Birdie

Tags

birds, death, flash story, help, life, loss, love, mortality, pigeon, sadness, survival, True Story

 

 

This is a true story …

 

She comes at the most unexpected time. In the evening, when the sun has sunk behind the hills, and it’s time to roll back the canopy on the terrace to allow daylight into the flat. I head towards the kitchen door and open it to let in the cool evening breeze. Something crawls around my foot.  A kitten, on the first floor? I look down and see a small pigeon.

She walks, but can’t fly. I presume she would have the moment my foot touched her body.  Something must be wrong. Maybe her leg or wing is injured?  I fill two bowls, one with water and another with bread and seeds, and place them near her. She doesn’t touch them. Frightened, she seeks refuge in dark corners. I let her be and watch her from behind the terrace door.

Darkness falls.  I switch the lights on in the lounge. She hides by the flower pot next to the kitchen door. I must not disturb her. Later, before I go to bed, I must lock that door.

Discreetly, I close the door. She’s sleeping on her feet by the flower pot. Let her be …

 

It’s still dark when I wake up. Under the moonlight, I see her shadow against the flower pot. I slide open the terrace door. She doesn’t move.

I turn on the coffee machine, sit in my chair, and switch on the computer. I hear wings flapping. Through the netting, I peek outside. Birdie is thrashing herself on the terrace tiles. She makes an attempt, falls on her head or sideways, and tries again, as though her legs are paralysed.  She can’t walk. What happened? She was pacing the terrace last night. I took photos …

She’s still trying to hide from me. Desperately, she moves to the opposite side of the terrace, and then, under the table, seeking refuge. I don’t know how to help or comfort her. I take a soft floor brush and gently move her towards the food and water. She perches on the food bowl, then on the water, and stays put.

I check my watch, 7.30 am, can’t call anyone at this hour. I wish my downstairs neighbour were here. She’s good with animals and would know what to do. My conscience hurts as Birdie flaps her wings and falls sideways. She’s trying to hold onto life.

My plans for the morning and the day over, I desperately Google information on vets who might take care of birds. I come across a name I took my neighbour’s cat to. I punch the number on the landline. No reply. At 8.30 am, I call my neighbour, away on holiday, asking for help. “Any vets who can take care of birds? This one is dying and I can’t do anything to help.”

She comes back with a name, someone she knows, but he won’t be at the clinic till 10 am. I look for a suitable box, lay some paper at the bottom, get dressed and call the Vet clinic after 9 am. They tell me I can bring her in.

I lift birdie with plastic gloves and put her in the box. She’s faint, but still living.  I drive slowly towards the address not far away from home.

Carrying the box in my hand, I walk into their office. “Can you please help her? I think she’s dying.”

The young Vet takes her out of the box and examines her with his gloved hands. He says, “Her rib-cage is hollow.  This is an advanced stage of a viral infection. She’s dehydrated, suffers from malnutrition. “

“But I did give her water,” I say.

“At this stage, you need to force her,” he replies.

He asks the assistant to bring some water and puts her beak into the paper cup. Birdie takes  a couple of sips.

“I tried to do that,” I say.

“Maybe she was frightened,“ he says.

“Can you help her?”

“Very difficult at this stage. This infection progresses fast.”

“She was walking last night. Look I have photos.” I show him the images on my phone.

“It happens. Why don’t you leave her with us? We’ll take your contact number and get in touch with you.”

I leave the Vet’s Clinic without Birdie. I arrive home and think I must wash the balcony, get rid of the bird’s poo on the tiles. I can’t. I sit and wait. I’m unable to go for my morning swim. I can’t move. An hour later, the nice girl at the Vet’s calls me. “I’m sorry,“ she says.

And I cry for Birdie.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Fresh

Tags

dreams, expired, Flash Poesy, fresh, hope, new, old, stale, stifling

 

Departure of the Winged Ship, Vladimir Kush 

http://www.beautifullife.info/art-works/surrealistic-paintings-by-vladimir-kush/

 

 

August heat lingers,

like a lover who doesn’t want to

end a long gone affair

I need a new beginning

with September,

a fresh chemistry

where we discover

each other on

virgin territory

crisp as white linens

that carry the aroma of the sea

and laid on the bed

to conjure dreams

that have never been

travelled,

hopes that have never been

expressed,

words that have never been

spoken.

