The silver-fanged boar [Mistreţul cu colţi de argint]
A prince from the East who loved hunting with passion
through woods vast and gloomy was toiling ahead.
He crossed the green thickets in recklessly fashion
And playing a bone flute he merrily said:
- Come, folks, let's go hunting in forests forbidden
the silver-fanged boar, who is savage and sly,
and daily he changes, in hollow-trees hidden,
his hoof and his fur and his glittering eye...
- O, master, the servants with bugles were calling,
that fierce ugly boar to come here never dares.
Let's chase some big antlers, it's equal enthralling,
or red colored foxes, or small fearful hares...
The prince smiled undaunted neglecting the riot
and passed through the trees admiring their dyes,
but left in their shelter the deer frail and quiet
as well as the lynx, with its small glowing eyes.
And under the beech trees through bushes would wander,
Then stopped: - Lo, he's waiting for us, rest assured,
the silver-fanged boar, you can see him, it's yonder,
come quickly, let's hit him with arrows of wood!...
- O, master, it's only a creek that is steaming,
his servant replied as if tried to implore.
But turning around he said: - Hush! I'm not dreaming...
And that creek did flash like a fang of a boar.
Then runs under elm trees, his servants he rallies:
- Look there, how he grunts and scratches with zeal
the silver-fanged boar the slopes and the valleys:
come quickly, let's hit him with arrows of steel!...
- O, master, it's only the grass we are seeing,
his servant replied as if tried to implore.
But turning around he said: - Hush! I'm not dreaming...
And that meadow shone like a fang of a boar.
From under tall firs he would urge them unthreatened:
- Let's go to the ridge, where reposes our game,
this boar, silver-fanged, from the popular legend:
come quickly, let's hit him with arrows of flame!...
- O, master, it's only the moon, which is gleaming,
his servant replied as if tried to implore.
But turning around he said: - Hush! I'm not dreaming...
And moon gleamed above like a fang of a boar.
But woe! When the sky pallid stars was displaying
late at dusk at a spring he fell with a thud,
and a huge sharp-fanged boar dragged him, gracefully swaying,
through the dust which at once was reddened with blood.
- What's this strange ugly creature which tears me apart,
and stops me from hunting the boar in his den?
What black bird in the moonlight cries for me in its heart?
What dead leaf beats my face again and again?...
- O, master, the boar with his fangs bright as silver,
has caught you and, grunting, escapes through the brush.
The hounds bark and chase him, to corner him thither...
However, the prince turned around and said: - Hush!
Blow loudly the bugle, let all hear its whining,
Until I am dead to the sky send its song...
The moon crossed the ridges and quickly stopped shining
and sounded the bugle, but not for so long.
poem by Ştefan Augustin Doinaş, translated by Octavian Cocoş
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Related quotes
Two Found Poems in 'For Whom the Bell Tolls
'I believe
that I could walk up
to the mill and
knock on the door and
I would be welcome
except that they have orders
to challenge all travelers
and ask to see their papers.
It is only orders
that come between us.
Those men
are not fascists.
I call them so, but
they are not.
They are poor men,
as we are.'
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
'...he is finished
and as ended
as a boar
that has been altered.
...when the altering
has been accopmlished
and the squealing
is over
you cast
the two stones away
and the boar,
that is a boar no longer,
goes snounting
and rooting
up to them
and eats them.'
poem by Tom J. Mariani
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Silver Anniversary
There beyond the shrub
the sun medallions on the grass
around a python and boar,
the python winding.
Through binoculars I see
the python work so slow.
The boar now knows
what I learned long ago.
To go this way
takes years.
poem by Donal Mahoney
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The Death of Adonis
Cythera saw Adonis
And knew that he was dead;
She marked the brow, all grisly now,
The cheek no longer red;
And 'Bring the boar before me'
Unto her Loves she said.
Forthwith her winged attendants
Ranged all the woodland o'er,
And found and bound in fetters
Threefold the grisly boar:
One dragged him at a rope's end
E'en as a vanquished foe;
One went behind and drave him
And smote him with his bow:
On paced the creature feebly;
He feared Cythera so.
To him said Aphrodite:
'So, worst of beasts, 'twas you
Who rent that thigh asunder,
Who him that loved me slew?'
And thus the beast made answer:
'Cythera, hear me swear
By thee, by him that loved thee,
And by these bonds I wear,
And them before whose hounds I ran-
I meant no mischief to the man
Who seemed to thee so fair.
