Poems About Animals
Join LibraryThing to post.
This topic is currently marked as "dormant"—the last message is more than 90 days old. You can revive it by posting a reply.
I was looking through the threads and I didn't notice one on poems about animals. Whether a favorite pet, neighborhood nuisance, wild child, or potential banquet entree animals are all around us.
Animals are a treat to eat
or fuzzy wool slippers
warming my aching feet,
Animals are everywhere,
in my house and garden
digging holes, making me swear:
"Get out, you long eared critter.
The pan is on the fire,
hot, ready for a doggie fritter"
One of my favorite humorous poems is Macavity. Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats, Illustrated Edition by T. S. Eliot is especially enjoyable because of the wonderful illustrations. A partial view is available at:
Macavity: The Mystery Cat
Macavity's a Mystery Cat: he's called the Hidden Paw -
For he's the master criminal who can defy the Law.
He's the bafflement of Scotland Yard, the Flying Squad's despair:
For when they reach the scene of crime - Macavity's not there!
Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,
He's broken every human law, he breaks the law of gravity.
His powers of levitation would make a fakir stare,
And when you reach the scene of crime - Macavity's not there!
You may seek him in the basement, you may look up in the air -
But I tell you once and once again, Macavity's not there!
Mcavity's a ginger cat, he's very tall and thin;
You would know him if you saw him, for his eyes are sunken in.
His brow is deeply lined with thought, his head is highly domed;
His coat is dusty from neglect, his whiskers are uncombed.
He sways his head from side to side, with movements like a snake;
And when you think he's half asleep, he's always wide awake.
Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,
For he's a fiend in feline shape, a monster of depravity.
You may meet him in a by-street, you may see him in the square -
But when a crime's discovered, then Macavity's not there!
He's outwardly respectable. (They say he cheats at cards.)
And his footprints are not found in any file of Scotland Yard's.
And when the larder's looted, or the jewel-case is rifled,
Or when the milk is missing, or another Peke's been stifled,
Or the greenhouse glass is broken, and the trellis past repair -
Ay, there's the wonder of the thing! Macavity's not there!
And when the Foreign Office find a Treaty's gone astray,
Or the Admiralty lose some plans and drawings by the way,
There may be a scrap of paper in the hall or on the stair -
But it's useless to investigate - Mcavity's not there!
And when the loss has been disclosed, the Secret Service say:
`It must have been Macavity!' - but he's a mile away.
You'll be sure to find him resting, or a-licking of his thumbs,
Or engaged in doing complicated long-division sums.
Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,
There never was a Cat of such deceitfulness and suavity.
He always has an alibi, and one or two to spaer:
At whatever time the deed took place - MACAVITY WASN'T THERE!
And they say that all the Cats whose wicked deeds are widely known
(I might mention Mungojerrie, I might mention Griddlebone)
Are nothing more than agents for the Cat who all the time
Just controls their operations: the Napoleon of Crime!
by Gwendolyn Brooks
While walking in a tiny rain
Across the vacant lot,
A pup's a good companion--
If a pup you've got.
And when you've had a scold
And no one loves you very,
And you cannot be merry,
A pup will let you look at him,
And even let you hold
His little wiggly warmness--
And let you snuggle down beside,
Nor mock the tears you have to
The Owl and the Pussycat
by Edward Lear
The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea green boat,
They took some honey, and plenty of money,
Wrapped up in a five pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
And sang to a small guitar,
'O lovely Pussy! O Pussy my love,
What a beautiful Pussy you are,
What a beautiful Pussy you are!'
Pussy said to the Owl, 'You elegant fowl!
How charmingly sweet you sing!
O let us be married! too long we have tarried:
But what shall we do for a ring?'
They sailed away, for a year and a day,
To the land where the Bong-tree grows
And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood
With a ring at the end of his nose,
With a ring at the end of his nose.
'Dear pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling
Your ring?' Said the Piggy, 'I will.'
So they took it away, and were married next day
By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince, and slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
They danced by the light of the moon,
They danced by the light of the moon
Maybe you've seen this post before:
I had a dog
his name was Rex.
Me and Rex
had lots of sex.
His long red tongue
his floppy ears,
we had some laughs
we drank some beers.
But then one day
Rex went away.
His letter said:
"I cannot stay.
