The Truant
The Truant
Trying to flee Christmas I opened a wrong door and
fell from sky into a glossy stygian lagoon, swam to
its northern shore and saw trees dismal graveyard,
petrified and silent trunks lit up by hazy moonlight.
I walked to the lake’s eastern shore and witnessed
the easy birth of a day; a deer chastely drank blue
water when a brown bear came out of the forest
attacking me. I jumped into the lake the bear too
jumped in, a better swimmer, but as it was going to
catch me, I ducked, swam up behind it, mounted
the beast- like a cowboy- and gripped my fingers on
the liberal skin folds of its fat neck. Howling angry
the bear swam in circles but couldn’t shake me off,
when it beat swam for shore I let go, the poor brute
crawled ashore and tired scuttled into the woods.
I followed a barely visible track and came to a town
where kind people gave me food (hotcakes, honey
and bacon,) a bath and a bed in a green room. I slept
for days, but when asked where I came from, could
only tell of a deer and a bear as my only memory.
To be an embryo inside a celestial dream feels fine
while I plan the newness of my life.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Related quotes
30 (Vivekananda) The Rock at Cape Comorin
Swamiji had arrived
At the India’s tail end,
Cape Comorin by name,
Kanyakumari, by other name
In the sea shore temple there,
He prayed to Divine Mother.
From the shore he had a look,
And saw, at a distance, a big rock.
In the shark infested waters,
He courageously swam across,
And sat on the rock in meditation,
Keeping aside his emotion.
Across the roaring sea,
From the rock he could see
The places he had visited,
Wherever he had travelled.
A monk was dedicated to God.
In every soul there was God.
So, he was keen to look after
God the wicked, God the poor.
He took a bold decision
To serve God in man.
But how to get resources
For India to stand on its legs?
He saw America as a country
That can free India’s poverty,
Thro’ exchange of knowledge
On science and technology.
With this idea, from the rock,
He got up and swam back.
His journey started again
Towards northern region.
To eat, when nothing he had
Someone gave him food.
As if directed by God
To share the donor’s food.
Not willing to be a burden
On any of those poor men,
Better to starve, he decided
When there was no food.
He went to the forest
To sit and meditate,
And there came a tiger
With its own hunger.
Swamiji said, “Oh tiger,
We both sit here in hunger.
Let my body be your food
If you find this good.”
God’s will was otherwise.
The hungry tiger, in silence,
Turned back and went away,
Sparing his precious life that day.
poem by Rajaram Ramachandran
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A Frog And A Toad
A tiny frog on a lili-pad,
Was so depressed she felt so sad.
She wrung her hands and racked her brain,
And said to herself, I'm going insane.
I'm in love with the toad that lives next door,
When my dad finds out he'll go through the floor.
And I can't imagine what mom will do.
My black and green will be black and blue.
While she pondered on, the snake swam by,
And the little frog uttered a sigh.
She asked hey snake what would you do,
If you were in love with a toad like lou?
The snake replied, I'll tell you what,
You really put me on the spot.
A frog I could love, a toad too fat,
I'd rather be seen with a rat.
But you little frog with your leopard spots,
I think that you could dot my dots.
Come over here and say to me,
That you'll be mine for eternity.
The little frog opened her eyes,
And saw in the snake no truth just lies.
She jumped in the water and swam away,
And found her lou and said o.k.
It's not so bad to be black and blue,
And have your daddy be mad at you.
It's better to be with an ugly toad,
Than inside a snake and growing cold.
4/20/10 29 palms ca.
poem by Juan Olivarez
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Secret Swimmer
When solemn evening faded in
In this new neighbourhood,
The Bengal tiger waded in,
As silent as he could.
Amid the water, still quite warm,
His head was sailing high.
The water swirled around his form
As he swam slowly by.
The Bengal tiger all alone
Must find food by himself,
Preserving still that heart of stone
With wisdom, guile and stealth.
The secret swimmer swam that day,
Starvation deep inside.
For hunger never fades away
Till food has been supplied.
His eyes were seeking food to eat,
So silence was his friend,
For in the hunt he must compete
And on his skills depend.
No fish must scatter in alarm,
No bird must fly or flee.