'As on a carven statue
Men gaze, I gazed on him;
I seemed on fire with mad desire
To kiss that offered limb:
My ruin, Aphrodite,
Thus followed from my whim.
'Now therefore take and punish
And fairly cut away
These all unruly tusks of mine;
For to what end serve they?
And if thine indignation
Be not content with this,
Cut off the mouth that ventured
To offer him a kiss'-
But Aphrodite pitied
And bade them loose his chain.
The boar from that day forward
Still followed in her train;
Nor ever to the wildwood
Attempted to return,
But in the focus of Desire
Preferred to burn and burn.
poem by Theocritus
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He Mourns For The Change That Has Come Upon Him And His Beloved, And Longs For The End Of The World
DO you not hear me calling, white deer with no horns?
I have been changed to a hound with one red ear;
I have been in the Path of Stones and the Wood of Thorns,
For somebody hid hatred and hope and desire and fear
Under my feet that they follow you night and day.
A man with a hazel wand came without sound;
He changed me suddenly; I was looking another way;
And now my calling is but the calling of a hound;
And Time and Birth and Change are hurrying by.
I would that the Boar without bristles had come from the West
And had rooted the sun and moon and stars out of the sky
And lay in the darkness, grunting, and turning to his rest.
poem by William Butler Yeats
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The Stars Go Over The Lonely Ocean
Unhappy about some far off things
That are not my affair, wandering
Along the coast and up the lean ridges,
I saw in the evening
The stars go over the lonely ocean,
And a black-maned wild boar
Plowing with his snout on Mal Paso Mountain.
The old monster snuffled, "Here are sweet roots,
Fat grubs, slick beetles and sprouted acorns.
The best nation in Europe has fallen,
And that is Finland,
But the stars go over the lonely ocean,"
The old black-bristled boar,
Tearing the sod on Mal Paso Mountain.
"The world's in a bad way, my man,
And bound to be worse before it mends;
Better lie up in the mountain here
Four or five centuries,
While the stars go over the lonely ocean,"
Said the old father of wild pigs,
Plowing the fallow on Mal Paso Mountain.
"Keep clear of the dupes that talk democracy
And the dogs that talk revolution,
Drunk with talk, liars and believers.
I believe in my tusks.
Long live freedom and damn the ideologies,"
Said the gamey black-maned boar
Tusking the turf on Mal Paso Mountain.
Submitted by Holt
poem by Robinson Jeffers
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The Little Boy And The Father
the little boy cannot understand
why papa is not buying him toys,
when he grows up
he will ask his papa where did he really come from
was it from the slit of the giant bamboo?
he will not cry
he had knows suffering since then
soon he will doubt what fathers are
whether his papa comes from the womb of a boar
because he had been so cruel
time fills the gaps
assures that the wrongs are forgivable
a man rises from the head of the little boy
all questions are wilted flowers for soon he shall start his own
journey with another woman
to his mind he will never be like that man from the womb of the boar
and he will have his own images, his children and kin
the cycle repeats itself
there will be little boys who will doubt where their papas come from
and they will utter the word boars in their hearts
and papas die and memories crawl like vines looking for water
and the world shall weep and soon shall be keen observing
what silence had been
what screams are
whose faces are scarred
whose limbs survive
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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How Mild Fall Is
How mild the fall is?
I followed a track between tall, pale green cactuses, in this harsh landscape
where even the smallest plant has thorns, where bark and leaves, of even
regular trees, like carob and olive, are tough and will not softens to human
touch. Yet this is a landscape that once was tilled and now abandoned, does
this landscape’s common soul feels rancorous of being left to fend for itself?
I found a ruin. More than a ruin, a pile of stones only its outline told me that
once this had been a home where children had been born, lived and died
for generations, till someone said: enough! And left for pastures green, (most
likely USA or Canada,) poverty is only romantic in movies. Half of November
gone, I’m walking about in shirt sleeves the ground is rock hard and dusty,
the local paper tells us that 14 years ago the weather was mild too till January,
then it snowed and it was cold till May. Feel I’m being watched in the bushes
I see a boar watching me it is a wily old boar it sees I carry no gun, yet keeps
its distance; and high above me circles eagles; the landscape is teaming with
rabbits which used to be food for the people, who lived in the ruin (when
they could snare one) now business men, who have paid for a license to kill,
come here to unwind. To kill seems to satisfy a base desire in mankind; yet, it
is better a rabbit is scarified, then to see a dead Afghan child with eyes that
reflect the grey mountains, poppy fields and the blue unfeeling sky.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Idyll XXX
When Cypris saw Adonis,
In death already lying
With all his locks dishevelled,
And cheeks turned wan and ghastly,
She bade the Loves attendant
To bring the boar before her.