"'Cause I'm a dog
and you're a man.
It's too damn weird,
So now I walk
the fields alone.
In my pocket
is a bone.
I cry at night
and I miss Rex.
We had some laughs
and lots of sex.
How doth the little crocodile...
HOW doth the little crocodile
Improve his shining tail,
And pour the waters of the Nile
On every golden scale!
How cheerfully he seems to grin
How neatly spreads his claws,
And welcomes little fishes in,
With gently smiling jaws!
by William Blake
Thy summer's play
My thoughtless hand
Has brushed away.
Am not I
A fly like thee?
Or art not thou
A man like me?
For I dance
And drink, and sing,
Till some blind hand
Shall brush my wing.
If thought is life
And strength and breath
And the want
Of thought is death;
Then am I
A happy fly,
If I live,
Or if I die.
God in his wisdom made the fly
And then forgot to tell us why.
HA! Ha! Ho! Ho! Giggle! Giggle!!
I had forgotten about Ogden Nash and how delightful his poems can be. I am going to put him at the top of my wish list.
I'm sooooooooo sorry.
I am such a geek
I'm sorry again, but flies are amazing to me and I like them in poetry. They are probably one of the most common insects in the whole world. Almost everyone, everywhere knows them. Some of them are only born on dead bodies. Some carry disease and the worst of them actually bite!
So, here goes...
Ancient writers saw fit to include flies in their works. For instance Homer. In his Epics, Homer described the Greek host at Troy "as numerous as flies near the farmer's milk in spring time."
William Shakespeare tossed a few flies into his works. Among his well-chosen words, he used the term "worm" for fly maggots on dead bodies, such as "Shall worms, inheritors of this excess, eat up thy charge? Is this thy body's end?" Also, "The prey of worms, my body being dead."
Shakespeare noticed the mating habits of flies and, in "King Lear," writes "the small gilded fly does lecher in my sight." He also used the example of amorous flies in criticizing Romeo: "more courtship lives in carrion flies than Romeo."
William Olyds wrote a short poem entitled "The Fly." In the poem, Olyds suggests that both humans and flies should make the most of their lives because, relatively speaking, both are short! A third William associated with Old English literature, as in William Blake, also wrote a "The Fly" poem. In his poem, Blake compares humans to flies and wonders if life is more meaningful to humans than to flies.
Emily Dickinson followed the theme of flies and death with one of her more famous poems, "I Heard a Fly Buzz When I Died." In this case, a fly interfered with her long-anticipated death by buzzing around the room. The fly was a blue bottle fly, a species that lays eggs on dead animals!
Probably the most complete look at people's distaste for flies in poetry is Karl Shapiro's "The Fly." In this poem, Shapiro gets right to the heart of the matter with his first line, "O hideous little bat, the size of snot."
The poet mentions many of the things that we dislike about flies, such as living in compost piles, making buzzing sounds and leaving fly specks where they rest. In addition, Shapiro points out that flies antagonize horses and carry disease. But humans fight back with insecticides and sticky traps. Yet our real delight is when we are able to swat a fly into an unsightly little splat! Shapiro also notes that flies buzz in the key of "F." Which is probably more than most of us want to know about flies.
The favourite; not for beauty
Though tabbies now are rare
Or great sweetness of nature
But being there
Curled on the stones for gardening
On Sunday, on the bed
Stealing the milk’s last whisker.
The runt, he fed
Frantically ever after.
He swayed across the room
Until the face grew lean as lynx
The hips a hill of bone.
A quiet cat from the country
Born in a haystack’s scent
We rescued him from drowning.
But life is only lent.
Though other cats crowd after
More beautiful, more sweet,
He waits at my eye’s corner
The shadow at my feet.
by Alison Brackenbury
And then there is lovely Hilaire Belloc with the Bad Child's Book of beasts
The learned Fish has not sufficient brains
To go into the water when it rains.
or More Beasts for Worse Children
A Python I should not advise,
It needs a doctor for its eyes,
And has the measles yearly.
However, if you feel inclined
To get one (to improve your mind,
And not from fashion merely,
Allow no music near its cage;
And when it flies into a rage
Chastise it, most severely.
I had an aunt in Yucatan
Who bought a python from a man
And kept it for a pet.
She died, because she never knew
These simple little rules, and few; -
the snake is living yet.
