About this Poem 

"I always report the truth with precision and accuracy. I loved the sparrow but I'm back north now and a titmouse is building a nest (I think) in the Redbud tree right over my head, and the poem I'm now writing is called 'Three Sharp Sounds.'"
Gerald Stern

The Sparrow

Gerald Stern, 1925

Here’s a common sparrow, a bit of a schnorrer
come to celebrate my 88th at
Whole Foods at 10th and Alton in
Miami Beach, a block away from where
my mother lived for 27 years,
the wrong end of Miami Beach then
but now the center; though she can hardly stay
for the party she is so busy with the cheese
which disentangled from the bread and one would
kiss her but she is partial to the bread
and has to fly away so she can eat
in secrecy which is a good enough gift
compared to the knowledge that I was common too
and if I eat from china I would just as soon
eat from paper—or plastic—the difference between
the sparrow and me is I need a solid plate
of some sort—even a leaf—a noble spine
and green in all directions and the smell of the
mother tree everywhere but I am slow now.

Copyright © 2013 by Gerald Stern. Used with permission of the author. This poem appeared in Poem-A-Day on April 29, 2013. Browse the Poem-A-Day archive.

Copyright © 2013 by Gerald Stern. Used with permission of the author. This poem appeared in Poem-A-Day on April 29, 2013. Browse the Poem-A-Day archive.

Gerald Stern

Gerald Stern

Gerald Stern was born in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, in 1925. His recent books

by this poet

poem
I was forcing a wasp to the top of a window
where there was some sky and there were tiger lilies
outside just to love him or maybe only
simply a kiss for he was hurrying home
to fight a broom and I was trying to open
a door with one hand while the other was swinging
tomatoes, and you could even smell the corn
poem
How you loved to read in the snow and when your
face turned to water from the internal heat
combined with the heavy crystals or maybe it was
reversus you went half-blind and your eyelashes
turned to ice the time you walked through swirls 
with dirty tears not far from the rat-filled river
or really a mile away—
poem
As if the one tree you love so well and hardly
can embrace it is so huge so that with-
out it there might be a hole in the universe
explains how the killing of any one thing can 
likewise make a hole except that without
its existence there was neither a hole nor not a hole
I said to my friend Peter and after he