No nearby creature sense the harm
Of what was meant to be.
poem by Denis Martindale
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Silent Swimmer
When solemn evening faded in
In this new neighbourhood,
The Bengal tiger waded in,
As silent as he could.
Amid the water, still quite warm,
His head was sailing high.
The water swirled around his form
As he swam slowly by...
The Bengal tiger all alone
Must find food by himself,
Preserving still that heart of stone
With wisdom, guile and stealth...
The secret swimmer swam that day,
Starvation deep inside...
For hunger never fades away
Till food has been supplied...
His eyes were seeking food to eat,
So silence was his friend,
For in the hunt he must compete
And on his skills depend.
No fish must scatter in alarm,
No bird must fly or flee...
No nearby creatures sense the harm
Of what was meant to be...
poem by Denis Martindale
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White Water
The white tiger went on his way
To where he had to go,
He'd suffered the heat of the day,
Now sought where waters flow...
And oh what joy as he walked in,
What wholesome sweet relief,
As cooling water soothed his skin...
Pure joy beyond belief...
With gentle grace he swam a while
And ripping waters trailed
As if with magic to beguile...
Each time, it never failed...
There was a certain mystery,
A miracle at least,
A wistful end to misery
That soothed this savage beast...
And when his blood was cool once more,
It now was time to leave...
And so he swam to walk ashore,
The heat no more to grieve...
White water comes from waterfalls
Then flows into a stream...
And to this day, he still recalls
God's gift as though a dream...
(July 2011/The poem is based on the
magnificent painting by Stephen Gayford
called 'White Water'.)
poem by Denis Martindale
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Going Shopping
En route to go shopping at our local grocery store,
I came across something which I hadn’t seen before.
A rustling sound within the trees, by me, was heard;
I just imagined it was either a cat or some kind of bird.
But what emerged in front of me, gave me a surprise;
A surprise which made me question my very own eyes!
Out of the trees, there very suddenly appeared,
An extremely lively, little brown deer.
I know that large herds of deer do reside
In the big forest, in the nearby countryside.
But never before in my life had I ever found
Any deer this close to the centre of our town.
As soon as he saw me, away he sprang,
But in my mind, alarm bells loudly rang.
For the deer, I began to feel a little scared,
As I wondered how, in a town, he would fair.
He was quite far from where he had grown,
And now, here he was, having to cope alone.
The countryside compared to the town are different places;
Here, he was faced with houses, cars and people’s faces.
I imagined the sheer panic which he felt inside,
And for that poor little deer, I almost cried.
To help him, there was nothing I could do.
He was so far away from all that he knew.
I thought about him for the rest of the day,
And couldn’t believe how far he had strayed.
A deer in the town was a strange thing to have sighted.
I just hope that, with his herd, he was safely reunited.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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Part 7 of Trout Fishing in America
THE PUDDING MASTER OF
STANLEY BASIN
Tree, snow and rock beginnings, the mountain in back of the
lake promised us eternity, but the lake itself was filled with
thousands of silly minnows, swimming close to the shore
and busy putting in hours of Mack Sennett time.
The minnows were an Idaho tourist attraction. They
should have been made into a National Monument. Swimming
close to shore, like children they believed in their own im-
mortality .
A third-year student in engineering at the University of
Montana attempted to catch some of the minnows but he went
about it all wrong. So did the children who came on the
Fourth of July weekend.
The children waded out into the lake and tried to catch the
minnows with their hands. They also used milk cartons and
plastic bags. They presented the lake with hours of human
effort. Their total catch was one minnow. It jumped out of a
can full of water on their table and died under the table, gasp-
ing for watery breath while their mother fried eggs on the
Coleman stove.
The mother apologized. She was supposed to be watching
the fish --THIS IS MY EARTHLY FAILURE-- holding the
dead fish by the tail, the fish taking all the bows like a young
Jewish comedian talking about Adlai Stevenson.
The third-year student in engineering at the University of
Montana took a tin can and punched an elaborate design of
holes in the can, the design running around and around in
circles, like a dog with a fire hydrant in its mouth. Then he
attached some string to the can and put a huge salmon egg
and a piece of Swiss cheese in the can. After two hours of
intimate and universal failure he went back to Missoula,
Montana.
