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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Related quotes
When the Bear Comes Back Again
Oh, the scene is wide an’ dreary an’ the sun is settin’ red,
An’ the grey-black sky of winter’s comin’ closer overhead.
Oh, the sun is settin’ bloody with a blood-line on the snow,
An’ across it to the westward you can see old Bruin go;
You can see old Shaggy go,
You can see the brown Bear go,
An’ he’s draggin’ one leg arter, an’ he’s travellin’ pretty slow.
We can send a long shot arter, but he doesn’t seem to know—
There’s a thin red line behind him where it’s dripped across the snow;
He is weary an’ he’s wounded, with his own blood he’s half-blind,
He is licked an’ he’s defeated, an’ he’s left some cubs behind;
Yes, he’s left some cubs behind;
Oh, he’s left some cubs behind;
To the tune of sixty thousand he has left some cubs behind.
Oh, they’ve pulled him by the nose-ring and they’ve baited him in pits,
An’ they bluffed him, an’ they bruised him, an’ they mostly gave him fits;
But he hugged ’em badly one time when they tried him in his den—
An’ he’ll make it warm for someone when he comes back East again;
When the Bear comes back again,
When he’s lopin’ round again,
There’ll be lively times for Jacko when the Bear comes back again.
Oh, we chased him out of Turkey—I don’t know for what idea,
It took two dogs an’ a lion for to beat him in Crimea;
He’s goin’ home to lick his wounds, he’s goin’ to his den,
But he’ll make it warm for someone when he comes South-East again,
When the Bear comes back again,
When old Bruin comes again,
He will make some dead to die on when he comes back from his den.
Keep a sharp look-out behind you, every way you turn, my lad,
It don’t matter who you might be, for you bet the Bear is mad;
Keep a sharp look-out to Nor’ard, to the South an’ West an’ East,
For he mostly always finds you where you most expect him least;
Where you most expect him leastest,
Where you most expect him least,
Oh, you’ll catch him grabbin’ for yer where you most expect him least.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Face Up
Ever since Ive seen your face
This life of mine has gone to waste
I was young and you were old
And I always knew you were cold
At the start you had a heart
But in the end you lost your friend
Can you see your own dark face?
Its dieing in a lonely place
Oh, how I cannot bear the thought of you
I said, oh, how I cannot bear the thought of you
As we get old, we lose our place
Reflecting back the worlds disgrace
I feel so low, I feel so humble
Sometimes in life we take a tumble
Dont let anybody tell you that youre no good
Cause you know they would
Dont let anybody tell you what you should do
Cause its not that way and...
Oh, how I cannot bear the thought of you
I said, oh, how I cannot bear the thought of you
We were young and we were pure
And life was just an open door
I said oh, oh, how I cannot bear the thought of you
You were me and I was you
This world of ours it felt brand new
You took me a little further...
I heard it all before, Ive heard it all before
I cant hear it anymore
Your hair was long, your eyes was blue
Guess what Im gonna do to you
Oh, how I cannot bear the thought of you
I said, oh, how I cannot bear the thought of you
We were young and we were pure
And life was just an open door
I said oh, oh, how I cannot bear the thought...
Oh, how I cannot bear the thought of you
I said oh, oh, how I cannot bear the thought of you
We were young and we were pure...
song performed by by New Order
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Fight With A Bear
The following appeared in Truth in the form of a prose tale of
considerable length. We have concentrated the essence
thereof into the few verses below. It is a tale of the
Canadian North-West, during the times of the Hudson
Bay Company's rule.
Two youths, employed at the fur fort,
Resolved to have half-day of sport ;
From Jasper House, in the far north,
For game, they joyous issued forth.
The factor of the Hudson Bay
Granted them a few hours' play,
And it was in cold winter time,
When thick on lake was glassy rime ;
But beneath, o'er all their route,
They saw below big speckled trout.
With hatchet, ice they did clear
And the beauteous trout did spear,
For they were longing for a dish
Of this sweet and savory fish,
And they caught many, too, with bait,
For in the day it was not late,
But it was cloudy with snow storm ;
Yet they saw the noble form,
While the hurricane did blow,
Of a fine, noble buffalo,
So they resolved to have a treat
Of the delicious buffalo meat ;
But he did on his haunches rear-
To their surprise it was a bear.