And lo, the winged ones, fleetly
They scoured through all the wild wood;
The wretched boar they tracked him,
And bound and doubly bound him.
One fixed on him a halter,
And dragged him on, a captive,
Another drave him onward,
And smote him with his arrows.
But terror-struck the beast came,
For much he feared Cythere.
To him spake Aphrodite, -
'Of wild beasts all the vilest,
This thigh, by thee was 't wounded?
Was 't thou that smote my lover?'
To her the beast made answer -
'I swear to thee, Cythere,
By thee, and by thy lover,
Yea, and by these my fetters,
And them that do pursue me, -
Thy lord, thy lovely lover
I never willed to wound him;
I saw him, like a statue,
And could not bide the burning,
Nay, for his thigh was naked,
And mad was I to kiss it,
And thus my tusk it harmed him.
Take these my tusks, O Cypris,
And break them, and chastise them,
For wherefore should I wear them,
These passionate defences?
If this doth not suffice thee,
Then cut my lips out also,
Why dared they try to kiss him?'
Then Cypris had compassion;
She bade the Loves attendant
To loose the bonds that bound him.
From that day her he follows,
And flees not to the wild wood
But joins the Loves, and always
He bears Love's flame unflinching.
poem by Theocritus
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Master
Master went a-hunting,
When the leaves were falling;
We saw him on the bridle path,
We heard him gaily calling.
'Oh master, master, come you back,
For I have dreamed a dream so black!'
A glint of steel from bit and heel,
The chestnut cantered faster;
A red flash seen amid the green,
And so good-bye to master.
Master came from hunting,
Two silent comrades bore him;
His eyes were dim, his face was white,
The mare was led before him.
'Oh, master, master, is it thus
That you have come again to us?'
I held my lady's ice-cold hand,
They bore the hurdle past her;
Why should they go so soft and slow?
It matters not to master.
poem by Arthur Conan Doyle
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September Snakes
September Snake, so sluggish, so sad,
Is this the best summer you ever had?
Slithering and biting and “Fanging around“,
Sneaking up on folks with narry a sound.
You go to your hideout to catch a few ZZZZs
Or hang by your tail from the leaf-barren trees
And no one will bother you, no one comes near,
Not wild boar nor possum nor rabbit nor deer.
And if in your dreams you once think of me,
I hope you’ll remember that I set you free,
And if in the spring when your venom is strong
If you see me I know you won’t do me wrong.
‘Cause September Snake, I’ll be rested too
Just waiting for the chance to meet up with you,
And I’ll take off your tail with my shovel and rake,
And have you for breakfast, either fried or baked!
poem by Mbongo Zoobistatoo
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Noh care how boar hog try fi hide under sheep wool, 'im grunt always betray 'im.
Too Much
As a slave observes his master and so grows
Familiar in his ways (though still in fee)
I have studied Love to bend his blows
Hoping, eventually, to be free:
Meet his every visit with reproaches
When he calls you quickly, quickly tarry
Never seek him, wait till he approaches
Leaving banks where he is known to dally.
Learn to become the Master's master
Master cast as servant of the servant's
Remember Love evaporates the faster
Proportionate to how you offer urgence.
But if you're sick of peace and sanity
Feel free to disregard this monody.
poem by Morgan Michaels
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When the cuckoo sings, the wild boar loses its old coat, and the hen lays an egg without a false nest. And the ram's horns round out - he looks like a general.
The Adventure Of A Timid Man
The Adventure of a Timid Man.
The narrow dirt road I followed today was nothing more than a bumpy track,
on both sides ugly trees and thorny, evergreen bushes I was trapped in
the wilderness of enraged nature. Sun and deep shadows, god knows what
lurked in them. Prickly silence, the noise of the scooter unnerved me,
switched off the clamour; opaque calm. As a child when we played cowboys
and Indians I was forever the redskin; trust me to side with losers.
Tractor tracks which meant the road was leading somewhere. I heard grunts
in the bushes maybe it was a boar and if it charged I had no defense, not even
a folding knife. Whistled a Dixie tune, spoke loudly, the echo of my fear ran
up and down the road. I drove on ignoring the imps that grabbed at my shirt
trying to hold me back. And there I saw it the asphalted main road, now I had
nothing to fear but cars and crazy drivers.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The loss is sound
I hunted a hare and missed a boar.
