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Admiral på hjerte

2100.  Fire gange samme dag
       Til og fra mit arbejdshus
       Flagrer admiralen hen
       Sætter sig, skulder, ryg.

2101.  Hvisker, jeg er tilsmilet,
       Også du, min elskede
       Foran mig, fagtet hid
       Med hjertet udenpå.


Nyt i Index Titusind:
Admiral ◦ 2100, Hvisken ◦ 2101.

Se også: Harlekinhorn

🇬🇧 Six Thousand Trees in Hanoi
City botany – Hanoi

1928.	It becomes blindingly obvious
        From the twelfth floor or twentieth:
        Round and out into the horizon
        Hazy, gray-dented citycrest,
        Massive concrete chains of towers,
        Colourless, devoid of vegetation,
        Miles upon miles upon miles;
        Within, in a state of embryo,
        The city centre green and low,
        Covered almost in tall trees,
        Lining shallow, shiny lakes
        A square kilometer or two:
        Historic citadel, barracks
        Dynastic capital and head quarters
        Of power and army echelons;
        Broad avenues and big trees,
        Space surrounding old villas,
        Shade, foliage and coolness
        From colonial planting,
        Open, empty luxury lawns
        In a megacity with only
        A square meter of park
        Per each stressed city dweller.

1929.	It’s all about feeling
        The special bond
        Between humans and trees;
        A man (typically a man)
        Can destroy a hundred years of growth
        In an hour or two;
        That’s a form of power:
        Trees are weak, they live on mercy.
        But when the tree is destroyed
        We live at the mercy of cement,
        A static, flickering asfalt oven
        Where only fools go out in the sun
        Uncovered in the naked city;
        This is the negative power of trees
        Their power of absence by violence;
        Known to city dwellers by viscera.

1930.	The City Council of Hanoi equipped
        With police, party and generals
        In twothousandfifteen did decree
        Cutting down six thousand trees;
        But when politics is forbidden
        Everything is always political;
        Townspeople understood at once
        That a greedy council was eyeing
        A corrupt timber deal
        Of finest African mahogany,
        In brief, that cutting is persecution
        In a country where no one
        Will defend a political detainee,
        Stand up for a beaten up activist
        Or a neighbour, and old friend;
        Now, everyone flocked to defend
        The threat to beloved trees
        With such anger and rebellion
        That the police dithered, 
        Shrunk back into the shades
        And the council retreated, forgave
        Itself their own excesses, as always,
        Left untouched that city nature
        Of which they know nothing;
        Cowered to that culture
        Of which they are unworthy;
        And bowed to that life
        In which they have no part.

A large part of the wayside trees in Hanois old town belong to the species khaya senegalensis, a tree fondly named in many languages, including African mahogany. I do not know for certain who planted them, but in view of their age, placement in the city and inclusion in the colonial layout of the city, and their origin from West Africa, it is reasonable to assume that the trees were planted by French town planners.

The last two birds in Hanoi

A real estate agent and I chatting,
Inspecting his newest and finest flat,
Five-storey bloc on West Lake Promenade;
Sliding doors open onto the balcony,
Sunlight lazy on the fat and shiny water.
We talk, we consider, we know each other,
Money and years passed through our hands.
Two sparrows skip about out there:
The last two birds in Hanoi.

All of a sudden soft bird whistles is heard;
He flings out an arm, eyes roll heavenward:
What more in the whole wide world
Could you ever want: live birdtwitter,
A free bonus included in the rental.
I say, it could be a sound recording,
A reasonable reply in these parts,
Synthetic birdvoices, sensor activitated;
He looks insulted, but this is play.
We move in, put flowerpots on the balcony;
A sparrow couple visits now and then:
The last two birds in Hanoi. 

Every Sunday morning by the lakeside
On benches in cafés, on small squares,
Arrive young men with covered cages
Held in one hand on scooterrides;
They're suspended from lines in trees,
Where the birds are fed, nursed and tended;
Men sip coffee, smoke fags, and listen,
Relishing sounds from a period gone by,
A competition of birdsong belle canto;
Maybe our sparrow couple drops by:
The last two freebirds in Hanoi.

I try to recall, I ask my love:
Were there gulls on the lake, crows in garbage,
Were there finches and tits in the trees,
Were there falcons and herons in the air?
Do we remember? Were there, really?
My love says, birds are in the countryside,
And uses a word to say bumpkin country,
Maybe she also mean to say bumpkin birds;
Not unfriendly, not anti-avian, not at all,
Just habitat-conditioned megacity language;
They've probably eaten them all, she says;
Except those on our balcony:
The last two birds in Hanoi.

Winter buzzard

1870.	Grey, damp field, turned inside out,
        A winter buzard in profile,
        A solitary tree on wet sky, both
        Ornaments along an asphalt route;
        Territory of carrion, roadkill prey.
        A hare cowering in cold furrows;
        The head of the bird turns, but half wild;
        White plumage with brown drops,
        Blood and fur on poisoned soil.


New in Index Ten Thousand: Winter buzzard • 1870

In Memory of Du Fu (712-770), A painted Hawk, in The Poetry of Du Fu, 1.11, Library of Chinese Humanities, de Gruyter.

Winter buzzard is in English called a Rough-legged buzzard.