The Archer who’s greedy for venison
A golden antelope jumps in a rainforest.
In the moonlit night the ardent archer makes his bow and arrows
But this time he is very sensitive about the rare deer.
He used his special arrow for the hunt.
The deer ran away with the pierced arrow into the jungle.
He followed the woman like cry and Alas! He saw a Nymph was lying on the grass in cold blood.
She stammered “Caveman love is tastier than venison
But it’s too late now my dear.”
She died on his lap sadly.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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A Christmas Hunt
Me and ol' Bubba
on a late December hunt
Bubba's a man of few words
but he sure can grunt
The snow was fallin
a winter moon so bright
All the stars seemed special
as they sparkled that night
It was about midnight
we couldn't believe our eyes
A herd of flyin deer
seemed to fill the skies
I shot and I shot
how Bubbas gun did fire
But those flyin deer
just went higher and higher
Bubba looked at me
as I rubbed my aimin eye
It was then we both said
aint no deer that can fly
That was pert near
twelve years ago
Every late December
we still track through the snow
But not for huntin
we just go to see
Those flyin deer
ol' Bubba and me
Terry M
First Shot
I said I was hunting deer. I knew the trails, the split tracks and pellets of shit; circles
where they bedded down together. I faced a buck once, for almost ten minutes I think;
I moved first and it left me. I ran home to think.
I had a bow, target arrows, a target on straw. My father said be careful, and I was, but
I sneaked my bow and arrow to the woods. I surprised a tiny rabbit near a hole. It
froze. I had an arrow on it. I moved and it ran for the hole. I never shot.
They had a blanket, in a clearing of wiry grass that sloped to the north. He had her
down, her hands all over his back. I thought I knew her. They hadn't seen me. I notched
an arrow. His head turned my way, vague, like he needed his glasses, and maybe afraid.
I got scared, I wasn't sure what it was; I shot my arrow, my first shot, wild I think, and ran.
I waited for something for weeks, for more than weeks. I couldn't answer questions. I
thought I saw her a few times, later. I never went back until I was sixteen, almost, and
nothing was there but I only stayed for a minute.
poem by Eric Torgersen
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Cupid
How could I have been so stupid?
I should have known you were Cupid
when your arrow pierced my heart.
How could I have been so unaware?
I should have felt that you were there.
But love is strange and plays its part
in most unusual ways you know.
I should have captured that special glow
and grabbed hold from the start.
It took me some time to understand.
I should have held out my hand
and never let us be apart.
The emptiness that hit me hard
made me know to be on guard,
to never be stupid, just be smart.
Send one more arrow my way.
Pierce my heart on some other day.
Please dear Cupid, play your part.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Home On The Range
Oh give me a home where the buffalo roam
Where the deer and the antelope play
Where seldom is heard a discouraging word
And the skies are not cloudy all day
Home, home on the range
Where the deer and the antelope play
Where seldom is heard a discouraging word
And the skies are not cloudy all day
Oh give me a land where the bright diamond sand
Flows leisurely down the stream
Where the graceful white swan goes gliding along
Like a maid in a heavenly dream
Home, home on the range
Where the deer and the antelope play
Where seldom is heard a discouraging word
And the skies are not cloudy all day
Oh often at night, when the heavens are bright
From the light of the glittering stars
Have I stood there amazed and asked as I gazed
If their glory exceeds that of ours
Home, home on the range
Where the deer and the antelope play
Where seldom is heard a discouraging word
And the skies are not cloudy all day
song performed by by Nickel Creek
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The archers
I
Stripped to the waist, his copper-coloured skin
Red from the smouldering heat of hate within,
Lean as a wolf in winter, fierce of mood--
As all wild things that hunt for foes, or food--
War paint adorning breast and thigh and face,
Armed with the ancient weapons of his race,
A slender ashen bow, deer sinew strung,
And flint-tipped arrow each with poisoned tongue,--
Thus does the Red man stalk to death his foe,
And sighting him strings silently his bow,
Takes his unerring aim, and straight and true
The arrow cuts in flight the forest through,
A flint which never made for mark and missed,
And finds the heart of his antagonist.
Thus has he warred and won since time began,
Thus does the Indian bring to earth his man.
II
Ungarmented, save for a web that lies
In fleecy folds across his impish eyes,
A tiny archer takes his way intent
On mischief, which is his especial bent.
