Rock Dove Love
Valentine’s Day first showed up for the very first time in the English language in a poem by Geoffrey Chaucer, about 1383...
In Chaucer’s Parlement of Foules (Parliament of Fowls), written about 640 years ago, all the birds come before the goddess Nature on Saint Valentine’s Day to choose their mates.
Laws of Nature
The goddess Nature lays out the rules. The highest-ranking male birds get first pick of the females — but only with the consent of the females. That’s pretty decent ornithology. In most species, dominant males control good territories, and so females will choose them as mates in preference to other males.
In Chaucer’s fantasy poem, three highborn male eagles are vying for the same female, holding up the whole celebration. Other birds grow impatient with the delay. Nature settles things by ruling that the female eagle shall make her own choice, which the she-eagle does.
Then all the birds joyfully enfold their mates in their wings and entwine their necks lovingly. Songbirds sing:
praises of summer with its soft sun and of Saint Valentine on high
And everybody flies away happy.
Chaucer and Valentine’s Day
Should we thank Chaucer for today’s Valentine's Day? I don’t know, but I can vouch for Chaucer's concept. Many birds do begin choosing their mates at this time of year. I’ve watched Rock Pigeons right out of the Parlement of Foules.
Walking to the post office one Valentine’s Day, I saw some pigeons loitering on a city fire escape landing. The day was sunny but still icy, and the pigeons were hunkered down, their feathers covering their feet. The flock included mostly steel-gray birds, but also a dark blue pigeon and one white bird. The dark pigeon got up and walked toward the white.
The pigeon dance
Now a rock pigeon is not a graceful walker. Its body sways like a small donkey with a big load. The dark pigeon paraded past the others and slowed in front of the white pigeon.
There he executed a deliberate turn. That's what got my full attention. It was not a turn intended merely to change direction. It was the arching, swelling gesture of a dancer. It looked as if it expressed something deeply felt. I heard a soft gurgled coo-ooh-coo.
I pulled out my pocket binocular and watched the dancing rock pigeon. It turned again and passed in front of the white bird the second time. Then, like a figure skater before the judges, it made another flourished pivot.
The dark bird's neck feathers rose and waved like a sea anemone ruffled by a current, doubling the neck's thickness. I noticed the neck feathers were iridescent. The bird was flashing rainbows!
With increasing speed, it swaggered back and forth, ever more ardently, spreading its tail, bowing, and pirouetting. Whether in sympathy with the dancer, or because its performance aroused similar impulses, the whole flock began to ooh and coo, filling the street with a strange, muffled music.
The dance was a serenade, a sonnet. A valentine.
The birds’ valentine
The white pigeon flew to a pipe that served as hand rail to the fire escape. The dark one followed and lit beside her. She looked at him and did not fly away again.
Pigeons may be commonplace, possibly even a nuisance, but I was on the suitor's side. I hoped the white pigeon was impressed and that she would requite his feelings.
However, I left them to their drama and tended to my errand. Coming out of the post office after a few minutes, I noticed a young man and woman facing one another on the sidewalk. The man brought a rose from behind his back and held it out to the woman. Her face was hidden from me, but I saw her lean toward him and touch her forehead to his shoulder, and I could guess she was smiling.
Above them, the dance of the Rock Pigeons continued. The birds paid no attention to the people, and it was clear the young man and woman had eyes only for each other.
From “The Parliament of Fowls”
by Geoffrey Chaucer, c. 1383
translated from Middle English by Diane Porter
And in a land, upon a hill of flowers,
Was set the noble goddess Nature;
Of branches were her halls and her bowers,
Wrought according to her craft and her measure;
Nor was there any bird that was ever hatched
That was not assembled there in her presence,
To receive her judgment and give her audience.
For this was on Saint Valentine's Day,
When every bird comes there to choose his mate.
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Oooooh......this made me happy! I like Pigeons for their iridescent necks (yes, I had to look up spelling!) and funny ways. I have to forgive them for lighting on our deck railing for birdseed, tho.
(Think lg. poops) Sweet Valentine Poem, and story! Thank you, O Valentine!