Paterson the Puffin

(Copyright©Andrew MacLeod, 2011)

A Most Peculiar Bird

Paterson the Puffin

Was a most unusual bird.

Many of his friends agreed

His looks were quite absurd.

His plumage it was black and white,

His beak was red and yellow.

His feet were orange like a clown’s -

A most peculiar fellow!

Now puffins are ‘monogamous’,

(Which means they mate for life),

And Paterson was truly fond

Of his sweet puffin wife.

They lived upon a craggy isle

Beyond the western coast,

Where other seabirds often smiled

To hear his proud wife boast,

O Paterson my Paterson!

Sweet parrot of the sea!

You truly are the king of birds,

Fit for a queen like me!

Now Paterson could barely fly

And when he tried to land,

He’d either crash into the sea

Or bounce across the sand!

O Paterson my Paterson!

Proud master of the ocean!

You truly are magnificent,

Sheer poetry in motion!

The others laughed at Paterson

And when he tried to sing,

They’d cover up their ears and shout,

‘Good heavens! What a din!’

O Paterson my Paterson!

Sweet songbird of delight!

Sing a song of love for me

Beneath the stars tonight!

His dancing it was clumsy

And he capered like a goon!

His orange feet they flipped and flopped

Beneath the silv’ry moon.

O Paterson my Paterson!

Sweet prince of the Atlantic!

Your really are quite elegant,

And hopelessly romantic!

But he could dive beneath the waves

And dance amongst the fishes.

He caught a dozen for his wife

Who found them quite delicious!

O Paterson my Paterson!

Sweet emperor of me!

Such lovely gifts you bring me

From the bottom of the sea!

__________________________________

Andrew MacLeod is an english teacher from Glasgow, Scotland. “Paterson the Puffin” is part of a larger body of work about Scottish wildlife in general, entitled ‘Thistledown and Birdsong’.  Andrew shared his poem with us to share with all of you. Thank you Andrew!

Puffins
by Graham Donnachaidh

Auchmithie beach..

Puffins

Within my breast
a cry o’ hame
my eastern shore
whaur puffins
launch themselves
frae red sand stane cliffs
into the
depths o’ the angry sea

undying
the love I feel
for this shore
where demonic surge
lashes unmerciful tides
upon
my unyielding crags

where howling storms
send crescendos
of waves
against
my ancient
rocky shore

where icy sea sprays
twinkle
in the cold moonlight
of my
nor-east wynter……..

men wrestle
silver harvests
from her
abundant womb

this deep gurly
grey mother
sea..

i’m coming hame
soon

to you..
Graham…

((http://www.authorsden.com/visit/viewPoetry.asp?id=96983))

The “Brum” and the Oologist
Were walking hand in hand;
They grinned to see so many birds
On cliff, and rock, and sand.
“If we could only get their eggs,”
Said they, “It would be grand.”

“Well!” said that bland Oologist,
“We’ve had a lot of fun.
Next year, perhaps, these Shetland birds
We’ll visit—with a gun;
When—as we’ve taken all their eggs —
There’ll probably be none!”

Long, long ago, before the puffin swam,
neither sun nor sail bewildered those
who, simple in their sleep, walked to a day
of golden trees and apples in the air,
and quiet tilted villages.

The men flailed and the women wove
and when the eyes of heaven closed
they rested by fin-fairy fires
and watched the smoke climb upright to the stars.

Here the peace of an eternal autumn passed,
still leaves endured, and for the steeple doves
time kissed lightly underneath the moon;
the stones of ancient masons sang
the pale language of the livng dead,
the wall-chants of the spirit of the race
who left his talismans at eventide
lonely in the grey home shade.

Here lay the axe, once sun-slanted and crossed
before ripe muscles on a summer morning
and the old stones sing back two thousand years
to the skin-belted body which turned inthe sun,
and twisted and struck, one lever of flesh
at the tree on the forest floor.

Only the blue flints know of the heavy dead
fibre-bare in the deep midnight earth,
under the dumb centuries of cloven hooves,
and of souls’ last kisses before they fled
like shadows on the arms of some star-white god.

Forever beneath the high moon clouds
the red-haired cattle stray,
meeting and passing like porcelain
upon a waxen way.

Sires of their sires by hecatomb
had writhed beneath the sun;
some new man-woman would bleed
the calves of their calves by gun.
And one dozen paces from their skulls
would meet in temples on the shale
- with hassocks at their feet.

Eric Ratcliffe

by Brian A. Hartford

What a strange product of Nature,

the Puffin, is to what I refer.

Large orange beaked,

attached to a small head.

The body isn’t much of which to
speak,

black plumage, and not much more.

What miracle that such a design,

will support such a structure.

The white breast,

orange webbed feet,

such a clownish appearance.

The eyes highlight the costume,

small dots in a white feather field.

Is this costume for camouflage or,

for a darker spirit?

In Nature, it is not wise to guess,

it is uniqueness.

Fisherman by design,

to swim natural as it’s flight.

A source of amasement to me,

sheer joy to know he exists.

He returns to the cliffs of his
birth,

guards the nest.

protecting his unborn from the snare,

hazard of being a gastronomic
delight.

What a joy to know the puffin,

It is good to know he exists.

I am amused to think that,

the joke is on me.

BAH

Underwater, a premier danseur,
his turns a blur,
his orange feet steer

through the orchestra
of seaweed and tide,
this sea parrot, this clown

of the Atlantic, harlequin-billed
with jester’s eyes;
take one for your own

and the dance of life
takes a turn. The one I choose,
Nureyev,

is on his fifth mate,
despite the fact that puffins
are monogamous: no guilt

on Eastern Egg Rock!
What’s important
is the burrow

lined with grass and sticks,
that he was seen
approaching the nest

with a half dozen fish in his bill.
While his wings spin
like a windmill at sea,

on land he hops awkwardly
across rocks, wings tucked
under the tail of his tuxedo.

In spring, he’s genius
of the thermals,
the sun whispers stage directions,

gravity reveals its secrets
as he flies toward his island
without map or compass
from far across the sea.

— Suellen Wedmore

Oh, there once was a Puffin
Just the shape of a muffin,
And he lived on an island
In the bright blue sea!

He ate little fishes,
That were most delicious,
And he had them for supper
And he had them for tea.

But this poor little Puffin,
He couldn’t play nothin’,
For he hadn’t anybody
To play with at all.

So he sat on his island,
And he cried for awhile, and
He felt very lonely,
And he felt very small.

Then along came the fishes,
And they said, “If you wishes,
You can have us for playmates,
Instead of for tea!”

So they now play together,
In all sorts of weather,
And the Puffin eats pancakes,
Like you and like me.

by Florence Page Jaques