The lake being smooth, the youths did skate,
Resolved for to seal his fate;
A pistol shot made bruin roar,
And from him trickled drops of gore.
They round him skate, and fresh blood drew
When they at him the hatchet threw ;
He chased one and then the other,
For men on skates did him bother.
But the bold Scottish lad, McBeath,
Alas ! he nearly met his death,
When he so boldly did press near
To probe him with the sharp fish spear,
For with fell swoop the paws of bruin
To him they almost did bring ruin ;
But he so dexterously did skate
That he escaped such horrid fate.
And now they skated back to fort
For aid for to renew the sport,
They knew their game was no trifle
So they secured a trusty rifle.
Returning he had fled to wood,
But they tracked him with his blood,
For they did not yet despair
But that they would capture bear.
They saw the elder bushes sway
While he did force through them his way,
And heard the brushwood loudly snap,
Where he went through he left a gap.
They skated swiftly o 'er the ice
And were near brushwood in a trice ;
Full soon the savage beast is slain,
With rifle bullet in his brain.
And now these hunters do take pride
In skin as large as buffalo hide,
For Indian stripped the skin of bear
And left the carcass in his lair.
poem by James McIntyre
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A strong Bear, a poor cave
A quarrel took place,
Between a tight, narrow cave,
and a huge, black, hairy bear.
the poor cave was afraid of,
her narrowness,
the bear had no fear.
Actually, the bear was
in search of a cave,
where he could spent
his night merrily,
his mission was to hide himself,
by all means, fair or unfair.
The bear begged the shelter,
from the cave to get entered,
but cave denied.
she said, ' I am not wide.
if I take you in,
you may get me in trouble,
every thing mine get in disorder.
how can you stay in me quite?
seek other place to-night.'
The bear snored a loud,
as if, thunders of big cloud.
huge bear tried getting forcibly in,
smiled and said, 'I have to win.
O' poor cave, see my strong body,
look at my height!
I am quite black,
while you are white.
you are unaware of facts,
you are mine, my cave,
you are made for me.
I know, you think yourself too small,
If I enter, you will be torn,
and might get burst,
but it is nothing like this,
surrender yourself
before me silently.
or I will react violently.
the little cave said nothing,
but tried to scape herself,
with all her might.
thrusting the bear out.
Bear so huge, no doubt.
He tried utmost entering forcibly,
getting success a little bit.
until the cave burst,
the bear continued to hit.
At last, a hot bloody stream,
blew out of the cave.
It couldn't itself save.
It was torn and oozing sweat.
the huge bear was running,
in and out very smoothly,
Poor cave, in this struggle,
has become out.
the bear has come first, no doubt.
....................................... ............
poem by Rani Madhubala
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Can’t Sleep
I couldn’t sleep at Big Bear Lake,
I ate a cheese steak and a chocolate cake,
boy that was a big mistake.
I kept tossing and turning in bed all night,
until the sun came out and was really bright.
I knew the next I would be on stage in front
of a hundred or more,
I didn’t know what was in store.
Would my act be too kiddy for the comic bunch,
I usually performed in front of kids before lunch.
The act did get some laughs and photos were shot,
of me and Melodie on stage where it was hot.
Hot with lights shining down on us,
we both story told a tale without a fuss.
Now I wrote this poem which I thought would be short and sweet,
it was a fun and interesting time at Big Bear Lake
I just can’t have cheese steak and chocolate cake.
Written By Suzae Chevalier on November 25,2011
poem by Christina Sunrise
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Mike
My lead dog Mike was like a bear;
I reckon he was grizzly bred,
For when he reared up in the air
Ho over-topped me by a head.
He'd cuff me with his hefty paws,
Jest like a puppy actin' cute,
And I would swear: by Gosh! he was
The world's most mighty malemute.
But oh the grub that dog could eat!
Yet he was never belly-tight;
It almost broke me buying meat
To satisfy his appetite.
Then came a change I wondered at:
Returning when the dawn was dim,
He seemed mysteriously fat,
And scorned the bones I'd saved for him.
My shack was near the hospital,
Wherein there laboured Nurse Louise,
Who was to me a little pal
I planned in every way to please.
As books and sweets for her I bought,
My mug she seemed to kindo' like;
But Mike - he loved her quite a lot,
And she was very fond of Mike.