Caring for Animals /Jon Silkin 1954
I ask sometimes why these small animals
With bitter eyes, why we should care for them.
I question the sky, the serene blue water,
But it cannot say. It gives no answer.
And no answer releases in my head
A procession of grey shades patching and whimpering;
Dogs with clipped ears, wheezing cart horses,
A fly without shadow and without thought.
Is it with these menaces to our vision
With this procession led by a man carrying wood
We must be concerned? The holy land, the rearing
Green island should be kindlier than this.
Yet the animals, our ghosts, need tending to.
Take in the whipped cat and the blinded owl;
Take up the man-trapped squirrel upon your shoulder.
Attend to the unnecessary beasts.
From growing mercy and a moderate love
Great love for the human animal occurs.
And your love grows. Your great love grows and grows.
In the group, Cat,Books Life is Good there is a topic just on Cat Poetry.
Hope you enjoy.
Anyone have anything on turtles?
In a pinch daffodils, or daisies.
The turtle lives twixt plated decks
which completely hide its sex.
It is quite clever of the turtle
in such a fix to be so fertile
Ogden Nash again (from memory, so may not be quite right)
You cannot discuss poetry about animals without thinking of Robert Burns:
The Book-Worms (1787)
Through and through th' inspir'd leaves,
Ye maggots, make your windings;
But O respect his lordship's taste,
And spare his golden bindings.
not to mention many of his poems feature animals e.g. 'To A Louse', 'To A Mountain Daisy', and of course 'To A Mouse, On Turning Her Up In Her Nest With The Plough' which gave us the saying 'The best-laid schemes o' mice an 'men (gang aft agley)'
Now I see it--
it nudges with its bulldog head
the slippery stems of the lilies, making them tremble;
and now it noses along in the wake of the little brown teal
who is leading her soft children
from one side of the pond to the other; she keeps
close to the edge
and they follow closely, the good children--
the tender children,
the sweet children, dangling their pretty feet
into the darkness.
And now will come--I can count on it--the murky splash,
the certain victory
of that pink and gassy mouth, and the frantic
circling of the hen while the rest of the chicks
flare away over the water and into the reeds, and my heart
will be most mournful
on their account. But, listen,
except that the great and cruel mystery of the world,
of which this is a part,
not to be denied. Once,
I happened to see, on a city street, in summer,
a dusty, fouled turtle plodded along--
broken out I suppose from some backyard cage--
and I knew what I had to do--
I looked it right in the eyes, and I caught it--
I put it, like a small mountain range,
into a knapsack, and I took it out
of the city, and I let it
down into the dark pond, into
the cool water,
and the light of the lilies,
by John Hollander
And Adam gave names to all cattle, and to the fowl of the air, and to every beast of the field ... GEN. 2:20
Thou, paw-paw-paw; thou, glurd; thou, spotted
Glurd; thou, whitestap, lurching through
The high-grown brush; thou, pliant-footed,
Implex; thou, awagabu.
Every burrower, each flier
Came for the name he had to give:
Gay, first work, ever to be prior,
Not yet sunk to primitive.
Thou, verdle; thou, McFleery’s pomma;
Thou; thou; thou—three types of grawl;
Thou, flisket; thou, kabasch; thou, comma-
Eared mashawk; thou, all; thou, all.
Were, in a fire of becoming,
Laboring to be burned away,
Then work, half-measuring, half-humming,
Would be as serious as play.
Thou, pambler; thou, rivarn; thou, greater
Wherret, and thou, lesser one;
Thou, sproal; thou, zant; thou, lily-eater.
Naming’s over. Day is done.
That reminded me of a poem by Anthony Hecht, on such a similar theme that I have to wonder if the two poets (who did know each other) had a challenge, like the one that Shelley had with Horace Smith that produced "Ozymandias"...
Naming the Animals
Having commanded Adam to bestow
Names upon all the creatures, God withdrew
To empyrean palaces of blue
That warm and windless morning long ago,
And seemed to take no notice of the vexed
Look on the young man's face as he took thought
Of all the miracles the Lord had wrought,
Now to be labelled, dubbed, yclept, indexed.
Before an addled mind and puddled brow,
The feathered nation and the finny prey
Passed by; there went biped and quadruped.
