Maya Angelou’s Caged Bird, Percy Shelley’s Ode to the Skylark, and Farid ud-Din Attar’s The Conference of the Birds — what do these seminal poems fundamentally have in common? Throughout history, the animal kingdom has been an especially vivid and powerful source of inspiration and has had a profound influence on artists and writers. But perhaps the creature that has most consistently sparked the imaginations of our bards is the humble bird. What is it about birds that makes them the perfect vessel to reflect on the human condition? And is that the reason why they are such a prominent presence in literature across centuries and cultures? 

I’m writing this in the middle of August. It’s the peak summer holiday season for British travellers making the most of the long, sunny days. The airports are full, as are the skies with flights. Simultaneously, but perhaps less well-known, it is the beginning of the season in which migratory birds begin their long and arduous journeys to the warmer climes of the southern hemisphere. The swifts are the first to depart our shores in late August, followed by the swallows, house martins and many others. As if to fill the gaps left by their departure, great flocks of ducks, swans and geese arrive for the milder British winter and its nutrient-rich wetlands. The reverse happens when early spring beckons. The changing seasons and the transformation they bring to our landscapes are the most tangible markers of time, and in turn, of our transient lives. That itself provides ample fodder for writers. Add to that the avian arrivals and departures, and we get a potent combination of animated harbingers of change. In Christina Rossetti’s The Months: A Pageant, an evocative piece about the passage of time, each month of the year is personified with characteristics of the seasons. Birds appear as signposts of the seasons. January summons the red-breasted robin, April speaks of sparrow fledglings and May hears the cacophony of nature’s aviary in spring. 

“Hark to my linnets from the hedges green, 

Blackbird and lark and thrush and dove, 

And every nightingale 

And cuckoo tells its tale, 

And all they mean 

Is love.”¹

In the same way that birds signal the passing of time, their arrival also carries other more ominous and prophetic meanings. This is probably reflective of ancient superstitions and associations of certain bird species that already exist in our human minds. Could it be the “pretty privilege” that cute-looking animals have? Woe betide the fierce-looking birds with strong personalities. The poor corvid family of crows, ravens and magpies are often seen as omens of bad luck, despair and even death. As one of the most common carrion-eating birds, their omnipresence at battlefields and graveyards have cemented their association with approaching danger. It might be species bias but there is no doubt that the human-like intelligence of these birds also predisposes them to suspicions of being enchanted beings in disguise. In The Raven, Edgar Allan Poe described the titular bird as a “grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore”, effectively using it as the bearer of impending danger and doom. The crow imagery is rich and ubiquitous in Haruki Murakami’s Kafka on the Shore, its presence not always seen but often heard, serving warnings to a character named Kafka (Jackdaw in Czech) whose alter ego is an imaginary crow. Perhaps the tragedy of reading too much meaning into the presence of birds is best exemplified by the sailors in Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s Rime of the Ancient Mariner. The sight of an albatross was deemed to signify good fortune, so it was conceivable that its wilful killing by the hand of the mariner led to tragic consequences. 

'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay, That bring the fog and mist.²

With its slaughter construed by the crew as the reason for the ship’s subsequent misfortune, the mariner was then doomed to carry the albatross around his neck as penance. It is telling that the same creature was seen as both good and bad luck, two sides of the same coin. 

Birds lend themselves to literature so well because they seem to be transcendental figures existing between worlds — always suspended between here and elsewhere, land and sea, heaven and earth. These dualities make them the perfect embodiment of intangible concepts of memory, desire, freedom and spirituality. Humans have always been fascinated with flight, aspiring to the greater heights of the skies, the Milky Way, and Heaven. Cathedrals and mosques were built with tall spires and minarets reaching into the skies, for thoughts and prayers to ascend, and to be closer to a higher power. It is no wonder that the bird, with its power of flight, features so prominently in religious and spiritual imagery and appears frequently as a symbol of divinity. One of the most powerful works to have linked spirituality to flight is the Persian epic poem The Conference of the Birds was written by the Sufi poet Farid ud-din Attar in the 12th century. It opens with a gathering of all the birds in the world in search of their king. The wise hoopoe suggests that they make the journey crossing seven valleys to find the mythical bird, Simorgh. One by one, they come forward to give excuses why they are not suited for the long journey. Each bird represents a human flaw – the timid finch, the pompous partridge and the vain parrot amongst them. Interspersed with their arguments and journey are allegorical tales that reflect contemporary Persian society and humanity. At the end of the journey, only thirty birds remain, and they find that the Simorgh doesn’t exist as a singular entity they had imagined. In classical Persian, si means thirty and morgh means bird. The motley flock came to the realisation that the Simorgh or King they sought is a reflection of themselves. 

The most enduring symbol of birds is that of freedom. Literature is rife with hackneyed expressions  such as “free as a bird”. It’s a cliché, but one cannot argue that it is not an enduring  one. On the flipside lies the equally stark image of a trapped bird representing oppression and helplessness. Maya Angelou’s Caged Bird moves beautifully beyond mere incarceration to unveil something deeper:a glimpse of resistance, courage, and hope. Even though the bird loses its power of flight, it makes up for it with its defiant song.

“The caged bird sings 

with a fearful trill 

of things unknown 

but longed for still 

and his tune is heard 

on the distant hill 

for the caged bird 

sings of freedom.”³

Perhaps birds feature so prominently in our literature because they loom large in our collective imagination. They represent a fundamental, universal human desire: freedom, and in its absence, hope. Birds exist in every inhabited country on earth. and it is no exaggeration that they are universally a symbol of hope. This is perfectly encapsulated in Emily Dickinson’s "Hope" is the thing with feathers:

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -

That perches in the soul -

And sings the tune without the words -

And never stops - at all -⁴

Her metaphorical bird that sings undauntingly through a storm evokes the familiar image of resilience and hope that reflects our common humanity. Regardless of language, culture or where we are in time, humans share a similar tinge of longing for freedom whenever we see birds in flight. 

Writers need not look far for inspiration. They only need to look out, look up, and let inspiration take flight.