Across his shoulder lies a quiver, filled
With arrows dipped in honey, thrice distilled
From all the roses brides have ever worn
Since that first wedding out of Eden born.
Beneath a cherub face and dimpled smile
This youthful hunter hides a heart of guile;
His arrows aimed at random fly in quest
Of lodging-place within some blameless breast.
But those he wounds die happily, and so
Blame not young Cupid with his dart and bow:
Thus has he warred and won since time began,
Transporting into Heaven both maid and man.
poem by Emily Pauline Johnson
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Children Chapter IV
And a woman who held a babe against her bosom said, 'Speak to us of Children.'
And he said:
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts.
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as he loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.
poem by Khalil Gibran
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Children
And a woman who held a babe against her bosom said, 'Speak to us of Children.'
And he said:
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts.
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as he loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.
poem by Khalil Gibran
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Who makes these changes?
Who makes these changes?
I shoot an arrow right.
It lands left.
I ride after a deer and find myself
Chased by a hog.
I plot to get what I want
And end up in prison.
I dig pits to trap others
And fall in.
I should be suspicious
Of what I want.
Deer-hunter, waste not your arrow on the hare.
Do not shoot a glass arrow into a painted deer.
The Death of William Rufus
The Red King's gone a-hunting, in the woods his father made
For the tall red deer to wander through the thicket and the glade,
The King and Walter Tyrrel, Prince Henry and the rest
Are all gone out upon the sport the Red King loves the best.
Last night, when they were feasting in the royal banquet-hall,
De Breteuil told a dream he had, that evil would befall
If the King should go to-morrow to the hunting of the deer,
And while he spoke, the fiery face grew well-nigh pale to hear.
He drank until the fire came back, and all his heart was brave,
Then bade them keep such woman's tales to tell an English slave,
For he would hunt to-morrow, though a thousand dreams foretold
All the sorrow and the mischief De Breteuil's brain could hold.
So the Red King's gone a-hunting, for all that they could do,
And an arrow in the greenwood made De Breteuil's dream come true.
They said `twas Walter Tyrrel, and so it may have been,
But there's many walk the forest when the leaves are thick and
green.
There's many walk the forest, who would gladly see the sport,
When the King goes out a-hunting with the nobles of his court,
And when the nobles scatter, and the King is left alone,
There are thickets where an English slave might string his bow
unknown.
The forest laws are cruel, and the time is hard as steel
To English slaves, trod down and bruised beneath the Norman heel.
Like worms they writhe, but by-and-by the Norman heel may learn
There are worms that carry poison, and that are not slow to turn.
The lords came back, by one and two, from straying far apart,
And they found the Red King lying with an arrow in his heart.
Who should have done the deed, but him by whom it first was seen?
So they said `twas Walter Tyrrel, and so it may have been.
They cried upon Prince Henry, the brother of the King,
And he came up the greenwood, and rode into the ring.
He looked upon his brother's face, and then he turned away,
And galloped off to Winchester, where all the treasure lay.
`God strike me,' cried De Breteuil, `but brothers' blood is thin!
And why should ours be thicker that are neither kith nor kin?'
They spurred their horses in the flank, and swiftly thence they
passed,
But Walter Tyrrel lingered and forsook his liege the last.
They say it was enchantment, that fixed him to the scene,
To look upon his traitor's work, and so it may have been.
But presently he got to horse, and took the seaward way,
And all alone within the glade, in state the Red King lay.
Then a creaking cart came slowly, which a charcoal-burner drove.
He found the dead man lying, a ghastly treasure-trove;
He raised the corpse for charity, and on his wagon laid,
And so the Red King drove in state from out the forest glade.
His hair was like a yellow flame about the bloated face,
The blood had stained his tunic from the fatal arrow-place.
Not good to look upon was he, in life, nor yet when dead.
The driver of the cart drove on, and never turned his head.
When next the nobles throng at night the royal banquet-hall,
Another King will rule the feast, the drinking and the brawl,
While Walter Tyrrel walks alone upon the Norman shore,
And the Red King in the forest will chase the deer no more.
poem by Robert Fuller Murray
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Deer Hunting
Hunting deer is hard to do.
But not for Michael Waddel.
Michael is an amazing bow hunter.
