Alison Ballantyne
Wren Poem Ornithologists, entomologists, biologists, zoologists... indeed most ‘ologists’ are obliged by their work to impart knowledge about their subject in a particular way. Depending upon the level of complexity they must strive to be objective and to use language precisely to convey findings and information for those wishing to know more about living organisms specifically, in our case, birds. Describing concisely and avoiding ambiguity takes enormous linguistic skill. I read the entries in a couple of identification guides to see how precise the information is about Wrens. The following are drawn from the relevant entries from ‘Collins Bird Guide’, text and maps by Lars Svensson and ‘Birds’ by Robert Hume.
Wren behaviour: ‘it spends most of its time low down, on or near the ground’; habitat: ‘it is found from sea level to high up in mountain areas, from forest to to almost open spaces, (hmm, that really narrows it down); identification: ‘ludicrously small tail that is usually raised vertically,’ (double hmm, Svensson allowing opinion to creep in here) and then ‘reddish brown above and sullied brownish white below with fine dark vermiculations’. Finally, voice: ‘a rattling, hard ‘zerrr’, as well as single hard clicking ‘zeck’ notes’ plus ‘song amazingly loud for so small a bird’. As expected, identification guides strive to convey information about a bird’s physical features, aspects of its behaviour, the sounds it makes and its habitat. So does Hughes’s poem.
Wren Who owns Each tail-feather barred like a falcon? He does - that freckled inspector Of the woodland’s vaults. Burglar Alarm of the undergrowth. King Of the lowest hovel of winter bramble. The wren is a nervous wreck Since he saw the sun from the back of an eagle. He prefers to creep. If he can’t creep He’ll whirr trickle-low as his shadow Brief as a mouse’s bounce from safety to safety. Even the ermine snow-flake’s nose can’t start him -
Photo: Lesley Starbuck
When the thicket’s drifted, a shrouded corpse, He’s in under there, ticking, Not as a last pulse, but a new life waiting. Lonely keeper of the gold In the tumbled cleave. A bird out of Merlin’s ear. Silent watcher. Suddenly Singing, like a martyr on fire, Glossolalia. Ted Hughes (1930-1998)
T H E HA R R I ER – S p r i n g 2 0 1 6
31
