a vulture
tearing her insides;
tears still flow after forty years.

Wrapping the nestling
in a pink print hankie
she hums,
Rock-a-bye baby, in the tree-top
resting it in a cardboard box.

She buries it in moist earth
beneath a sycamore that cradles
the half empty nest in its arms,
scattering poppy seeds; her memorial.

When buds bloom, crumpled crimson,
she still longs to know --
if his eyes twinkled blue, reflecting her image
and where he lies now
… to place a poppy wreath.




LATEST REVISION (3.27.08)


The Nestling

Featherless, it tumbles,
from a foliaged nursery,
rushing to rescue
she stumbles;
breathless landings.

He arrived quietly
entwined in his lifeline,
hurriedly wrapped
in a hospital blanket.
Voices were hushed
as they rushed him away.

They thought it humane
to shroud his existence;
not even allowed
to whisper goodbye…
she ached to nestle her son,
stroke his soft face and
rock him to lullabies.

One glimpse and not seen again.

Memories are in the attic:
the blue unused crib,
a hand crochet shawl that never
warmed his resting body.

Mother bird screeches
from a lifeless nest …

grief swoops like a vulture
tearing inside her;
tears still flow after forty years.

Wrapping the nestling
in a pink print hankie
she hums,
Rock-a-bye baby, in the tree-top
resting it in a cardboard box coffin.


Where a sycamore, cradles
the nest in its branches,
she buries the baby beneath,
scattering poppy seeds; a memorial.


When buds bloom, crumpled crimson,
she still longs to know --

if his eyes twinkle blue, reflecting her image
and where he lies now
… to place a poppy wreath.

-----------------------------------------------------------------
LAST YEAR'S REVISION

The Nestling

She flinches as a featherless bird
tumbles, landing breathless.
Thoughts surge back --

He arrived quietly
entwined in his lifeline
-- gift wrapped
in a National Health blanket
then hurried away.

Gently cradling the tiny bird
she hums a lullaby.

She ached to nestle her boy
who’d kicked inside her
and gaze on his face,
sing an elegy to say goodbye.

He was buried without ritual
sharing a stranger’s coffin
in an undisclosed grave --
as done in those days.

Memories are kept in the attic:
the unused crib,
a soft down shawl that never
warmed his sleeping body.

The mother bird screeches
from a lifeless nest --

grief swoops like a vulture…
tears have flowed for forty years.

She wraps the fragile form in linen
resting it in an egg-box coffin
and digs beneath the sycamore
that shrouds the nest in its branches.
Poppy seeds are scattered as a memorial.

When buds bloom, crumpled crimson,
she celebrates that stillborn babies
are now embraced for their humanity,
yet still yearns to know --

if his eyes were the colour of hers
and where he lies now,
so she can scatter poppy seeds.

[Psyche]

Hi Snow!
Love this one....It's heartbreaking, of course, the way the woman remembers her own lost baby when she spies the nestling on the ground. I'm looking at your latest revision, but I think S1 of the older version is clearer as to who is who...and the memories.

Let's see, T or T!



The Nestling

Featherless, it tumbles, Don't need the comma after tumbles...
from a foliaged nursery, Full stop after nursery?
Rushing to rescue
she stumbles;
breathless landings.

Who lands breathless? Both of them? What about the mother bird? In your other version it's quite clear...mmmm.....Maybe colon after stumbles?

Or else:

Featherless, it tumbles
from a foliaged nursery:
breathless landing.
Rushing to rescue,
she stumbles... memories surge.

He arrived quietly
entwined in his lifeline,
hurriedly wrapped
in a hospital blanket.
Voices were hushed
as they rushed him away.

They thought it humane
to shroud his existence;


Maybe:

no whispered goodbyes...

instead of:

not even allowed
to whisper goodbye…

She ached to nestle her son,
stroke his soft face and
rock him to lullabies.

One glimpse and not seen again. This is SO poignant, Eisa, and SO real....

Memories are in the attic:
the blue unused crib,
a hand crochet shawl that never
warmed his resting body.

Perhaps another word instead of resting, since he would have been alive. Maybe 'that never cuddled him'?

Mother bird screeches
from a lifeless nest … Brings tears to one's eyes, Snow.


grief swoops like a vulture
tearing inside her;
tears still flow after forty years.

Wrapping the nestling
in a pink print hankie
she hums,
Rock-a-bye baby, in the tree-top
resting it in a cardboard box coffin.


Where a sycamore, cradles
the nest in its branches,
she buries the baby beneath,
scattering poppy seeds; a memorial.

Perhaps:

Scattering poppy seeds,
she buries the baby beneath a sycamore
that cradles the nest in its branches:
a memorial...

