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Christmas Sparrow

A representation and understanding of a poem that I can highly relate to

Misha German

on 28 January 2013

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Transcript of Christmas Sparrow

Poem by Billy Collins Without a peep or warning, a sparrow has entered someone's house on a Christmas night And not by surprise, by this agile and cunning creature The narrator then quickly takes a shirt and nestles the sparrow in it and sets it free For some reason I imagined the narrator as a man.
I am not quite sure why. The narrator then spends the rest of the night thinking about how lucky the sparrow is to be alive

And how lucky he was himself to have saved the sparrow. "Christmas Sparrow" Prezi by Misha German To break it down... Using words to emphasize a point. Hyperboles "To have vanished in the nest of cloth" "It burst into its element,
Dipping over the dormant garden
In a spasm of wingbeats" Imagery "for the rest of the day, I could feel its wild thrumming
against my palms" "Hidden in the spiky branches
of our decorated tree, breathing there
Among the metallic angels, ceramic apples, stars of yarn..." The first thing I heard this morning
was a soft, insistent rustle,
the rapid flapping of wings
against glass as it turned out,

a small bird rioting
in the frame of a high window,
trying to hurl itself through
the enigma of transparency into the spacious light.

A noise in the throat of the cat
hunkered on the rug
told me how the bird had gotten inside,
carried in the cold night
through the flap in a basement door,
and later released from the soft clench of teeth.

Up on a chair, I trapped its pulsations
in a small towel and carried it to the door,
so weightless it seemed
to have vanished into the nest of cloth.

But outside, it burst
from my uncupped hands into its element,
dipping over the dormant garden
in a spasm of wingbeats
and disappearing over a tall row of hemlocks.

Still, for the rest of the day,
I could feel its wild thrumming
against my palms whenever I thought
about the hours the bird must have spent
pent in the shadows of that room,
hidden in the spiky branches
of our decorated tree, breathing there
among metallic angels, ceramic apples, stars of yarn,

its eyes open, like mine as I lie here tonight
picturing this rare, lucky sparrow
tucked into a holly bush now,
a light snow tumbling through the windless dark. Onomatopoeias Rustling Thrumming
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