Yarak

[Hawkman]

Proud, sleek, feather-perfect
Upon your block you stand
On weight, inter-mewed
And fully trained, you rouse
No injury constrains you
Your heart is pure, craving flight

Soon, my love, soon

Then off the glove, free and clear
On winter’s savage sky let loose
To pump up to the heavens
And when on pitch, wait on
A thousand feet above

Then the flush, a shout of, Ho!
Your slate-grey sickle wings fold up
And in a perfect tear-drop
Flashing through the air
Rending it like tearing silk
You hurtle toward the earth

Thwack! You strike and bind
Bear your quarry to the ground
Across the field I run
See you panting, mantling your prey
Your breath a mist upon the air
How fierce you look

And now true magic
Last vestige left to man
I sit beside you while you feed
We share this moment, lost in time
I your companion and you mine
While no care touches us

‘Now my girl, enough.’ your crop well filled
I tempt you off the carcass
Onto my fist you confidently step
I hood you, bag the kill
Then, sun setting at our backs
Together, we walk home.

[PrinceMyshkin]

It's an eerie poem, a poem that my own nature cries out that it ought not to be so calm - and yet, how calm, even tranquil it is. I expect ~Sophia~ might have a word or two to say about it from her own experience with hawks but, lacking that experience, I can only say how true to the experience it seems.

[~Sophia~]

I've never known a trained hawk that need to be hooded so I would say this poem is about a beloved falcon (and the description of the stoop is also not of a hawk). It all rings true except, I would exchange the word "block" for weathering or perch but that might be a local term. The "weight" is absolutely critical and shows an eagerness to hunt so, good you included that! If there is a flush, are you hunting with a dog?

Thanks for writing about my second greatest love! Are you a falconer?

[Hawkman]

PM – In truth, not every flight is quite as serene as the one described, but for a bird in the peak of condition, flown on a perfect day, the experience is truly as depicted. The relationship between man and bird is magical, at least for me.

For anyone who doesn’t know what Yarak means – it is a word or Arabic extraction and is used to describe a bird in peak condition.

Hi Sophia, thanks for reading and commenting on the poem.

Hawks with hoods – well I know some austringers who hood their birds, but not many. There is a school of thought that advocates flying a hawk, ‘out of the hood’ but personally I don’t subscribe to it. However, it can be helpful to hood a hawk if you need to cast it.

Perches are for hawks and eagles. Their feet are designed to grasp tree branches so bow perches are tubular in cross section allowing the foot a more natural position. Falcons are a species which habitually nest on flat areas on rock faces and their feet are more comfortable on a flat surface.

The proper term for a falcon’s perch is a block. These are usually round blocks of wood with a spike on the bottom to allow it to be pushed into the ground. The top surface is flat, and these days covered in a small mat of Astroturf. This prevents a bird from the danger of developing pressure sores on the feet, a condition known as bumblefoot.

A weathering is usually an area where birds may be left to ‘take the weather’ either on perches or on blocks, when not being flown.

Sadly, at the moment I’m not flying a bird at all, as my current circumstances do not permit it, but I don’t use a dog, though many of my friends do, and you are correct, the bird in the poem is a falcon, a peri-saker hybrid to be precise.

Always happy to chat about falconry and I’m glad you enjoyed the poem.

H

PS Have you ever cadged a lift? A cadge is a portable frame used for carrying birds of prey. The medieval falconer would not have expected to lug his birds about himself, so a skivvy, equipped with a cadge, would have carried the birds for him.

[~Sophia~]

Sorry Hawkman. I can only speak from the raptor centre I used to fly birds at. Most of the birds (hawks, falcons, eagles) etc were put out on weatherings every day and when they were going to be excercised (flown) we retrieved them from a weathering. I don't remember using blocks for the falcons either. They were housed in mews/hawk houses/free lofts (all depending on the bird) overnight and then put on weatherings unless the weather was really awful. I can't recal a single case of bumblefoot and this was at an educational centre for ratpors. Isn't bumblefoot primarily found in hawks? I've neer heard of it on a falcon. I'm not disputing at all, just saying that's not what I'm accustomed to. No, we never used a cadge to transport birds. They were in small animal crates or on fist.

Unfortunately, my travels for the past two years have pretty well left me flightless as well.

Thanks again for the poem (and the memories...sigh).

[hack]

I loved the poem, though the technical details are beyond me. My father-in-law, now 94 years old, bred, raised, trained, and flew racing pigeons for more than 70 years. I would frequently take birds with me on my peregrinations to the surrounding desert and foothills. Occasionally, at their release, as they circled once or twice before gaining their bearings, a raptor would hurtle through the flock, scattering them as an explosion through the gathering birds. I never saw a bird taken, though I am sure that some who never returned knew that fate. I wonder if the attack was anticipated from above, and the bird watched for movement around me? I have heard stories of hunters flushing game only to watch it stolen by raptors...peace...