The Sea

Today I shared many famous paintings on the sea theme on my Facebook page. They reminded me of this post. So I thought I’d reblog it.

By the way, Happy Eid and Mutlu Bayramlar. 🙂

sebnemsanders

Photo of a child at İçmeler Beach, Marmaris.  (2016)

 

The sea and I are friends

from a long time ago

We like each other’s company

and miss each other on the days we can’t meet.

I have been in many seas,

but I think it’s just one big sea,

regardless of the names.

The sea has seen me age,

but the child who dipped into the water

for the first time

doesn’t age.

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La Belle Époque is at The Rye Whiskey Review

Tags

Flash Poesy, La Belle Epoque, publication, The Rye Whiskey Review

 

I’m back at the Bar, sipping more Rye Whiskey. Many thanks to John Patrick Robbins, Poet and Editor-in-Chief  of The Rye Whiskey Review, for letting me in. 

 

 

La Belle Époque

 

The theme of the dinner party was La Belle Époque,

in the vintage shop, I found a dress suitable for Jane Avril.

Took it home, put it on a hanger and began imagining …

The urge was great, so I slipped into it,

the lights dimmed for a moment and

I was transported to a busy bar in Paris,

champagne flowing, cigarette smoke hanging in the air,

as the pianist accompanied the sad song the soloist sang.

Toulouse came to say, “Bonne soirée, ma chérie,”

but my eye was on the young Picasso, surrounded by pretty ladies.

Hiding in the corner with Zola was Pierre Currie,

having left Marie at the laboratory with her radiation tests.

Lumiére was looking up and down my dress,

to decide on my role in his next film,

as Picasso approached and bought me drink.

Moulin Rouge, he said, or Casino de Paris or maybe even La Tour Eiffel

Toulouse wasn’t too happy about this, but he joined crowd,

carrying bottles of champagne in his hands.

We rode Lumiére’s automobile to the Eiffel with Colette,

flirting with the elegant dames, in their haute couture,

Monet, Renoir, and Cezanne followed us,

in other autos with Michelin tyres.

We danced through the night in Parc du Champ de Mars,

and on top of the tower, watching Paris and then,

stopped at Moulin Rouge, meeting,

Andre Gide, Baudelaire, Mussorgsky and Stravinsky there.

Joie de vivre, absinthe, Can-can, poetry,

music, art, and literature hand in hand,

we roamed through Monmartre,  Folies Bergére,

visiting each and every drinking hole,

cabaret, burlesque show, and ended up at the Ritz.

And we danced, and we danced, and we danced,

And I danced, and I danced, and I danced,

clinging to my dress …

 

link:

https://ryethewhiskeyreview.blogspot.com/2018/08/la-belle-epoque-by-sebnem-e-sanders.html

 

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Photo credit. -la-belle-epoque-de-jules-cheret-de-l-affiche-au-decor.jpg (800×1119) Old French Posters and Advertisements

 

A Breath of Air

Tags

air, borders, breeze, climate, climate changes, destination, heat, home, life, survival, travel, wind

 

 

 

Air is still free,

but we don’t know for how long

Today was the first time in two weeks

I could take a fresh breath

instead of the re-cycled mass from the AC

I’ve been dreaming of a cool breeze,

it wasn’t quite so

though refreshing

Opening the doors and the windows,

and with the help of ceiling fans,

I brought life into my surrounding.

My geraniums, coral plants are dead,

my house plants sad,

they couldn’t cope with the furnace winds

blowing fire into the atmosphere

but my young pines are flourishing,

since they chose to grace me with their existence

after sowing their seeds into my potted plants

where I laid their cones for decoration

I’m from the North,

The Bosphorus is my hometown,

now I live on the border of the Aegean and the Mediterranean,

and still haven’t figured out

how they put boundaries

on the vast waters

Something to think about

while I’m getting used to

my not so new surroundings

Life has brought me to this port,

like my young pine trees,

our home for the time being

Movies

Tags

butterfly effect, casualty, dreams, empathy, grand finale, learning, lesson, life, loneliness, loss, love, movies, past, play, present, purpose

 

 

Watching movies to pass time,

Benjamin Button, Up in the Air and Babel

butterfly effect with the underlying theme of loneliness,

feeling the empathy for the love and loss,

of youth, dreams and purpose

It’s easy to analyse the past,

to death, sometimes,

but analysing the present is hard,

why we have become who we are,

without dissecting the contributing factors

How did I get here?