Adam looked forth with bottomless dismay
Into the tragic eyes of his first cow,
And shyly ventured, "Thou shalt be called 'Fred.'"
Some Brown Sparrows/ Bruce Fearing
Some brown sparrows who line
in the Bronx Zoo visit often
the captive Victoria Crested
Pheasant, visit captive Peacocks,
Cockatoos. They fly through bars
to visit also monkeys, jackals,
bears. The delouse themselves in
cage dust, shaking joyoulsy;
they hund for bread crumbs, sees
or other tidbits. Briefly,
they lead free sparrow lives
and fly free.
Roethke has "The Bat" and there's a nice poem about crows called "Absolutes" by Gustave Keyser.
and there's Ted Hughs' book "Crow" which this doesn't come from....
Crows / David McCord
I like to walk/ And hear the black crows talk.
I like to lie/ And watch crows sail the sky.
I like the crow/that wants the wind to blow.
I like the one/ That thinks the wind is fun.
I like to see/ Crows spilling from a tree.
And try to find/ the top crow left behind.
I like to hear/ Crows caw that spring is near.
I like the great/Wild clamor of crow hate.
Thee farms away/ When owls are out by day,
I like the slo/ Tired homeward-flying crow;
I like the sight
Of crows for my goodnight.
There's always Poe's The Raven, but here's another:
Pig by Vasko Popa
Only when she felt
The savage knife in her throat
Did the red veil
Explain the game
And she was sorry
She had torn herself
From the mud's embrace
And had hurried so joyfully
From the field that evening
Hurried to the yellow gate
I can appreciate almost any well-crafted poem about a Nightingale or a Skylark, both very popular subjects for European poets over the centuries. My favourite might be George Meredith's wonderful "The Lark Ascending" (below), which inspired Vaughan Williams to write what, for me, is the most succesful musical evocation of a bird and its haunts.
There are 2327 (!) more postings of bird poems here: http://www.birdforum.net/showthread.php?t=12805
The Lark Ascending
He rises and begins to round,
He drops the silver chain of sound,
Of many links without a break,
In chirrup, whistle, slur and shake,
All intervolved and spreading wide,
Like water-dimples down a tide
Where ripple ripple overcurls
And eddy into eddy whirls;
A press of hurried notes that run
So fleet they scarce are more than one,
Yet changeingly the trills repeat
And linger ringing while they fleet,
Sweet to the quick o' the ear, and dear
To her beyond the handmaid ear,
Who sits beside our inner springs,
Too often dry for this he brings,
Which seems the very jet of earth
At sight of sun, her music's mirth,
As up he wings the spiral stair,
A song of light, and pierces air
With fountain ardour, fountain play,
To reach the shining tops of day,
And drink in everything discerned
An ecstasy to music turned,
Impelled by what his happy bill
Disperses; drinking, showering still,
Unthinking save that he may give
His voice the outlet, there to live
Renewed in endless notes of glee,
So thirsty of his voice is he,
For all to hear and all to know
That he is joy, awake, aglow;
The tumult of the heart to hear
Through pureness filtered crystal-clear,
And know the pleasure sprinkled bright
By simple singing of delight;
Shrill, irreflective, unrestrained,
Rapt, ringing, on the jet sustained
Without a break, without a fall,
Sweet-silvery, sheer lyrical,
Perennial, quavering up the chord
Like myriad dews of sunny sward
That trembling into fulness shine,
And sparkle dropping argentine;
Such wooing as the ear receives
From zephyr caught in choric leaves
Of aspens when their chattering net
Is flushed to white with shivers wet;
And such the water-spirit's chime
On mountain heights in morning's prime,
Too freshly sweet to seem excess,
Too animate to need a stress;
But wider over many heads
The starry voice ascending spreads,
Awakening, as it waxes thin,
The best in us to him akin;
And every face to watch him raised,
Puts on the light of children praised;
So rich our human pleasure ripes
When sweetness on sincereness pipes,
Though nought be promised from the seas,
But only a soft-ruffling breeze
Sweep glittering on a still content,
Serenity in ravishment
For singing till his heaven fills,
'Tis love of earth that he instils,
And ever winging up and up,
Our valley is his golden cup,
And he the wine which overflows
To lift us with him as he goes:
The woods and brooks, the sheep and kine,
He is, the hills, the human line,
The meadows green, the fallows brown,
The dreams of labour in the town;
He sings the sap, the quickened veins;
The wedding song of sun and rains
He is, the dance of children, thanks
Of sowers, shout of primrose-banks,
And eye of violets while they breathe;
All these the circling song will wreathe,
And you shall hear the herb and tree,
The better heart of men shall see,
Shall feel celestially, as long
As you crave nothing save the song.