He only hunts deer with a bow,
Which is very hard to do anywhere.
Most people hunt with powerful guns.
But not Michael.
He uses his skills to lure the big deer in.
poem by Drew Nofer
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Journey With Animals
Child: Lion, Lion, do you know
Where is your den?
Lion: Yes, I know
My den is straight to the jungle
Child: Deer, Deer, what you
Eat for dinner?
Deer: I eat grass,
Green grass
Child: Rabbit, Rabbit,
What do you do?
Rabbit: I jump and jump
Till my house reach
Child: Turtle, Turtle, when enemy comes
What you will do?
Turtle: I will keep my head
Inside the shell
Child: Thank you animal friends
For answering my questions.
--------
By: Sansita Ramachandran
poem by Sansita Ramachandran
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A Horse For Dinner
A horse A horse
My kingdom for a horse,
A horse A horse
For the main course
Muscles of might
Pulled so tight,
A body of organs
All for a meal
Why a horse?
Why not a deer?
A horse does the work,
A deer will just peer
A horse is strong
a deer has no uses,
so there for a deer
suffers the abuses
Condemned is a deer
as from the day it's born,
until the day it dies
and its meaty flesh torn
So why a horse
if a deer has no uses?
because I am a man
Who too, has suffered too many abuses
poem by John McAdam
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The King's Hunt is up
The hunt is up, the hunt is up,
And it is well nigh day;
And Harry our king is gone hunting,
To bring his deer to bay.
The east is bright with morning light,
And darkness it is fled;
And the merry horn wakes up the morn
To leave his idle bed.
Behold the skies with golden dyes
Are glowing all around;
The grass is green, and so are the treen,
All laughing with the sound.
The horses snort to be at the sport,
The dogs are running free;
The woods rejoice at the merry noise
Of hey taranta tee ree.
The sun is glad to see us clad
All in our lusty green,
And smiles in the sky as he riseth high
To see and to be seen.
Awake all men, I say again,
Be merry as you may;
For Harry our king is gone hunting
To bring his deer to bay.
poem by William Gray
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Your Children
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you.
And though they are with you, they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts.
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
Which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite.
And He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer's hands be for happiness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
So He loves the bow that is stable.
poem by Khalil Gibran
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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AE01 Bushmen
man atop a wind-bowed tree
searching for any sign of deer
here we have tree-stand to see
perch like bird; powerful scope
on high powered hunting rifle
deer no match, down on spot
can you imagine yourself crawling
upwind with bow and arrow in search
for lunch, dinner, breakfast; yards away
slight miscalculation or moves; crucial
life of pre-dawn man in remoteness
where salads and burgers unknown
poem by Manonton Dalan
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The Deer-Star (A Paiute Legend)
HEAR now a tale of the deer-star,
Tale of the days agone,
When a youth rose up for the hunting
In the bluish light of dawn --
Rose up for the red deer hunting,
And what should a hunter do
Who has never an arrow feathered,
Nor a bow strung taut and true?
The women laughed from the doorways, the maidens mocked at the spring;
For thus to be slack at the hunting is ever a shameful thing.
The old men nodded and muttered, but the youth spoke up with a frown:
'If I have no gear for the hunting, I will run the red deer down.'
He is off by the hills of the morning,
By the dim, untrodden ways;
In the clean, wet, windy marshes
He has startled the deer agraze;
And a buck of the branching antlers
Streams out from the fleeing herd,
And the youth is apt to the running
As the tongue to the spoken word.
They have gone by the broken ridges, by mesa and hill and swale,
Nor once did the red deer falter, nor the feet of the runner fail;
So lightly they trod on the lupines that scarce were the flower-stalks bent,
And over the tops of the dusky sage the wind of their running went.
They have gone by the painted desert,
Where the dawn mists lie uncurled,
And over the purple barrows
On the outer rim of the world.
The people shout from the village,
And the sun gets up to spy
The royal deer and the runner,
Clear shining in the sky.
And ever the hunter watches for the rising of that star
When he comes by the summer mountains where the haunts of the red deer are,
When he comes by the morning meadows where the young of the red deer hide;
He fares him forth to the hunting while the deer and the runner bide.
poem by Mary Austin
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Robin Hood
Now here’s the tale of a Derbyshire boy by the name of Robin Dean
who was born near to Buxton where the hills are so green.
