The Raven, a telling

Look, listen, study — the poetry of the birds

I am watching the birds,
and listening to their calls.
More so, I’m watching how they watch.
Normally, that’s something that I do with people —
watching how they look at things.
How do people see?

Driving across the state, back and forth,
I counted more than 50 raptors,
studying their type,
their size, their gaze.
What, indeed, are they looking at?

If you ever watch a more mature bird, you note how they swivel and study.
It’s not a furtive glance, it’s a piercing beam of focus.
A good reckoning for us, in the thinking —
“what are we looking at, what is our focus?”

I also counted about 24 ravens,
a long presence in my studies of birds,
which are
more of an iconic bird spirit,
in my life.

The Raven, a telling

That’s a life question — and a brand question.
I’ve been working with a person, a brand unto themselves, of the last couple of weeks, part planning, part strategy, part coaching — and this is the key question: “what are you looking at — your market, what is the focus of your message, to that market?”

Which comes out to,
the layering and mirroring of the story
“what is your story,
what is your telling,
who listens,
and who cares?”

For us, that’s about focus —
it’s the looking outwardly, externally –and the looking back, internally.

What’s given “out” and what’s given “back” in return.
Brand reflectivity — you reach forward, you reach back.

My mother, Lila, the ever-watchful, pointed out
this reading below,
which is a nice reconnection for me,
to hear this telling again.

In my examination of the craft,
I look for the patterning of my life,
in the work that I offer to others,
and how that resonation circulates,
in a kind of rippling —
one tiny waved story, to another.
Layer on layer on layer.
That, the quest for meaning.
Which is the heart of the work.

The Raven, a telling

LISTENThe Raven, a telling

The Raven (excerpt)

by Edgar Allan Poe

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“‘Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door –
Only this, and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; – vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow – sorrow for the lost Lenore –
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore –
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me – filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
“‘Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door –
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; –
This it is, and nothing more,”

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you” – here I opened wide the door; –
Darkness there, and nothing more.

“The Raven (excerpt)” by Edgar Allan Poe. Public domain.