Quotes about horned, page 4
Western Intervention
Signs silhouette blatant brutality
poke one within discerning eye.
When reprieved policy
condemns status quo.
Turning each blind eye.
Signs symptomatic beat brutality
suddenly create howls hooting protest.
Convenient bleating blames
leader rather redeeming leaping lead.
Logic seldom synoptic remarks.
Where ends group responsibility?
Where ignition individuality commences?
Where each flippant ominous individual
bids votes obliging oppressive power?
Dictates gain platform party support.
Elective horned move in.
Putting gored clinical end.
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poem by Terence George Craddock
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A Presentiment
'Oh father, let us hence--for hark,
A fearful murmur shakes the air.
The clouds are coming swift and dark:--
What horrid shapes they wear!
A winged giant sails the sky;
Oh father, father, let us fly!'
'Hush, child; it is a grateful sound,
That beating of the summer shower;
Here, where the boughs hang close around,
We'll pass a pleasant hour,
Till the fresh wind, that brings the rain,
Has swept the broad heaven clear again.'
'Nay, father, let us haste--for see,
That horrid thing with horned brow,--
His wings o'erhang this very tree,
He scowls upon us now;
His huge black arm is lifted high;
Oh father, father, let us fly!'
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poem by William Cullen Bryant
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Paarvathi
Just a wink she came there in silence
Fair milky like heavenly Kailas
A day it was in heavenly trance
She met me with her godly stance
Something horned it was a divine answer
Long after butting against weighty prayer
Mooed my heart a mirthful whisper
That days ahead sure I'm to butter
Paarvathi came to cream my life
Very often indeed to free from strife
I graced her with 'pottu' of hindu- belief
Helped her hunger with bananas and relief
Graceful she frequented her visit
Godly she was, prayers I did repeat
Still to be she gave her last visit
On a day for long to sit and wait
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poem by Indira Renganathan
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The Stockman's Last Bed
Be ye stockmen or no, to my story give ear.
Alas! for poor Jack, no more shall we hear
The crack of his stockwhip, his steed's lively trot,
His clear "Go ahead, boys," his jingling quart pot.
For we laid him where wattles their sweet fragrance shed,
And the tall gum trees shadow the stockman's last bed.
Whilst drafting one day he was horned by a cow.
"Alas!" cried poor Jack, "it's all up with me now,
For I never again shall my saddle regain,
Nor bound like a wallaby over the plain."
His whip it is silent, his dogs they do mourn,
His steed looks in vain for his master's return;
No friend to bemoan him, unheeded he dies;
Save Australia's dark sons, few know where he lies.
Now, stockman, if ever on some future day
After the wild mob you happen to stray,
Tread softly where wattles their sweet fragrance spread,
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poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Old Man Platypus
Far from the trouble and toil of town,
Where the reed beds sweep and shiver,
Look at a fragment of velvet brown,
Old Man Platypus drifting down,
Drifting along the river.
And he plays and dives in the river bends
In a style that is most elusive;
With few relations and fewer friends,
For Old Man Platypus descends
From a family most exclusive.
He shares his burrow beneath the bank
With his wife and his son and daughter
At the roots of the reeds and the grasses rank;
And the bubbles show where our hero sank
To its entrance under water.
Safe in their burrow below the falls
They live in a world of wonder,
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poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Burning Off
They're burning off at the Rampadells,
The tawny flames uprise,
With greedy licking around the trees;
The fierce breath sears our eyes.
From cores already grown furnace-hot -
The logs are well alight!
We fling more wood where the flameless heart
Is throbbing red and white.
The fire bites deep in that beating heart,
The creamy smoke-wreaths ooze
From cracks and knot-holes along the trunk
To melt in greys and blues.
The young horned moon has gone from the sky,
And night has settled down;
A red glare shows from the Rampadells,
Grim as a burning town.
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poem by Dorothea Mackeller
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When Autumn Begins
When Autumn Begins
20 hundred hours…is that nautical enough for you? Evening sky was marvelous,
I should have been a painter my anemic words cannot justify the awe the world
still can offer us who are not blind. Blaring horns, the road back home is narrow
and impatient drivers wanted to pass I pulled over and a driver shouted: “fools
like you should be banished from driving. “ Guess he was right. It was darkening
quickly big juicy drops hit asphalt drummed on the roof and hollered: “save us
take us home we don’t want fall on a useless road, we’ll water your rose bushes,
the thorny ones that cut your arms when you try to prune them, we can promise
a dew fresh rose for you lapel.” Right! Like I should be a city gent, I haven’t got
a suit, so there. Afar a fog horned blared melancholically, once I was a seafarer
but the roses I met in harbour bars, had only vulgar beauty to offer. At home rain
fell on old tiles, I made a whisky mixed with rose dew and thought of lost love.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Stockman
A bright sun and a loosened rein,
A whip whose pealing sound
Rings forth amid the forest trees
As merrily forth we bound
As merrily forth we bound, my boys,
And, by the dawn's pale light,
Speed fearless on our horses true
From morn till starry night.
"Oh! for a tame and quiet herd,"
I hear some crawler cry;
But give to me the mountain mob
With the flash of their tameless eye
With the flash of their tameless eye, my boys,
As down the rugged spur
Dash the wild children of the woods,
And the horse that mocks at fear.
There's mischief in you wide-horned steer,
There's danger in you cow;
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poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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After Drafting
NIGHT has fallen, night and darkness,
Night with star and planet splendid;
And the earth lies like a giant
Wrapt in sleep, with limbs extended.
Rest has stolen on the homestead,
On the long day's rush and riot,
And no sound of horse or rider
Breaks the soft and dewy quiet.
Yet, like heart-cries
After battle,
Comes the calling, ceaseless calling,
Of the dun and dappled cattle.
Sleep is sweet, and sweet is silence,
When the long day's work is over,
For the toiler and the moiler,
And the rider and the rover.
Not a breeze abroad at night-time
Sets the barley-grass aquiver,
And from dewfall on to sunrise
Sleeps the curlew by the river.
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poem by Roderic Quinn
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His Shield
The pin-swin or spine-swine
(the edgehog miscalled hedgehog) with all his edges out,
echidna and echinoderm in distressed-
pin-cushion thorn-fur coats, the spiny pig or porcupine,
the rhino with horned snout–
everything is battle-dressed.
Pig-fur won’t do, I’ll wrap
myself in salamander-skin like Presbyter John.
A lizard in the midst of flames, a firebrand
that is life, asbestos-eyed asbestos-eared, with tattooed nap
and permanent pig on
the instep; he can withstand
fire and won’t drown. In his
unconquerable country of unpompous gusto,
gold was so common none considered it; greed
and flattery were unknown. Though rubies large as tennis-
balls conjoined in streams so
that the mountain seemed to bleed,
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poem by Marianne Moore
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