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Telling Our Stories

the fox came every evening to my door
asking for nothing. my fear
trapped me inside, hoping to dismiss her
but she sat till morning, waiting.

at dawn we would, each of us,
rise frm our haunches, look through the glass
then walk away.

did she gather her village around her
and sing of the hairless moon face,
the trembling snout, the ignorant eyes?

child, i tell you now it was not
the animal blood i was hiding from,
it was the poet in her, the poet and
the terrible stories she could tell.

poem by Lucille Clifton
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The Poor Man's Pig

Already fallen plum-bloom stars the green
And apple-boughs as knarred as old toads' backs
Wear their small roses ere a rose is seen;
The building thrush watches old Job who stacks
The bright-peeled osiers on the sunny fence,
The pent sow grunts to hear him stumping by,
And tries to push the bolt and scamper thence,
But her ringed snout still keeps her to the sty.

Then out he lets her run; away she snorts
In bundling gallop for the cottage door,
With hungry hubbub begging crusts and orts,
Then like the whirlwind bumping round once more;
Nuzzling the dog, making the pullets run,
And sulky as a child when her play's done.

poem by Edmund Blunden
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Useless!

Born I was all alone, and so I will die
Now I've done away with my dispel,
Never knew what was the motive to cry,
My being here today barely just to ply.

Seems that all to me; seldom it will be
The one in my dream i dreamt of; just smudge!
Going down fathoms below the sea.....
And know i nothing here in lies the grudge.

When just innocence dripped down me;
Their coarse, faulty, snout as it were made a grimace,
And after all of it were gone to leave;
Then innocence flourished on their face.

Come on now my serenity wake up!
Into this useless stuff I am caught in,
Whatever I do, it is hard to stop,
Let my fate have a sound new beginning! ...

poem by Tauheed Ashraf
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Sonnet: Is Man Worse Than Beasts

With poise and elegance, the cat sits long,
Eyeing the hole from which the rat comes out;
Though hours have passed and clock has said, ‘ding-dong, ’
The cat stays on unstirred, with tired snout.

With what deft moves, the lion hunts its prey,
By crouching long, amidst the tall Grasses!
What patience marks the mighty lions! Say,
’Twill chase the deer like wind across passes.

But man has learned this art better than beasts;
Without mercy, he can destroy his foes;
And o’er this victory, he sings and feasts;
Revenge brings man more foes and earthly-woes.

But beasts must hunt their food each day to live;
And man need not to beastly moods vent give.

poem by John Celes
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The Dictators

An odor has remained among the sugarcane:
a mixture of blood and body, a penetrating
petal that brings nausea.
Between the coconut palms the graves are full
of ruined bones, of speechless death-rattles.
The delicate dictator is talking
with top hats, gold braid, and collars.
The tiny palace gleams like a watch
and the rapid laughs with gloves on
cross the corridors at times
and join the dead voices
and the blue mouths freshly buried.
The weeping cannot be seen, like a plant
whose seeds fall endlessly on the earth,
whose large blind leaves grow even without light.
Hatred has grown scale on scale,
blow on blow, in the ghastly water of the swamp,
with a snout full of ooze and silence

poem by Pablo Neruda
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White Currants

Shall I give you white currants?
I do not know why, but I have a sudden fancy for this fruit.
At the moment, the idea of them cherishes my senses,
And they seem more desirable than flawless emeralds.
Since I am, in fact, empty-handed,
I might have chosen gems out of India,
But I choose white currants.
Is it because the raucous wind is hurtling round the house-corners?
I see it with curled lips and stripped fangs, gaunt and haunting energy,
Come to snout, and nibble, and kill the little crocus roots.
Shall we call it white currants?
You may consider it as a symbol if you pelase.
You may find them tart, or sweet, or merely agreeable in colour,
So long as you accept them,
And me.

poem by Amy Lowell
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Dear Old Jeeves

Glandular fever had made me skinny and pale
The sofa held my feeble form
Oh Jeeves, how you hopefully waggled your tale
Resting chin on my 'blankie', all tatty and worn.

Persistently nuzzling your slobbering snout
And whimpering gently your worry
As to why I had failed to get up and about
(My white cells seemed to be in no particular hurry)

Throughout those long days of my childhood disease
As I fought with my mal altered self.
You stayed by my side, wanting only to please
Waiting patiently for the return of my health

Then as I improved, and the illness subsided
You laid on your side for some rest
You welcomed my head as on your belly it resided
Grateful me in my oversized knickers and vest.

poem by Stevie Taite
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Miss Piggy regrets..

Miss Piggy regrets she’s unable to lunch today, madam..
Miss Piggy regrets she’s unable to lunch today:
That tastelessly named flu’s got her
(She forgot to wash her front trotter…) so
Miss Piggy regrets she’s unable to lunch today..

Miss Piggy regrets she’s unable to lunch today, madam..
Miss Piggy regrets she’s unable to lunch today:
It’s a swine of a stroke of bad luck:
Her eyelashes, she sneezed them unstuck… so
Miss Piggy regrets she’s unable to lunch today…

Miss Piggy regrets she’s unable to lunch today, madam..
Miss Piggy regrets she’s unable to lunch today:
She’s all pink from her snout to her face;
Her mascara’s all over the place… so
Miss Piggy regrets she’s unable to lunch today..

Why not try the lamb today, madam…?

poem by Michael Shepherd
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Chipmunks Confusion

Chipmunk
Tail held high
Sprints across the street
On the fly -
To get to the other side
His only goal
There to dive
In another hole -
But wait,
Half way across
His small attention span
Gets lost -
The aroma of an acorn
Lingers upon the center line
With just one sweet sniff
He knows what he must find -
Turning
With the street
Several cars
He does meet -

[...] Read more

poem by Smoky Hoss
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Benjamin Bandicoot

If you walk in the bush at night,
In the wonderful silence deep,
By the flickering lantern light
When the birds are all asleep
You may catch a sight of old Skinny-go-root,
Otherwise Benjamin Bandicoot.

With a snout that can delve and dig,
With claws that are strong as steel,
He roots like a pigmy pig
To get his evening meal,
For creeping creatures and worms and roots
Are highly relished by bandicoots.

Under the grass and the fern
He fashions his beaten track
With many a twist and turn
That wanders and doubles back,
And dogs that think they are most astute
Are baffled by Benjamin Bandicoot.

[...] Read more

poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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