The woman who travels with me discovered the best way
to catch the minnows. She used a large pan that had in its
bottom the dregs of a distant vanilla pudding. She put the
pan in the shallow water along the shore and instantly, hun-
dreds of minnows gathered around. Then, mesmerized by
the vanilla pudding, they swam like a children's crusade
into the pan. She caught twenty fish with one dip. She put
the pan full of fish on the shore and the baby played with
the fish for an hour.
We watched the baby to make sure she was just leaning
on them a little. We didn't want her to kill any of them be-
cause she was too young.
Instead of making her furry sound, she adapted rapidly
to the difference between animals and fish, and was soon
making a silver sound.
She caught one of the fish with her hand and looked at it
for a while. We took the fish out of her hand and put it back
into the pan. After a while she was putting the fish back by
herself.
Then she grew tired of this. She tipped the pan over and
a dozen fish flopped out onto the shore. The children's game
and the banker's game, she picked up those silver things,
one at a time, and put them back in the pan. There was still
a little water in it. The fish liked this. You could tell.
When she got tired of the fish, we put them back in the
lake, and they were all quite alive, but nervous. I doubt if
they will ever want vanilla pudding again.
poem by Richard Brautigan
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Abandon to Physical Sensation
And I swam and swam and dived
into the waves and rode them out
and tumbled about and became a
water sprite and rolled over and
over in the shallow water and ran
into the waves, splashing up a
wide new ball-room dress, beautiful
circles of diamond glitter in the sun,
diving into the cool water again and
changing into a dolphin, water my
natural medium, experiencing sensory
ecstasy, swimming fast and deep,
feeling the delicious fatigue, turning
over and becoming one with the foam,
bubbling with the wave crest, in total
abandon to physical sensation…
poem by Louise Tredoux
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The Tarn Of Life
The Tarn of Life.
There many couples in the glade, the men
had shaving blades with which they cut
stripes on their women’s back, not deep
but enough for blood to trickle down and
make a pattern that spelt love.
I tried, but my blade was blunt, couldn’t
make her bleed, miserable she left me as
I was not able to let her suffer for love;
a failure in the ritual of married life and
shamed I walked away from the dell.
In a forest where trees were grey and had
lost all leaves I came upon an empty lake
and, saw at the bottom, the bleached, soft
bones of an embryo, it had blue eyes and
looked unblinkingly up at me.
It began raining, and the lake was filled
with pure, clear water, in it I bathed.
When looking up trees were green again;
by the shore my unborn daughter sat, she
smiled at me and I knew I was forgiven.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Fable of the Mermaid and the Drunks
All those men were there inside,
when she came in totally naked.
They had been drinking: they began to spit.
Newly come from the river, she knew nothing.
She was a mermaid who had lost her way.
The insults flowed down her gleaming flesh.
Obscenities drowned her golden breasts.
Not knowing tears, she did not weep tears.
Not knowing clothes, she did not have clothes.
They blackened her with burnt corks and cigarette stubs,
and rolled around laughing on the tavern floor.
She did not speak because she had no speech.
Her eyes were the colour of distant love,
her twin arms were made of white topaz.
Her lips moved, silent, in a coral light,
and suddenly she went out by that door.
Entering the river she was cleaned,
shining like a white stone in the rain,
and without looking back she swam again
swam towards emptiness, swam towards death.
poem by Pablo Neruda
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The Price Of Water
The little lake, not far from the houses, has been
dry for years and is full of thistles and rubbish.
By, what was its shore, the sad rest of a rowboat
I remember it was blue, and someone had nicked
its oars; for firewood I take it. I used to row in
this lake in the evening catching trout.
When the moon made the lake into shimmering
silver my heart got quite wobbly by the beauty.
Last week I crossed the lake on my scooter, it was
not easy I lost my balance and was badly stung,
gasped for air, felt as drowning in a dry lagoon.
In the future the new commodity will be water.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Timmy The Seal
Timmy the Seal was a friend of mine
I'm sorry for I heard He died,
Up in Alaska He was clubbed to death,
So I think, I will sit and cry.
For I remember still when He was a Cub
And the way He use to talk
And the way He smiled through His saddened eyes,
And; His funny walk.