The miss stands in the mind.
I conquered maids but lost the queen.
The loss rings in the heart.
25.03.2011.
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Christmas Eve
Oh, hush thee, little Dear-my-Soul,
The evening shades are falling,--
Hush thee, my dear, dost thou not hear
The voice of the Master calling?
Deep lies the snow upon the earth,
But all the sky is ringing
With joyous song, and all night long
The stars shall dance, with singing.
Oh, hush thee, little Dear-my-Soul,
And close thine eyes in dreaming,
And angels fair shall lead thee where
The singing stars are beaming.
A shepherd calls his little lambs,
And he longeth to caress them;
He bids them rest upon his breast,
That his tender love may bless them.
So, hush thee, little Dear-my-Soul,
Whilst evening shades are falling,
And above the song of the heavenly throng
Thou shalt hear the Master calling.
poem by Eugene Field
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On A Picture Painted By Her Self, Representing Two Nimphs Of Diana's, One In A Posture To Hunt, The Other Batheing
We are Diana's Virgin-Train,
Descended of no Mortal Strain;
Our Bows and Arrows are our Goods,
Our Pallaces, the lofty Woods,
The Hills and Dales, at early Morn,
Resound and Eccho with our Horn;
We chase the Hinde and Fallow-Deer,
The Wolf and Boar both dread our Spear;
In Swiftness we out-strip the Wind,
An Eye and Thought we leave behind;
We Fawns and Shaggy Satyrs awe;
To Sylvan Pow'rs we give the Law:
Whatever does provoke our Hate,
Our Javelins strike, as sure as Fate;
We Bathe in Springs, to cleanse the Soil,
Contracted by our eager Toil;
In which we shine like glittering Beams,
Or Christal in the Christal Streams;
Though Venus we transcend in Form,
No wanton Flames our Bosomes warm!
If you ask where such Wights do dwell,
In what Bless't Clime, that so excel?
The Poets onely that can tell.
poem by Anne Killigrew
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Compound 7
I seek with a want,
For a one or a five in my life.
To share my interests,
And my adventure that excites...
The igniting of the fire,
I have ascending on my horizon.
A sheep, a rabbit or a boar,
Would fit just right.
A sixteen I am.
A compund 7.
To be with a one or a five,
Would for me be very nice.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Moon Song
A child saw in the morning skies
The dissipated-looking moon,
And opened wide her big blue eyes,
And cried: "Look, look, my lost balloon!"
And clapped her rosy hands with glee:
"Quick, mother! Bring it back to me."
A poet in a lilied pond
Espied the moon's reflected charms,
And ravished by that beauty blonde,
Leapt out to clasp her in his arms.
And as he'd never learnt to swim,
Poor fool! that was the end of him.
A rustic glimpsed amid the trees
The bluff moon caught as in a snare.
"They say it do be made of cheese,"
Said Giles, "and that a chap bides there. . . .
That Blue Boar ale be strong, I vow --
The lad's a-winkin' at me now."
Two lovers watched the new moon hold
The old moon in her bright embrace.
Said she: "There's mother, pale and old,
And drawing near her resting place."
Said he: "Be mine, and with me wed,"
Moon-high she stared . . . she shook her head.
A soldier saw with dying eyes
The bleared moon like a ball of blood,
And thought of how in other skies,
So pearly bright on leaf and bud
Like peace its soft white beams had lain;
Like Peace! . . . He closed his eyes again.
Child, lover, poet, soldier, clown,
Ah yes, old Moon, what things you've seen!
I marvel now, as you look down,
How can your face be so serene?
And tranquil still you'll make your round,
Old Moon, when we are underground.
poem by Robert William Service
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Mount Edgcumbe
Here the descendants of Bosworth Field
built their Eden from forest, bracken, heath;
bred partridge, pheasant, boar and deer,
then cast their shadow of darkening fear,
stretched out their hands
and filled their woods with death.
Built Tudor house and Tudor fort,
enclosed the land with Tudor thought.
Four hundred years from that to this
carefully constructed wilderness.
No man-traps now to stumble on,
the deer remain, the boars are long since gone.
The Tudor rides are proletarian walks
where we can wander where the next road forks,
through oak and elm and beech and ash,
through hyacinths and primulas,
daffodils and camellias.
Down to where Lady Emma’s Cottage
slumbers in quiet decay.
But as for Lady Emma,
she has “left and gone away”.
poem by Brian Taylor
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