ネイティブが教える英会話のジェムスクール☆Teachers☆

Hello, all!

This is an American tree sparrow, also called a "winter sparrow."

Isn't it cute? It's a perfect Christmas bird! You often see it finding seeds in the snow on a white Christmas. But the real reason I think of winter sparrows when I think of Christmas is a very lovely poem. (You may have noticed that I enjoy poetry!) The poem is called "Christmas Sparrow," and it's by Billy Collins.

Billy Collins is a very famous modern American poet. (He's 74 years old, but still writing every day!) In fact, from 2001 to 2003 he was the Poet Laureate of the United States. That means he was the country's official poet. He writes easy-to-understand poems with strong imagery. You don't need any special English knowledge to understand and enjoy his poems, although sometimes you might need a dictionary. It's definitely worth it, though! Collins only uses more difficult words when they are exactly right. (For example, in this poem Collins describes a window as an "enigma of transparency." "Enigma" is a better word than "mystery" here because it's much stronger. Collins wants to communicate the fact that sparrows don't understand windows at all. Another example: Collins says that his hands were "uncupped" instead of just, "opened." Why? Because a "cup" is meant to hold something, and Collins has just been holding the sparrow. "Uncupped" suggests that Collins has been holding the bird's life in his hands, just as a cup holds precious water.)

When you read this poem, ask yourself: why is it a Christmas poem? The answer might surprise you!

Enjoy!

—Matthew

Christmas Sparrow
by Billy Collins

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.