Leonard Zawadski



A name there is not more befitting, than that of bright Bird-Song.
Of whom it speaks, speaks utmost splendidly — oh, erudite Bird-Song.

Upon a post beside the road She sits, and so: She dually sings.
Note and breath — and each, and Ev’ry… is heard to recite Bird-Song.

She awakens to gather the dawn of morning, and also the light of noon.
In a silence, I ask Her: “What will You gather tonight, Bird-Song?”

Although, infinite others I have known: Flower-Scent, Frog-Leap,
Cloud-Adrift — to name but a few. Yet, they were not quite Bird-Song.

At times the leaves are too thick; At times, a fog-, or a mist-ridden day.
Still, I might hear Her calling — though, as “out-of-sight” Bird-Song.

Oh, I have seen Her stately feathers, seen Her grace within the air —
Her wings out-stretchéd glorious. How there goes, at flight, Bird-Song!

Even now, in Her stillness, a vast profundity emerges of Her; Trills,
“I am the voice of simplest passion.” — You are a meteorite, Bird-Song!

Out of the window the Sun is seen dropping, and easily, low to dark.
As the Moon is arising, to say let us think then, “Good-night, Bird-song!


A Quietude Confounds

me, as it has never approached before —
or I, it
and yet, we have now, and are amongst
one another’s company
but how
are we to get along — to be in this-same room
firstly, I listen:
• and there is the lightness of
• and there is the wholeness of
a conflagration
• and there is the past-lessness,
future-lessness of
an eternity
what I’ve found
is not-anything
envelops my vision



Leonard Zawadski currently lives in Chicago, IL. He has studied the art of poetry writing at the University of Iowa, Northwestern University, and the Newberry Library. Poetry of his appears or is forth-coming in Quail Bell, Five:2:One, The Trumpeter, and other publications.

A Poetry Journal

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