I remember His Mother a good old Girl
And how much She loved Her son
And how She protected Timmy when the Hunters came,
So they killed Her; and Timmy cried so loud.
So into the ocean Timmy ran and jumped,
And swam as fast as He could swim
Though He escaped from the screams and the cries,
But He couldn't escape from where He had been.
For He remembered the cries and the bloody sight
And His friends who were clubbed to death,
And the Hunters who crept through the night,
While carrying those clubs of red.
Timmy the Seal swam back to His home
Just to see if anyone was left,
But all He could find was blood on the snow,
And a Walrus, whose name was Fred;
The Walrus was an ancient one
Whom lived through many of deaths,
And He told Timmy how His family had died,
In one of those bloody nights.
The Hunters all arrived with their clubs
And killed everything that moved
And so went my family, in just one night,
And I knew not what to do.
The Walrus cried and Timmy sighed
Finally knowing how to stop these killings,
Timmy looked at Fred and said unafraid,
I'll show the Hunters we too have feelings, .
So in toward the ocean Timmy jumped and swam,
Leaving the Walrus all alone,
Vowing He'd find the Hunters and stop these killings,
And when He did, He would come back home.
But Timmy never came back home again
I heard this from some friends,
They said Timmy showed the Hunters His sad brown eyes,
So they laughed, and they killed Timmy for His hide.
Timmy the Seal was a Friend of mine
So another tear for me to cry,
For I remember the day Timmy swam away,
For the Walrus, was I.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
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I Swam Through the Land
I Swam Through the Land
by Alex Lewis
I swam through the land,
But realized it wasn't grand.
After swimming through the soil,
I realized I was being disloyal
To the water I used to walk upon.
I had got up and I had gone.
I walked on the water the following day.
I waved to the clam, alone on the bay.
It wasn't all that great,
not too far from my hate.
After swimming through the ground,
I knew walking on water was not profound.
poem by Alex Lewis
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Fable Of The Mermaid And The Drunks
All those men were there inside,
when she came in totally naked.
They had been drinking: they began to spit.
Newly come from the river, she knew nothing.
She was a mermaid who had lost her way.
The insults flowed down her gleaming flesh.
Obscenities drowned her golden breasts.
Not knowing tears, she did not weep tears.
Not knowing clothes, she did not have clothes.
They blackened her with burnt corks and cigarette stubs,
and rolled around laughing on the tavern floor.
She did not speak because she had no speech.
Her eyes were the color of distant love,
her twin arms were made of white topaz.
Her lips moved, silent, in a coral light,
and suddenly she went out by that door.
Entering the river she was cleaned,
shining like a white stone in the rain,
and without looking back she swam again
swam towards emptiness, swam towards death.
poem by Pablo Neruda from Return of the Mermaid (Regresó la sirena) (1954)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Gullible, The Bear
A Dachshund who was long of hair
met in the forest an old bear.
The bear was sitting on a log
and held in his huge paws a frog.
The hound adored all frogs and toads
and always scanned the fields and roads
for something green that blended in,
it gave him a contented grin.
'What did you have in mind, Big Bear? '
Hound asked, his voice now full of flair.
'Frog legs', the bear said, 'are for me,
my snack to have with the green tea.'
'How could you eat the spark of life? !
He may have children and a wife!
Do you not know, you big bad mug
that I could make from you a rug? '
He spoke, as Dachshunds are so prone
as if the subject were a bone,
then showed his teeth, let out a growl
which then alerted Mrs. Owl.
'Oh, yes', said Mrs.Owl, 'it's true,
a hound can really finish you.
So let the frog go home I say,
that way, your hide will be okay! '
The bear looked at the frog and then
down to the dog and counted ten.
He did not need a bad surprise
and knew that owls are very wise.
poem by Herbert Nehrlich
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The Drowning
Raven haired
With a dark
Complexion,
Small for her age,
A bit tom- boyish
But well liked.
With two friends
She left for
The woods
After tea time,
It being July-
A hot summer.
Later upon leaving
The cinema
With some friends
I sensed something
Was wrong as I
Approached home.
At the fluke hole
Apparently she had
Lost her footing,
Fell in, and although
A swimmer the depth
Took her.