Strolling with her as moonlight gleamed,
I saw a strand of cotton trail
From Mike, the which unseemly seemed
To have its source behind his tail.
I trod on it with chagrin grim,
And with a kick his absence urged;
But as he ran, from out of him
Such yards and yards of lint emerged.
And then on me the truth did dawn
Beyond the shadow of a doubt:
That poor dam dog was gorged upon
The poultices threw out. . . .
So "love my dog love me," I thought,
And seized the moment to propose . . .
Mike's dead, but in our garden lot
He's manure for a big dog-rose.
poem by Robert William Service
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On Vacation
My family went on a vacation
I gave my father all the persuasion
Can I go and wander in the forest
To catch at least a tiny little pest
Very dangerous it is for you to go there
There will be a lion, tiger or a big black bear
He told me, to these things pay heed
But I thought these are things I don’t need
I went to the depth of the forest
But couldn’t catch a single pest
Thinking about things I shouldn’t care
A lion, tiger or a big black bear
I started going towards a cave
Suddenly a loud roar it gave
I thought this was a good part of my vacation
When suddenly I felt suffocation
I heard the loud roar again
I felt as if I was trapped in a monster’s den
The loud roar had really given me a scare
It could be a lion, tiger or a big black bear
First it’s my life I have to save
I quickly ran out of the cave
To these things I should pay heed
Go to that cave I won’t dare indeed
poem by Risha Ahmed
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Ghost Bear, page 1 of 4
Long ago, in a small village
Where the Great River meets the
Limitless Salt Sea, lived Muin Manitu,
An aging shaman.
Ghost Bear had two good wives
Who gave him four fine daughters
And many grand-children.
But now both wives were dead.
Ghost Bear was getting old,
So old that he made his death song
Mumbling it often under his breath
So he would not forget it.
One night, Raven came to Ghost Bear
In a dream, bringing an important message.
“You must leave wigwam and village,
before the sun rises again.”
“This must be my time, ” thought
Ghost Bear, “My time to die.
I am glad. It is a good time
to leave this world.”
And so, taking only his knife and
His Medicine Bag, Ghost Bear pushed
His canoe out into the river while
All the village slept.
“I will go west on the Great River, ”
Thought Ghost Bear to himself, “Then,
When it is my time to go, I will be
pointed in the right direction.”
All morning long, Ghost Bear paddled
Westward on the Great River, and when
Sun was directly above him, he saw
A raven flying high above.
“I am going true, ” he thought, “Raven
Has sent me an unmistakeable sign.”
And Ghost Bear kept paddling with
Neither food nor drink.
As day became night, Ghost Bear
Continued on, for the full moon was bright
And showed him the right path on the
Great River clearly, brightly.
poem by John Bliven Morin
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Lines on A Canadian Hunter
Of Kentucky's great hunter bold,
Old Daniel Boon, oft tales are told ;
Of wild beasts he had no fear,
But dangers loved, that pioneer.
Canada hath hunters many,
Yet perhaps there is not any
For skill and boldness can compare
With our own Daniel Hebner.
In youth he was both tall and strong,
And supple as a willow thong ;
Hs never fled from savage bear,
Though bruin on hind legs would rear.
In hunting mink, or fox, or coon,
He was a second Daniel Boon ;
His rifle oft brought down the deer,
Which to his table brought good cheer.
But through his life his highest aim
Was to kill the savage game,
To track the wild cat to its lair
And see its eyes so fiercely glare.
But he oft longs for a cut ham,
Sweet as from bear near to Putnam,
For he waged his fiercest war
In big swamp of Dorchester.
Now, in the winter, Dan he rides
Warm 'mong his bear and coon skin hides.
He lets the younger men now snare
The beaver, muskrat and ottar.
poem by James McIntyre
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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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Protect The Polar Bears
Exxon Mobile, Chevron,
BP and Shell,
join together to make
Polar Bear Wildlife
a living hell.
The plan to strike,
not with a knife,
But with oil drilling,
Which starts spilling
Over The Polar Bear Wild
Preserve,
'have you heard? '
Please donate to
The Polar Bear Protection Fund,
Center for Biological Diversity
work has begun,
We need to fight to protect
The Polar Bear’s right,
To have a home on Earth,
To live and give birth.
Please visit www.biologicaldiversity.org
Don’t be like Star Trek’s borg.
