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It lies
rigid, claws curled,
beak parted, no breath left
to breathe, no songs to sing, nowhere
to fly.
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Author Notes
Albert Pinkham Ryder, an American painter, produced this small brownish painting of a dead bird in the 1890's. There is no background setting, just darker brown brush strokes. The painting, just four and a half inches high and 10 inches long, half the size of a piece of loose-leaf paper, has a matter-of-fact approach to it, and yet when I view it, I don't think of Ryder's feelings as detached. I imagine this rather shy, eccentric man who lived in relative isolation feeling some kinship to this flightless bird.
Many modern artists of the 20th Century paid homage to Ryder and acknowledged his influence. Why does the painting mean something to me? There was a time when I was in grad school that I collected post-mortem photographs of the 19th Century and even wrote a seminar paper in Material Culture on one. These photos displayed dead loved ones, often children, in a way reminiscent of this bird. There is a recognition that death exists, as part of life, that resonates with me. You can google Ryder Dead Bird or find this painting in the Wikipedia article on Ryder.
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