Poems About Birds: On Wings of Song

"Seagulls"by John UpdikeA gull, up close,looks surprisingly stuffed.His fluffy chest seems filledwith an inexpensive taxidermist's materialrather lumpily inserted. The legs,unbent, are childish crayon strokes–too simple to be workable.And even the feather-markings,whose intricate symmetry is the usual glory of birds,are in the gull slovenly,as if God makes them too manyto make them very well.Are they intelligent?We imagine so, because they are ugly.The sardonic one-eyed profile, slightly cross,the narrow, ectomorphic head, badly combed,the wide and nervous and well-muscled rumpall suggest deskwork: shipping ratesby day, Schopenhauer by night, and endless coffee.At that hour on the beachwhen the flies begin biting in the renewed coolnessand the backsliding skin of the after-surfreflects a pink shimmer before being blotted,the gulls stand around in the dimpled sandlike those melancholy European crowdsthat gather in cobbled public squares in the wakeof assassinations and invasions,heads cocked to hear the latest radio reports.It is also this hour when plump young coupleswalk down to the water, bumping together, and stand thigh-deep in the rhythmic glass.Then they walk back toward the car,tugging as if at a secret between thembut which neither quite knows–walk capricious paths through the scattering gulls,as in some mythologiesbeautiful gods stroll unconcernedamong our mortal apprehensions.John Updike on "Seagulls":My distinct memory is that I was pondering gulls while lying on Crane Beach in Ipswich when the first stanza came over me in a spasm of inspiration. Penless and paperless, I ran to the site of a recent beach fire and wrote in charcoal on a large piece of unburned driftwood. Then I cumbersomely carried my improvised tablet home. It must have been late in the beach season, and my final stanzas slow to ripen, for the poem's completion is dated early December.