Written on March 8,2011 by Christina Sunrise
www.puppetpoems.com/planetpoems
poem by Suzae Chevalier
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Protect The Polar Bears
Exxon Mobile, Chevron,
BP and Shell,
join together to make
Polar Bear Wildlife
a living hell.
The plan to strike,
not with a knife,
But with oil drilling,
Which starts spilling
Over The Polar Bear Wild
Preserve,
'have you heard? '
Please donate to
The Polar Bear Protection Fund,
Center for Biological Diversity
work has begun,
We need to fight to protect
The Polar Bear’s right,
To have a home on Earth,
To live and give birth.
Please visit www.biologicaldiversity.org
Don’t be like Star Trek’s borg.
Written on March 8,2011 by Christina Sunrise
www.puppetpoems.com/planetpoems
poem by Christina Sunrise
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Only for you
I can bear any insult
I can bear any misdeed
I can bear any oppression
I can bear the wounds of love or
Those of hatred
I can bear everything
But only for you God
Only for you.
poem by Mohammad Akmal Nazir
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Charity Shop Bear
The bear in the charity shop looked so lost,
So I asked the lady there, how much he cost.
She told me three pounds and that was fine,
As bought new, he would’ve cost at least nine.
When I spotted him sitting there on the shelf,
I knew I just had to have him for myself.
I just couldn’t have left him sitting there,
As he really was the most gorgeous bear.
He had obviously been very well cared for.
He had light cream coloured velveteen paws.
His plush fur was the colour of milk chocolate.
Who knows what would have been his final fate?
He had fully jointed legs and arms,
And he radiated oodles of charm.
He also had a fully jointed head.
He really was a very special Ted.
His fur wasn’t matted and was really very soft.
I picked him from the shelf and held him aloft.
He was about sixteen inches tall in height,
And his brown beady eyes shone bright.
He was in absolutely immaculate condition.
To give him a brand new home, was my mission.
He was an extraordinary bear, who was like no other,
And now he was very happy, as he had a new mother.
The lady put him in a bag, feet first, so as he could ‘breathe.’
That a teddy bear is alive, I think we like to secretly believe.
And so, together, we began our journey to his new home,
With a promise from me, that no more would he ever roam.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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Ondine
Ondine
You won
All she left behind was an unloaded gun
And my face
Is blushing
For all the things she's done
You couldn't miss that girl
'Cause here she comes
Ondine
Back up
Run over my body with your pickup truck
And finish
What you started
Because I'm done
I searched the whole room over
To find these words
She said
I had the strangest dream
I dreamed I killed you again
Don't make me kill you again
'Cause I couldn't bear to kill you again
Ondine
Was here
You couldn't even take away a souvenir
Of what's left
Of that swinger
She used to call me that
I searched the whole room over
To find these words
She said
I had the strangest dream
I dreamed I killed you again
Don't make me kill you again
'Cause I couldn't bear to kill you
I had the strangest dream
I dreamed I killed you again
Don't make me kill you again
'Cause I couldn't bear to kill you again
song performed by by They Might Be Giants
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Bear Family
Wunst, 'way West in Illinoise,
Wuz two Bears an' their two boys:
An' the two boys' names, you know,
Wuz--like _ours_ is,--Jim an' Jo;
An' their _parunts'_ names wuz same's,
All big grown-up people's names,--
Ist _Miz_ Bear, the neighbers call
'Em, an' _Mister_ Bear--'at's all.
Yes--an' Miz Bear scold him, too,
Ist like grown folks _shouldn't_ do!
Wuz a grea'-big river there,
An', 'crosst that, 's a mountain where
Old Bear said some day he'd go,
Ef she don't quit scoldin'so!
So, one day when he been down
The river, fishin', 'most to town,
An' come back 'thout no fish a-tall,
An' Jim an' Jo they run an' bawl
An' tell their ma their pa hain't fetch'
No fish,--she scold again an' ketch
Her old broom up an' biff him, too.--
An' he ist cry, an' say, '_Boo-hoo_!
I _told_ you what I 'd do some day'.'
An' he ist turned an' runned away
To where's the grea'-big river there,
An' ist _splunged_ in an' swum to where
The mountain's at, 'way th'other side,
An' clumbed up there. An' Miz Bear _cried_--
An' little Jo an' little Jim--
Ist like their ma--bofe cried fer him!--
But he clumbed on, _clean out o' sight_,
He wuz so mad!--An' served 'em right!
