The male Satin Bowerbird is an artist.
All the rest went chasing bugs and worms -
while his DNA cultured into avian Van Gogh!
His extravagant bower is his straggly gallery.
His School and passion is Colour. Hunting -
with his unnervingly heavenly, violet-blue eye,
for arresting flowers; most luminous, perfumed,
vivid, exotic blooms - obsessively replenished.
Manipulating found objects: waxy yellow star fruit,
iridescent green metal beetles, shiny scarlet berries,
Celtic spiral shells, fiery red leaves, emerald moss,
glossy brown eye-nuts. Even the lustrous feathers
of his most admired, avian couture, Paradisial kin.
Also incorporating bacteria’s challenging fungal art.
Oh, in four billion years of training - since he came
from bony stars - with the hallmark look of Heaven
printed in his eye, he has moved with the times –
has an interest in experimentation and Modern Art,
(somewhat avant garde for the traditional rainforest).
Exhibiting lambent plastics - blue bottle tops, soap,
and dishwater tablets. Red straws, pegs; orange pens.
But always returning to his organic roots – butterflies;
whose whole body is already pre-donated to being art -
except the ugly black sugar-sucking hinge necessary
to keep the thing on Earth, not fluttering straight back
up to Heaven. As Lark and Swallow have silver strings
like mad kites: to fetter, yes, but conduit that high song -
conduct original rousing music of the dancing Universe,
lingering still among angelic clouds, insubstantial blue -
in Heaven. As he matures, chooses blue before all other hues:
it is his Blue Period. Even his fawny, brown feathers turning
to diffracting blue-black - matching, displaying his own eye:
his best work. An artist and a lover, his big exhibitions attract
picky lady Satin Bowerbirds, when, O - such Bird of Culture -
he also elaborately, wildly dances, gentlemanly romances until
they show their art appreciation. His bower is an on-site hotel!
Her violently violet eye is likewise nakedly celestial - spooks.
Like catching the eye of an angel disguised as a human being.
His art and life are one. His body. True artist bird: compelled.
Building his latest pieces for anyone who sees – just himself:
because he must. Compulsively driven as any Gaugin, Picasso.
To create this thing. Channel, wire, labour, love: allow it to be.
He shall be counted among them, in his wild blue love galleries.