Can I time-travel and put it right,

or am I just a casualty of the past,

in my loneliness among the crowds?

Will I age backwards like Benjamin Button

in complete memory loss,

from diapers to diapers

in the reverse order?

Or will I continue existing Up in the Air

with free miles on my card I won’t be able to spend?

Token miles for life expire within a set time,

no longer valid in this act of the play,

intermission, suspense,

and the anticipation for the grand finale,

which we’ll only know when the play ends.

Survival

Tags

adaptation, ancient traditions, continuation, crop rotation, developers, evolution, Flash Fiction, fleeting, flora and fauna, harmony, immortality, industry, nature, resilience, spring, survival, threats, tradition, transience, virgin soil

 

 

I wandered into the field along the dirt road to explore the flora and the fauna. A kaleidoscope of spring flowers, dotted with herds of cattle, sheep, horses, and donkeys. The hyper goats and their babies preferred the rocky terrain, on its edge, climbing and leaping from the heights, and feasting on fresh herbs and blooms. The aroma of sage, rosemary, and oregano filled the air. No humans around, though. It seemed the fauna had the scene for their own amusement.

I was not to complain, as I trod on the young grass, taking care not to harm the beauties of early spring along my path.

Settled on a rock, I watched the vibrant scene as the animals shared nature’s bounty. I took photos, viewed them on my camera, and shot some more to capture the ambiance. At the end of the field, the dirt road snaked towards the village on the hills, after passing through a closed gate. The farmers had herded their livestock into the meadow for grazing till sunset.

In this part of the world, Spring is brief, fleeting like our youth. Hot summer sun burns the grass. The only plants that survive are the trees and thorny bushes. Flowers fade and the green becomes yellow.

I left the meadow with the villagers who came to gather their animals and lead them into the sheds. They offered me coffee at the coffee shop where men smoked and played backgammon. They were dressed in their all year round outfits, jackets worn over shirts, and trousers   The sound of rolling dice against the wooden board mixed with the background noise from the TV on the wall. Noisy, but not disturbing. Not that these people cared about what was happening in the world or in the country. Their world was their village. They had lived that way for centuries, despite devastating events that changed the lives of many. It was their way of survival, like the thorny bushes.

The village head, an old man swinging his worry beads around his wrist, sat next to me and spoke.

“Photographer lady, will you make us famous?”

“I take pictures for my own pleasure. If I publish or sell them, I rarely mention the place. Would you like me to?”

“Yes and no,” he said, taking a big slurp from his coffee. “This is still a protected site, but we don’t know how long it will last.” He pointed to the TV and folded his arms. “The developers are viewing the land, taking photos and measuring. We may not be able to live this way for long.”

I knew what he was talking about. Land profiteers, vultures that thrive on virgin soil. They were everywhere, digging mines, shaving off mountains, building hotel complexes, marinas, and power plants.

“What they do is against nature,” I said. “Yet, they have supporters in the government.”

“Isn’t it always so?”

“I came here to photograph Spring on these ancient lands. I witnessed it once before, but never managed to visit at the right time again when the combination of the animals and nature exist in such harmony.”

“Once harvest is over, the animals graze in the fields on the other side of the gate. Crop rotation, a four-hundred-year-old tradition.” He pointed to the area, peeking from beyond the houses.

“Spring is transient,” I said.

“Isn’t life?” he answered with a smile, tipping the brim of his flat cap.

 

I loaded my bags containing herbs, honey, and almonds from the local shop into the car, and left the village. Driving through magnificent scenery washed in the colours of sunset, I pondered whether I was spring grass, a thorny bush or an evergreen. Grass renews itself and dies, then comes back again. A thorny bush survives all circumstances. Nature is resilient. Bougainvillea bloom, pine trees grow into forests, from the tiny seeds hidden in their cones.

I decided not to publish any of the photos on my website. Let it be a well-kept secret, on my part. Perhaps I could post them as historical documents in the future.

 

 

 

Photos from Google