Nen--when the Bear got 'way on top
The mountain, he heerd somepin' flop
Its wings--an' somepin' else he heerd
A-rattlin'-like.--An' he wuz _skeerd_,
An' looked 'way up, an'--_Mercy sake!_--
It wuz a' Eagul an' a SNAKE!
An'-sir! the Snake, he bite an' kill'
The Eagul, an' they bofe fall till
They strike the ground--_k'spang-k'spat!_--
Wite where the Bear wuz standin' at!
An' when here come the Snake at him,
The Bear he think o' little Jim
An' Jo, he did--an' their ma, too,--
All safe at home; an' he ist flew
Back down the mountain--an' could hear
The old Snake rattlin', sharp an' clear,
Wite clos't behind!--An' Bear he's so
All tired out, by time, you know,
He git down to the river there,
He know' he can't _swim_ back to where
His folks is at. But ist wite nen
He see a boat an' six big men
'At's been a-shootin' ducks: An' so
He skeerd them out the boat, you know,
An' ist jumped in--an' Snake _he_ tried
To jump in, too, but failed outside
Where all the water wuz; an' so
The Bear grabs one the things you row
The boat wiv an' ist whacks the head
Of the old Snake an' kills him dead!--
An' when he's killed him dead, w'y, nen
_The old Snake's drownded dead again_!
Nen Bear set in the boat an' bowed
His back an' rowed--an' rowed--an' rowed--
Till he's safe home--so tired he can't
Do nothin' but lay there an' pant
An' tell his childern, 'Bresh my coat!'
An' tell his wife, 'Go chain my boat!'
An' they're so glad he's back, they say
'They _knowed_ he's comin' thataway
To ist surprise the dear ones there!'
An' Jim an' Jo they dried his hair
An' pulled the burrs out; an' their ma
She ist set there an' helt his paw
Till he wuz sound asleep, an' nen
She tell' him she won't scold again--
Never--never--never--
Ferever an' ferever!
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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A Simile
What village but has sometimes seen
The clumsy shape, the frightful mien,
Tremendous claws, and shagged hair
Of that grim brute yclept a bear?
He from his dam the learn'd agree,
Received the curious form you see;
Who with her plastic tongue alone,
Produced a visage-like her own-
And thus they hint, in mystic fashion,
The powerful force of education.
Perhaps yon crowd of swains is viewing,
Even now, the strange exploits of Bruin,
Who plays his antics, roars aloud,
The wonder of a gaping crowd!
So have I known an awkward lad,
Whose birth has made a parish glad,
Forbid, for fear of sense, to roam,
And taught by kind mamma at home,
Who gives him many a well-tried rule,
With ways and means-to play the fool.
In sense the same, in stature higher,
He shines, ere long, a rural squire,
Pours forth unwitty jokes, and swears,
And bawls, and drinks, but chiefly stares:
His tenants of superior sense
Carouse, and laugh, at his expense,
And deem the pastime I'm relating
To be as pleasant as bear-baiting.
poem by William Shenstone
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Even Green Bears Like Anecdotes About Them
Which college student would turn down even
a few dollars? A notice goes, up, Dr. Wegner
wants some volunteers for half-an-hour, most,
in the Cognitive Research lab…
so when it’s my turn in the queue,
I go in and he says, now go in there
for fifteen minutes, only one instruction,
don’t think about a green bear…
so, money for old rope, with bear attached,
I go in there, check every few minutes that
I haven’t thought about some idiotic green bear…
come out, he’s sitting there with all his smug
students and assistants, looking just as if
I were some green bear, about to amuse them hugely…
so to shut their silly faces up, I don’t wait, but say,
if you’re going to ask me did I think about
that green bear no I didn’t once I checked
every few minutes to see if I’d thought about it no…
and they all laughed…ticked the boxes, wrote
in their don’t- I- love-my-Prof little notebooks with
their smug little smiles to each other…
now I go to sleep
thinking of feeding them one by one
to that green bear, wow they taste good…
I mean, who in their right mind
ever thinks of some green bear…
poem by Michael Shepherd
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I had to weave and play around with a honey bear, you know, and I could wrestle with him a little bit, but there's no way you can even wrestle a honey bear, let alone a grizzly bear that's standing ten feet to eleven feet tall! Can you imagine? But it was fascinating to work that close to that kind of animal.
quote by Leslie Nielsen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Nostomaniac
On the ragged edge of the world I'll roam,
And the home of the wolf shall be my home,
And a bunch of bones on the boundless snows
The end of my trail . . . who knows, who knows!