[ktr]

I don't understand the grammar. Maybe im a poetry noob - but my understanding is that, when reading poetry, one should read through the line and pause when the grammar stops one, not the line. when i read through your lines they are terribly awkward -

[Hawkman]

Hi Sophia – I’m surprised we don’t seem to be speaking the same language with regard to perches and weatherings. In all my conversations with falconers from all over the world we have always understood each-other in the terms I described.

Re bumblefoot, any bird can get it if it is badly cared for with inappropriate housing or husbandry. It need not necessarily be caused by a bad perch though, any untreated injury to the foot which may become infected could have the same result.

I’m glad the poem was so evocative for you.

hack - I’m glad you enjoyed the poem. I once spent a happy summer filming an eyrie on the South Devon coastal cliffs, where a pair of peregrines raised a brood of three chicks. All three fledged.

I never actually saw the parents hunting, but one Saturday afternoon I observed the tiercel (male bird) flying in with a pigeon which he passed to the female in mid air. Screaming her head off, she flew into the eyrie with it and fed it to her young.

Nature, red in tooth and claw – I guess.

Thank you both for your comments – Live and be well

H

[Hawkman]

I don't understand the grammar. Maybe im a poetry noob - but my understanding is that, when reading poetry, one should read through the line and pause when the grammar stops one, not the line. when i read through your lines they are terribly awkward -

Hi ktr, just read it as you see it and it wont be. Read it out loud and feel the rhythm.

H

[~Sophia~]

Hi Hawk... we're talking the same language. I think we just used our weatherings more. Please remember this was an educational centre and the birds were on display for most of the day unless they were in a molt or had a broken feather, were sick etc. or were flying/hunting. They were housed at night. Hawks, owls, vultures in freelofts. The others in appropriate housing so they wouldn't hurt themselves. In 3 years, I only saw one case of bumblefoot (on a hawk) that was brought to the centre as a rescue bird. (The centre also does quite a lot of rescue). I am no expert on raptors. Only the things I learned there but, I do love them and someday, hope to have my own Harris. Cheers!

[ktr]

Hi ktr, just read it as you see it and it wont be. Read it out loud and feel the rhythm.

H

i am having trouble with that though, because sometimes the line flows and sometimes it doesn't. i don't know when i should continue or when i should stop.

i think if you;re going to use commas at all, then you should use them throughout and correctly.

i like the idea of the poem, i just think you could make it better if you like - made it flow sickmazingly

[hack]

i like the idea of the poem, i just think you could make it better if you like - made it flow sickmazingly

Sickmazing is a worthy goal
and I support it completely
in both content and other
stuff and junk.:arf:

[blank|verse]

I really liked this. I don't know much about falconry beyond the film Kes (based on the book A Kestrel for a Knave by Barry Hines) but I enjoyed the discussion! I always look out for the buzzards we have close to where I live, sweeping the air, riding the currents.

I liked the opening line, especially the metaphor 'feather-perfect'; this passage:

Your slate-grey sickle wings fold up
And in a perfect tear-drop
and the rather touching penultimate stanza was nicely expressive of your relationship with the raptor (I hope that's the right word!). I'm a bit unsure about 'Thwack!' but it's certainly effective.

And I agree with ktr that you should tidy up the punctuation; it's a common courtesy to the reader and here, can only improve your poem I think; it's not an experimental, stream-of-consciousness piece or anything, so I don't think leaving out punctuation improves the poem.

[Hawkman]

Well, perhaps you're right. maybe I'm too familiar with the subject matter and its form so for the benefit of everyone who isn't here's the poem with all the dots and dashes put in.

Yarak

Proud, sleek, feather-perfect,
Upon your block you stand.
On weight, inter-mewed
And fully trained, you rouse,
No injury constrains you.
Your heart is pure, craving flight.

Soon, my love, soon.

Then off the glove, free and clear,
On winter’s savage sky let loose,
To pump up to the heavens
And when on pitch, wait on,
A thousand feet above.

Then the flush, a shout of, Ho!
Your slate-grey sickle wings fold up
And in a perfect tear-drop,
Flashing through the air,
Rending it like tearing silk,
You hurtle toward the earth.

Thwack! You strike and bind,
Bear your quarry to the ground.
Across the field I run,
See you panting, mantling your prey,
Your breath a mist upon the air:
How fierce you look.

And now true magic,
Last vestige left to man,
I sit beside you while you feed.
We share this moment, lost in time,
I your companion and you mine,
While no care touches us.

‘Now my girl, enough.’ Your crop well filled,
I tempt you off the carcass.
Onto my fist you confidently step,
I hood you, bag the kill,
Then, sun setting at our backs,
Together, we walk home.