Eleanor And The Golden Bird Poem by Daniel Brick

for Linda Clayton

I

Her life glittered from late morning
to late night. She awoke in her shaded
bedroom about eleven, turned on the TV,
and watched talk show guests irritate each other,
while she smoked her first two cigarettes.
She began to clothe herself with beauties:
make-up, fragrances, rings, wishes,
dresses, blouses, jewelry, desires, shoes.
When she looked into the mirror for the last time,
she felt satisfied this was how it should be.

Life is an exchange of wealth, some friends
told her. Life is a series of bargains people
make in good faith or bad faith, others argued,
but only good faith will make you happy. Still others
countered, Life doesn't matter: We are just glittering
dust, the glitter fades, vanishes, and the dust
drifts to the ground. Lady Eleanor, don't listen
to these who speak of despair, her secretary warned.
They will deprive you of all joy of life, which is
your most precious possession. Eleanor listened in silence.

Claus, one of the oldest members of her entourage,
was by self-appointment her poet and stage manager.
He wrote for her a praise-poem that everyone applauded
at fashion shows and private gatherings alike.
L a d y E l e a n o r - your body is a gazelle,
sleek, smooth, shimmering. Fashion is your slave,
colors spill out of your being. Sometimes we see in a corner
of the night, or on the edge of space where light and dark
merge, a piece of your beauty shining in solitary glory.
Your turban is the soft crown which proclaims you Our Princess!

But Eleanor was bored, morning, noon and night.

II

The birds were not surprised
to learn they symbolized
the human soul. Nothing humans
do or think surprises them. In the weeks
after this knowledge flew through their flocks,
there was excited activity, and countless questions:
What does this mean to us? What are we supposed
to be doing with them? What do they expect from us?
As it transpired, most humans expected nothing
from the birds: they had forgotten their ancient beliefs.

There had been an ancient rapport between birds and humans.
It was an interchange on the Soul Level that made each
stretch beyond its nature... But humans no longer
consulted their souls, had lost track of the way to their
Interior Selves, and the telepathy between birds and humans
was declared a fraud. The birds were confused: they expected
increased bonding but only encountered inert souls or
severed tendrils floating aimlessly in space: nothing
cohered into wholeness of being. Only naturalists and poets
paid attention to the birds, and suddenly it was autumn everywhere.

It was time for the birds to lean into stronger air currents
as they flew in vast congregations, to tumble among clouds,
to challenge the heights of the sky dome, to exult under
both sun and moon. These things had huge souls, welcoming souls,
souls in whose spaces the birds could brood and hatch schemes
of flight. Gradually, birds and humans became strangers.
Birds soared into the empyrean, but humans did not look skyward.
They slept through the morning carillon and ignored the aviary
concerts at dusk. Often birds and humans dreamed wondrous dreams
of their ancient rapport, and in sleep reached out into the abyss.

And the Golden Bird fanned his wings, his eyes fierce and rapt.

III

His feathers were burnished gold, with flecks of red,
and his beak was the color of the rising sun. Sometimes
his feathers flared into silver with bright blue highlights.
This happened when he sang his Long Song, in the presence
of humans who still noticed such things as a Golden Bird
or a Silver Bird, and sensed deep in their cavernous minds
some image that still stirred them with an obscure feeling.
He did not perch with other birds, and they were wary of him.
He was sui generis and preferred solitude of the heights.
He brooded on mountain crests, he hatched schemes while flying

into the empyrean. At night he slept while coasting within
convoluted currents. In daytime he searched for humans who
had soul-fragments that might still join together and achieve
that ancient rapport, soul to soul, bird to human, a two-fold
harmony. To most humans he was invisible. They sensed a disturbance
in the air, a mysterious unrest in their minds, even as they went about their routines, accumulating profit, disposing assets,
making every moment count to their advantage. He tried to distract
them and coax them into their Interior Selves, to revive the bond
between feather and flesh, between wings and limbs, in tune again.

He thrived, neither of the birds nor of the humans, but a solitary
symbol of their once great harmony of souls. He flared in flight.
Until the day he flew into Eleanor's space and sensed finally
that lost rapport envelop him entirely. He hovered in her world
for many weeks, before she even saw him. But the moment she
witnessed his illuminated feathers change from gold to silver and
back to gold, Light poured from his soul into hers, and for bird
and human a perfect communion bonded them, as if their souls were
planets orbiting each other's sun. And the Golden Bird purged her mind
of dross, and Eleanor guided him into the Community of Beings.

And Eleanor was elated, morning, noon and night.

(This lyric poem was inspired by a painting by LINDA CLAYTON,
based on the song ALL YOU NEED IS LOVE by The Beatles.)