I'm dreaming to-night in the fire-glow, alone in my study tower,
My books battalioned around me, my Kipling flat on my knee;
But I'm not in the mood for reading, I haven't moved for an hour;
Body and brain I'm weary, weary the heart of me;
Weary of crushing a longing it's little I understand,
For I thought that my trail was ended, I thought I had earned my rest;
But oh, it's stronger than life is, the call of the hearthless land!
And I turn to the North in my trouble, as a child to the mother-breast.
Here in my den it's quiet; the sea-wind taps on the pane;
There's comfort and ease and plenty, the smile of the South is sweet.
All that a man might long for, fight for and seek in vain,
Pictures and books and music, pleasure my last retreat.
Peace! I thought I had gained it, I swore that my tale was told;
By my hair that is grey I swore it, by my eyes that are slow to see;
Yet what does it all avail me? to-night, to-night as of old,
Out of the dark I hear it -- the Northland calling to me.
And I'm daring a rampageous river that runs the devil knows where;
My hand is athrill on the paddle, the birch-bark bounds like a bird.
Hark to the rumble of rapids! Here in my morris chair
Eager and tense I'm straining -- isn't it most absurd?
Now in the churn and the lather, foam that hisses and stings,
Leap I, keyed for the struggle, fury and fume and roar;
Rocks are spitting like hell-cats -- Oh, it's a sport for kings,
Life on a twist of the paddle . . . there's my "Kim" on the floor.
How I thrill and I vision! Then my camp of a night;
Red and gold of the fire-glow, net afloat in the stream;
Scent of the pines and silence, little "pal" pipe alight,
Body a-purr with pleasure, sleep untroubled of dream:
Banquet of paystreak bacon! moment of joy divine,
When the bannock is hot and gluey, and the teapot's nearing the boil!
Never was wolf so hungry, stomach cleaving to spine. . . .
Ha! there's my servant calling, says that dinner will spoil.
What do I want with dinner? Can I eat any more?
Can I sleep as I used to? . . . Oh, I abhor this life!
Give me the Great Uncertain, the Barren Land for a floor,
The Milky Way for a roof-beam, splendour and space and strife:
Something to fight and die for -- the limpid Lake of the Bear,
The Empire of Empty Bellies, the dunes where the Dogribs dwell;
Big things, real things, live things . . . here on my morris chair
How I ache for the Northland! "Dinner and servants" -- Hell!!
Am I too old, I wonder? Can I take one trip more?
Go to the granite-ribbed valleys, flooded with sunset wine,
Peaks that pierce the aurora, rivers I must explore,
Lakes of a thousand islands, millioning hordes of the Pine?
Do they not miss me, I wonder, valley and peak and plain?
Whispering each to the other: "Many a moon has passed . . .
Where has he gone, our lover? Will he come back again?
Star with his fires our tundra, leave us his bones at last?"
Yes, I'll go back to the Northland, back to the way of the bear,
Back to the muskeg and mountain, back to the ice-leaguered sea.
Old am I! what does it matter? Nothing I would not dare;
Give me a trail to conquer -- Oh, it is "meat" to me!
I will go back to the Northland, feeble and blind and lame;
Sup with the sunny-eyed Husky, eat moose-nose with the Cree;
Play with the Yellow-knife bastards, boasting my blood and my name:
I will go back to the Northland, for the Northland is calling to me.
Then give to me paddle and whiplash, and give to me tumpline and gun;
Give to me salt and tobacco, flour and a gunny of tea;
Take me up over the Circle, under the flamboyant sun;
Turn me foot-loose like a savage -- that is the finish of me.
I know the trail I am seeking, it's up by the Lake of the Bear;
It's down by the Arctic Barrens, it's over to Hudson's Bay;
Maybe I'll get there, -- maybe: death is set by a hair. . . .
Hark! it's the Northland calling! now must I go away. . . .
Go to the Wild that waits for me;
Go where the moose and the musk-ox be;
Go to the wolf and the secret snows;
Go to my fate . . . who knows, who knows!
poem by Robert William Service
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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