Was never voice of ours could say
Our inmost in the sweetest way,
Like yonder voice aloft, and link
All hearers in the song they drink.
Our wisdom speaks from failing blood,
Our passion is too full in flood,
We want the key of his wild note
Of truthful in a tuneful throat;
The song seraphically free
Of taint of personality,
So pure that it salutes the suns
The voice of one for millions,
In whom the millions rejoice
For giving their one spirit voice.
Yet men have we, whom we revere,
Now names, and men still housing here,
Whose lives, by many a battle-dint
Defaced, and grinding wheels on flint,
Yield substance, though they sing not, sweet
For song our highest heaven to greet:
Whom heavenly singing gives us new,
Enspheres them brilliant in our blue,
From firmest base to farthest leap,
Because their love of Earth is deep,
And they are warriors in accord
With life to serve, and, pass reward,
So touching purest and so heard
In the brain's reflex of yon bird:
Wherefore their soul in me, or mine,
Through self-forgetfulness divine,
In them, that song aloft maintains,
To fill the sky and thrill the plains
With showerings drawn from human stores,
As he to silence nearer soars,
Extends the world at wings and dome,
More spacious making more our home,
Till lost on his aerial rings
In light, and then the fancy sings.
"Animals Are Passing From Our Lives" by Philip Levine
It's wonderful how I jog
on four honed-down ivory toes
my massive buttocks slipping
like oiled parts with each light step.
I'm to market. I can smell
the sour, grooved block, I can smell
the blade that opens the hole
and the pudgy white fingers
that shake out the intestines
like a hankie. In my dreams
the snouts drool on the marble,
suffering children, suffering flies,
suffering the consumers
who won't meet their steady eyes
for fear they could see. The boy
who drives me along believes
that any moment I'll fall
on my side and drum my toes
like a typewriter or squeal
and shit like a new housewife
or that I'll turn like a beast
cleverly to hook his teeth
with my teeth. No. Not this pig.
Some lines of doggerel (or catterel?) to remind one how NOT to spell 'bated breath' in almost every circumstance but this -
Pussy, having swallowed cheese,
Directs down holes the scented breeze,
Enticing thus with baited breath,
Nice mice to an untimely death.
Don't know who wrote it.
How about lizards:
Lizards by Sylvia Maltzman
heirs to insect-rights
sun themselves on
come and go as they please
through the crevice
under my screen door
they cock their jutting
in my direction
calculating me coldly
as though I were the heat
or the landlord finally arrived
for the rent
I never thought my patio
resplendant with colored leaves ferns
and hanging ivy
would become a reptilian ghetto
ashamed before my friends
I have become a slumlord.
THE BEAR HUNT
- President Abraham Lincoln-
A wild-bear chace, didst never see?
Then hast thou lived in vain.
Thy richest bump of glorious glee,
Lies desert in thy brain.
When first my father settled here,
'Twas then the frontier line:
The panther's scream, filled night with fear
And bears preyed on the swine.
But wo for Bruin's short lived fun,
When rose the squealing cry;
Now man and horse, with dog and gun,
For vengeance, at him fly.
A sound of danger strikes his ear;
He gives the breeze a snuff;
Away he bounds, with little fear,
And seeks the tangled rough.
On press his foes, and reach the ground,
Where's left his half munched meal;
The dogs, in circles, scent around,
And find his fresh made trail.
With instant cry, away they dash,
And men as fast pursue;
O'er logs they leap, through water splash,
And shout the brisk halloo.
Now to elude the eager pack,
Bear shuns the open ground;
Through matted vines, he shapes his track
And runs it, round and round.
The tall fleet cur, with deep-mouthed voice,
Now speeds him, as the wind;
While half-grown pup, and short-legged fice,
Are yelping far behind.
And fresh recruits are dropping in
To join the merry corps:
With yelp and yell,--a mingled din--
The woods are in a roar.