His parents struggled to find enough food to feed their family,
so Robin and his brothers stole food regularly.
The gaunt looking Robin was caught stealing at the age of ten
and was sentenced to a life of servitude in the Hall at Elvasten.
He scrubbed floors, washed pots and pans, and cleaned cutlery,
but he dreamed of becoming the Earl’s Master of Archery.
At the age of twelve years he had to learn the ways of the land
and the gamekeeper made sure he was a reliable hand.
Before long he became a maker of longbows and arrows
he then as an archer won prizes at county shows.
King Richard asked his noblemen for men to fight the crusades,
he wanted the best archers and those who could swing blades.
Robin Dean was equipped and sent to fight the Lion Heart’s cause
he became honoured in battle, and won the King’s applause.
Time and time again he produced his archery long-range skills
and was knighted Sir Robin Dean of the Derbyshire Hills.
The King gave him land on the Derbyshire and Nottingham border
to provide a suitable income for a knight of the highest order.
After seven hard years of fighting, the crusades were not going well
King Richard had been captured and imprisoned in a cell.
He was put up for ransom and the cost was highest ever asked,
so the soldiers returned to England to raise gold by the cask.
A storm in the English Channel forced the ship Robin Dean was on
to sail up the coast and dock in the port of Lincoln’s Boston.
He travelled across the county to the land which belonged to him,
but in Nottingham he entered and gained an Archery Tournament win.
This caused eyebrows to be raised throughout the tournament day,
the Nobles didn’t like a stranger taking their prize money away.
Sir Robin Dean the archer, became well known from there on
and he was offered a place to stay at the Castle in Donington.
At supper the Baron asked many questions about the life of his guest,
but Robin said little, which left the Baron to guess.
They eventually said goodnight and went to their bedrooms to retire
and before the sun rose, Robin had left for his estate in Derbyshire.
Sir Robin’s estate bordered into a part of the huge Sherwood Forest
where he was held by robbers demanding the purse from his vest.
Though outnumbered he drew his sword and put up a courageous fight,
but they over powered him, and took him to their forest camp site.
He noticed that the outlaws had their families living with them too
they were struggling to live and robbing was all they could do.
Robin told their leader and that he too was of the same low birth,
and for his freedom he’d kill them a deer to prove his worth.
He convinced them that he had the archery skills to kill the deer
and wasn’t afraid if the Sheriff’s soldiers came near.
Into the forest he and two men went, armed with one arrow and bow
Robin saw a stag, took aim and let the arrow go.
The arrow travelled through the air and brought down the huge deer,
but as they went for their kill, soldiers trapped them front and rear.
The officer ordered their arrest, but Robin said that he had the right
for he owned the land by royal charter and by being the kings knight.
The officer asked for proof, so Robin showed him the Deed and Seal,
it was enough for their release, the Lionheart’s seal was real.
He told the soldiers that this time legal charges would not be brought,
but if they trespassed again he would take them to court.
They claimed their deer and returned to the camp within the forest,
everyone cheered and they dined on venison for breakfast.
The outlaws asked Robin if he would consider leading their band,
he agreed, but only until the king was back in England.
But from now on his identity must remain under his archer’s hood
and any money they stole would go to the cause of doing good.
As the leader he would take on the name of Robin with the hood
and everyone would know they stood for justice in Sherwood.
poem by Orlando Belo
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The hunter
With a bow in his hand
the hunter sneaks
above the wind,
following the tracts
of the wild antelope.
His brown skin
melts into the field
and the bushes,
and like a wild cat
he sneaks
from cover to cover.
The sun is hot
where it hangs in the half-Kalahari sky
and he drinks a tiny bit of water
out of the ostrich egg flask,
before a brown hand
with caked sand
wipes sweat out of his dark brown eyes.
Again he takes the trail
and follows it at a jog
until the oryxes are closer
and again he sneaks nearer
and stalks still closer.
When he is in striking distance
an arrow is taken from the quiver
and the small bow’s string
made out of roped intestines draws
and for a moment,
it sounds like the buzz of a bee
while the arrow
rushes away from the bow.
The arrow hits the antelope
and when the startled oryx
rushes away
the hunter follows
faithful on the spoor,
till he finds it
where in time
it lies stretched out
on the red brown Africa sand.
poem by Gert Strydom
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