Poetic Musings: Pigeons Senryu by Beverly A. Tift

old steeple

a turban of pigeons

unwinds the hour

First Prize, San Francisco International Haiku and Senryu Contest, 2004

Beverly A. Tift 

Commentary: This is an intriguing and linguistically inventive senryu. Its greatest strength lies in the final verb, “unwinds,” which transforms an amusing visual image into something more mysterious, involving movement, time, and the gradual unraveling of an ordinary moment. The poem is playful, but its humour has an unexpectedly philosophical twist: apparently, the pigeons have taken over the clockwork of the universe, and nobody thought to ask their qualifications.

L1, “old steeple,” establishes age, verticality, and tradition. A steeple evokes a church, bells, and the familiar business of keeping time for a community. The adjective “old” suggests accumulated history without spelling anything out. One imagines generations of villagers consulting the clock, confident that time is in respectable hands. Little do they suspect that a feathered administration is about to take charge.

L2, “a turban of pigeons,” is the poem’s most distinctive image. The metaphor is unexpected, visually precise, and gently absurd. A cluster of pigeons perched around the steeple’s peak resembles a turban wrapped around an enormous stone head. The steeple becomes a dignified gentleman who has somehow acquired a very restless headdress.

The humour lies partly in the contrast between the steeple’s solemn architectural dignity and the pigeons’ less-than-solemn reputation. The church may represent centuries of spiritual authority, but its new headgear suggests that the congregation has been replaced by a committee of birds with questionable manners and impeccable perching skills. One can almost imagine the steeple trying to maintain its solemn expression while the turban coos, shuffles, and occasionally leaves an unsolicited contribution on the masonry.

The word “turban” also performs an important linguistic trick. Rather than describing several separate birds, it gathers them into a single, coherent shape. The pigeons become one collective presence, a living ornament that is both comical and strangely regal. They may look like dignitaries, but their sense of ceremony probably ends where the next breadcrumb begins.

L3, “unwinds the hour,” is where the poem becomes especially inventive. The verb “unwinds” carries several possible meanings:

1 The pigeons gradually disperse, as though unwrapping the steeple and undoing their elaborate avian headdress.

2 The hour runs out like thread unwinding from a spool, with the birds somehow operating the mechanism.

3 Time itself loosens and becomes less rigid, as though the pigeons have discovered a way to make punctuality optional.

4 The birds disrupt the orderly passage of time traditionally associated with church bells and clocks, replacing human precision with their own casual, feather-brained schedule.

There is something delightfully cheeky about this reversal of authority. For centuries, the steeple has announced the hour to the town. Now a flock of pigeons appears to be unwinding it. The clock may still have its hands, but the pigeons seem to have their own agenda. Perhaps the bell is waiting for the birds to finish their meeting before it can strike.

The grammar is particularly effective. The pigeons become the implied agent of “unwinds,” acquiring an almost supernatural power over time. The verb also encourages a double reading: the birds may be unwinding the hour, but they may equally be unwinding themselves, loosening their formation and preparing to fly off. The image thus moves effortlessly from visual comedy to a small temporal paradox. Who knew that time was wound up in the first place—and that the local pigeons had the key?

The poem’s humour is strongest because it never explains the joke. There is no punchline, no exaggerated reaction, and no explicit criticism of human solemnity. Instead, the comedy emerges from the disproportion between the grandeur of the setting and the undignified creatures occupying it. A structure built to point heavenward has acquired a turban of birds, and those birds may now be tampering with time itself. If this is a spiritual revelation, it is certainly not the one the church authorities ordered.

The poem also offers a sly observation about human pretensions. We build towers, install clocks, ring bells, and organize our lives around carefully measured hours. The pigeons arrive without an appointment and appear to dismantle the whole arrangement. They do not respect the schedule; they may not even know what an hour is. Yet, in the poem, they are the ones who control it. Human beings have invented timekeeping, only to discover that nature has no obligation to cooperate.

Ultimately, the senryu moves from a concrete structure, through a surprising visual metaphor, to an imaginative transformation of time. It is playful without being trivial and philosophical without becoming ponderous. Its humour arises from the quiet overthrow of human authority by creatures usually regarded as little more than urban nuisances.

One final thought: the old steeple traditionally measures time for the community, while the pigeons inhabit it entirely on their own terms. In “unwinds the hour,” authority passes almost imperceptibly from the clock to the birds. The steeple may still stand above the town, but its feathered occupants have stolen the scene—and possibly the afternoon. The clock says it is time to move on; the pigeons, apparently, have decided to take their time.

A lovely senryu, then, in which a flock of pigeons does more than decorate an old steeple: it gives time a little shake, loosens its grip, and leaves us wondering whether the universe is wound up at all—or merely waiting for the birds to fly away.