Fourteen years before
From the waters of a
Womb she swam forth
Birth crying into the arms
Of love....
poem by Liam ó Comáin
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The Polar Bear
The polar bear sat by the hole he had made in the frozen ice
patiently he waited for something really tasty and nice.
A baby seal jumped through the hole to fill its lungs with air
shaking the water from its bright red sweater it sat next to the bear.
“It’s nice of you to join me young seal I’m about to have some supper.”
“How kind of you Mr Polar Bear could we begin with a cuppa? ”
“We’ll begin with a seafood delight and it’s wearing a bright red sweater.”
The seal gulped and said, “Let’s not be hasty, I know of something better.”
“Now then seal what could be better than a seal in a bright red sweater”?
“Oh, I know of a scrumptious delicacy in the sea that is so much better.”
“And I suppose this delight is just swimming around on the ocean floor? ”
“Of course not Mr Bear, it’s in a sunken ship, hiding behind a door.
It’s mouth wateringly juicier, much sweeter, larger and tender,
I’ll invite it for supper, now that’s the best offer I can render? ”
“I’m not falling for that old trick; I could end up without my supper? ”
“But Mr Bear as a guarantee, I’ll leave you with my new sweater.
It will fit you like a glove and the colour will suit you much better.”
The Polar Bear liked this idea and placed over his head the sweater.
After pulling and tugging it got stuck, so that he couldn’t see.
“Goodbye, ” shouted the seal as he escaped, “sorry I can’t stop for tea.”
poem by Orlando Belo
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I Cried Again
The little tear that fell down my cheek
drew an ocean to the people below
they swam and swam untill they go tired
then they went to the black of their homes
they cried themselves to sleep that night
in the heat of the night they did sleep
awaiting the sandman to come give them their dreams
and to dream a dream of the deep
the depth of the waters hidden inside my tears
creating the ocean of which they do swim
without them ill die a slow suicide
the droubt of the midst of my tears
waiting just waiting for the tears of the night
awaiting the pain of my cries
as if i dont cry ill simply just die
so i must keep bringng the tears
but tonight i tried to cry again
bringing the emotions of the past
watching and waiting, watching and waiting
of the little peoples dreaming to last
but they did not appear from the mist of my tears
they did not attract to the swimming
as if they had entered the door of my heart
swimming off all of the good feelings
stay little ones swim off my dreams, swim as if never felt water
my tears are now gone and no misses all along
just a smile blessed into deep slumber
poem by Kristinahh KIMBER
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Three Movements
SHAKESPEAREAN fish swam the sea, far away from land;
Romantic fish swam in nets coming to the hand;
What are all those fish that lie gasping on the strand?
poem by William Butler Yeats
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My Bear
I never killed a bear because
I always thought them critters was
So kindo' cute;
Though round my shack they often came,
I'd raise my rifle and take aim,
But couldn't shoot.
Yet there was one full six-feet tall
Who came each night and gobbled all
The grub in sight;
On my pet garden truck he'd feast,
Until I thought I must at least
Give him a fight.
I put some corn mush in a pan;
He lapped it swiftly down and ran
With bruin glee;
A second day I did the same,
Again with eagerness he came
To gulp and flee.
The third day I mixed up a cross
Of mustard and tobasco sauce,
And ginger too,
Well spiced with pepper of cayenne,
Topped it with treacled mush, and then
Set out the brew.
He was a huge and husky chap;
I saw him shamble to the trap,
The dawn was dim.
He squatted down on his behind,
And through the cheese-cloth window-blind
I peeked at him.
I never saw a bear so glad;
A look of joy seraphic had
His visage brown;
He slavered, and without suspish-
- Ion hugged that horrid dish,
And swilled it down.
Just for a moment he was still,
Then he erupted loud and shrill
With frantic yell;
The picket fence he tried to vault;
He turned a double somersault,
And ran like hell.
I saw him leap into the lake,
As if a thirst of fire to slake,
And thrash up foam;
And then he sped along the shore,
And beat his breast with raucous roar,
And made for home.
I guess he told the folks back there
My homestead was taboo for bear
For since that day,
Although my pumpkins star the ground,
No other bear has come around,
Nor trace of bruin have I found,
- Well, let me pray!
poem by Robert William Service
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