When buds bloom, crumpled crimson,
she still longs to know --

if his eyes twinkled blue,
reflecting her image,
and where he lies now
… to place a poppy wreath.


Heart-rending, Snow. The part about the 40 years gone by is so real. The comparison with the burial of the little bird is poignant. Hopefully, a ritual that will help her to overcome that feeling of not having said goodbye or had a funeral for her baby, in the usual way. Cathartic, perhaps.

Thanks for this read, I hope I haven't changed too much, remember that whatever I've said can go straight out the window....
Hugs, Syl ***

[saore]

Hi Snow, I too like the first stanza of last years revision, for the same reasons. But I think the rest of the latest revision is very good. It is also very tight.

[Cleo_Serapis]

Hi Snow,

What a poignant poem!!! I like the metaphors and think this may perhaps be about a real life loss of a baby? Not to pry, but it could definitely be interpreted that way at least.

I really enjoyed the read and have made some comments below for you to ponder as you wish.
Cheers
~Cleo

[add] {delete}

Featherless, it tumbles,
from a foliaged nursery,
rushing to rescue
she stumbles;
breathless landings.
I agree with Sylvia and Sergio that I too prefer the previous opening as it is less confusing that this one. But, if you prefer this new one, then I agree with Syl’s suggested punctuation changes.


They thought it humane
to shroud his existence;
{not even} [no one] allowed
to whisper goodbye… (or no whispered goodbyes…)
she ached to nestle her son,
stroke his soft face and
rock him to lullabies.

One glimpse and {not} [never] seen again. Poignant!


Memories are [tucked safely away] in the attic:
the blue unused crib,
a hand crocheted shawl that never
warmed his resting body.

Mother bird screeches
from a lifeless nest …

grief swoops like a vulture
tearing inside her; (tearing at her insides?)
tears still flow after forty years.

Wrapping the nestling
in a pink print hankie
she hums,
Rock-a-bye baby, in the tree-top
resting it in a cardboard box coffin.
Oh, how emotional this is getting! The suspense builds nicely!


Where a sycamore, cradles (delete the comma)
the nest in its branches,
she buries the baby beneath,
scattering poppy seeds; a memorial. (perhaps her memorial?)


When buds bloom, crumpled crimson,
she still longs to know --

if his eyes twinkle blue, reflect{ing} her image
and where he lies now
… to place a poppy wreath.

[Guest_ohsteve_*]

Hi Snow, Hard to chose between the first and second revision, they both were well written and both had their own way of saying almost the same thing. I under stood the following, but it seems to be a little confusing to me as this is not what happens in real life if a baby is born with the chord wrapped around it...and I am not sure of or if any clarification would help.

He arrived quietly
entwined in his lifeline,
hurriedly wrapped
in a hospital blanket.
Voices were hushed In these two lines, if I remember right, they would automatically try resusitation there in the birthing room.
as they rushed him away.

They thought it humane And here again I think I understand, but not sure, wouldnt they let the mother see even if the baby was dead or malformed if the mother wanted to see?
to shroud his existence;
not even allowed
to whisper goodbye…and certainly they would have been able to give the baby a funeral and there have a last goodbye?
she ached to nestle her son,
stroke his soft face and
rock him to lullabies.

Again maybe it is just my misunderstanding of what you were going for here. I hope this is a help, use or lose is up to you. Very poignent read. And doubly so if based on a true story.
Steve

[Eisa]

Hi Syl

After having a break from this, I agree about the 1st verse and wonder now why I changed it! LOL!
You have given me some good suggestions and I've written another revision - still a couple of places I'm not sure of ...

Hugs
Snow

[Eisa]

Hi Snow, I too like the first stanza of last years revision, for the same reasons. But I think the rest of the latest revision is very good. It is also very tight.

Thanks Sergio - I have to agree about the 1st st and have gone back to the original.

Snow

[Eisa]

Thanks Lori - you've given me some good suggestions which I've used in revision. I'm still not sure about a couple of parts -- what do you think?

Snow

[Eisa]

Hi Snow, Hard to chose between the first and second revision, they both were well written and both had their own way of saying almost the same thing. I under stood the following, but it seems to be a little confusing to me as this is not what happens in real life if a baby is born with the chord wrapped around it...and I am not sure of or if any clarification would help.

He arrived quietly
entwined in his lifeline,
hurriedly wrapped
in a hospital blanket.
Voices were hushed In these two lines, if I remember right, they would automatically try resusitation there in the birthing room.
as they rushed him away.

They thought it humane And here again I think I understand, but not sure, wouldnt they let the mother see even if the baby was dead or malformed if the mother wanted to see?
to shroud his existence;
not even allowed
to whisper goodbye…and certainly they would have been able to give the baby a funeral and there have a last goodbye?
she ached to nestle her son,
stroke his soft face and
rock him to lullabies.