And round, and round the chace now goes,
The world's alive with fun;
Nick Carter's horse, his rider throws,
And more, Hill drops his gun.
Now sorely pressed, bear glances back,
And lolls his tired tongue;
When as, to force him from his track,
An ambush on him sprung.
Across the glade he sweeps for flight,
And fully is in view.
The dogs, new-fired, by the sight,
Their cry, and speed, renew.
The foremost ones, now reach his rear,
He turns, they dash away;
And circling now, the wrathful bear,
They have him full at bay.
At top of speed, the horse-men come,
All screaming in a row,
"Whoop! Take him Tiger. Seize him Drum."
Bang,--bang--the rifles go.
And furious now, the dogs he tears,
And crushes in his ire,
Wheels right and left, and upward rears,
With eyes of burning fire.
But leaden death is at his heart,
Vain all the strength he plies.
And, spouting blood from every part,
He reels, and sinks, and dies.
And now a dinsome clamor rose,
'Bout who should have his skin;
Who first draws blood, each hunter knows,
This prize must always win.
But who did this, and how to trace
What's true from what's a lie,
Like lawyers, in a murder case
They stoutly argufy.
Aforesaid fice, of blustering mood,
Behind, and quite forgot,
Just now emerging from the wood,
Arrives upon the spot.
With grinning teeth, and up-turned hair--
Brim full of spunk and wrath,
He growls, and seizes on dead bear,
And shakes for life and death.
And swells as if his skin would tear,
And growls and shakes again;
And swears, as plain as dog can swear,
That he has won the skin.
Conceited whelp! we laugh at thee--
Nor mind, that now a few
Of pompous, two-legged dogs there be,
Conceited quite as you.
A leaping, biting ball of fluff
Whose teeth like needles pierce
There is no mischief big enough
For this great hunter fierce.
The havoc wrought one must confess
Would make a strong man quail
Could this so small make such a mess?
Attila with a tail.
But wagging tail forgiveness begs
Please don't you want to play?
She's furry love on four small legs
Who takes our cares away.
A delightful summary it made me smile and told me things in a new way and better still told me things I didn't know.
I never saw a purple cow
I never hope to see one.
But this I can say, anyhow,
I'd rather see than be one!
#32 - Oh, that's wonderful! I've printed a copy for my sister. She has a terrier puppy called Tilly (otherwise known as Tilly the Hun).
Love your profile pic, puddle. It seems to simply scream "JOY!" ;o)
Found something else in an old file I'd like to share though it's not exactly poetry. Still rings kind of poetic.
He is my other eyes that can see above the clouds;
my other ears that hear above the winds.
He is the part of me that can reach out into the sea.
He has told me a thousand times over that I am his reason for being:
by the way he rests against my leg;
by the way he thumps his tail at my smallest smile;
by the way he shows his hurt when I leave without taking him.
(I think it makes him sick with worry when he is not along to care for me.)
When I am wrong, he is delighted to forgive.
When I am angry, he clowns to make me smile.
When I am happy, he is joy unbounded.
When I am a fool, he ignores it.
When I succeed, he brags.
Without him, I am only another man. With him, I am all-powerful.
He is loyalty itself. He has taught me the meaning of devotion.
With him, I know a secret comfort and a private peace.
He has brought me understanding where before I was ignorant.
His head on my knee can heal my human hurts.
His presence by my side is protection against my fears of dark and
He has promised to wait for me...whenever...wherever -in case I need him.
And I expect I will -as I always have.
Originally printed in "Tears & Laughter" by Gene Hill
Hallowed be dy mane.
Dy kingdom come.
Dy draftwork be done.
Still plough the day
And give out daily bray
Though heart stiffen in the harness.
Then sleep hang harness with bearbells
And trot on bravely into sleep
Where the black and the bay
The sorrel and the grey
And foals and bearded wheat
It is on earth as it is in heaven.
Wild asparagus, yellow flowers
On the flowering cactus.
Give our daily wheat, wet
Whiskers in the sonorous bucket.
Knead my heart, hardened daily.
Heal the hoofprint in my heart.
Give us our oats at bedtime
And in the night half-sleeping.
Hallowed be dy hot mash.
(from Nigh-No-Place Bloodaxe Books 2008)
PS#36 Thanks Lilias - I love that.
This topic is not marked as primarily about any work, author or other topic.