Again maybe it is just my misunderstanding of what you were going for here. I hope this is a help, use or lose is up to you. Very poignent read. And doubly so if based on a true story.
Steve

Hi steve

Thank you for your interest & suggestions here. You have made some valid points, if the poem was written today ... but (I have tried to make it clearer in revision) it was about a stillbirth 40 years ago. An aquaintance told me about how her baby was rushed away and she never saw him again - never cuddled him - he was buried in a strangers coffin (apparently often done in those days). This would never happen today, but how sad that it happened then. Even 40 years ago doesn't seem that long.
I sent her this poem, before posting it to make sure I had got the facts right ... and she said it was all accurate. Unbelievable!

Thanks Steve - I hope I've made the 40 years clearer at the beginning.

Snow

[Guest_ohsteve_*]

Snow, yes in view that it was forty years ago, it makes a lot more sense...and how horrible an ordeal that would be... My grand parents were born in the very early 1900's and my grandfather would tell me about driving a horse and carriage...and he lived to see a man on the moon, amazing how fast the last century turned in technology...when my wife and I had our first child, my wife was required to stay in the hospital a week, when we had our last one, she was there one day... so I can imagine that childbirth forty years ago with a still birth would have been terrible.
Steve

[Psyche]

Oh my, Snow! This is lovely as well as heartrending. I'm glad you included the 'forty years ago'. Things were different then...

Having said that, even now, with all the controls so that babies don't get stolen (just one of the many issues we could talk about..), there's plenty of 'baby traffic'. Especially in South America, where poor mothers, often single teens, are told their babes are dead, or are shown a dead one, and in actual fact the baby has been bought by some wealthy European or Asian with lots of money....

Of course, some mothers even sell their babes. It's a sad fact, that goes hand in hand with extreme poverty.

But your poem is about the sadness of loss and the mystery of the unknown... wondering, wishing...
A great piece, Snow, it brings tears to my eyes. The inclusion of the nestling is highly original. Congrats!

Hugs, Syl ***

[Eisa]

Snow, yes in view that it was forty years ago, it makes a lot more sense...and how horrible an ordeal that would be... My grand parents were born in the very early 1900's and my grandfather would tell me about driving a horse and carriage...and he lived to see a man on the moon, amazing how fast the last century turned in technology...when my wife and I had our first child, my wife was required to stay in the hospital a week, when we had our last one, she was there one day... so I can imagine that childbirth forty years ago with a still birth would have been terrible.
Steve

Yes Steve, some things have changed for the better - I wish I could say that about everything.

Snow

[Eisa]

Hi Syl

Your reply has made me realise that things have not changed for everyone - how sad!

Snow

[Cleo_Serapis]

Hi Snow,

!!!!! This is so much more visual and the flow is better methinks in this rev. Well done!

A few more little niggles to follow - loving this latest rev!
~Cleo

She flinches; a featherless bird
tumbles, landing breathless.
Thoughts surge back forty years--
Yay, now we know it's in the past more easily!

They thought it humane
to shroud his existence;
no whispered goodbye’s. *change this to 'goodbyes'.
She ached to nestle her son,
stroke his soft face and
rock him to lullabies. *another suggestion for 'rock' = 'sway'.

resting it in a cardboard box coffin. *not sure you need to say 'coffin' here since you tell us it the baby is buried in the following line/stanza?

[Eisa]

Thanks Lori - your suggestions are spot on & I've made the changes

Hugs
Snow

[Cleo_Serapis]

Great!

I think this one should go into the 'polished pile' for a bit now Snow, don't you think?

I'm going to nominate it also for the IBPC as I think it's a stunning piece of poetry.

Cheers,
~Cleo

[Eisa]

Great!

I think this one should go into the 'polished pile' for a bit now Snow, don't you think?

I'm going to nominate it also for the IBPC as I think it's a stunning piece of poetry.

Cheers,
~Cleo

Hi Lori

Yes - at last I feel happy with this (for the time LOL!) Thanks for the nomination - Wow! that was a surprise.

Hugs
Snow

[Cleo_Serapis]

Yay!

I was moved by the message when I critiqued this one but had my 'serious face' on then. When I re-read it the other day, I actually started weeping. Now THAT is worth the tears.

Thanks for sharing, Snow! Good luck in IBPC.
~Lori

[Psyche]

Beautiful revision, Snow! Congrats! I've nominated your poem for a Faery Award, so I have nothing else to say...

Many hugs,
Syl***

[Cleo_Serapis]

Congrats Snow on your faery award winning tile!

Well done!

~Cleo