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The Tale of the Tiger-Tree

A Fantasy, dedicated to the little poet Alice Oliver Henderson, ten years old.

The Fantasy shows how tiger-hearts are the cause of war in all ages. It shows how the mammoth forces may be either friends or enemies of the struggle for peace. It shows how the dream of peace is unconquerable and eternal.

I

Peace-of-the-Hea rt, my own for long,
Whose shining hair the May-winds fan,
Making it tangled as they can,
A mystery still, star-shining yet,
Through ancient ages known to me
And now once more reborn with me: —

This is the tale of the Tiger Tree
A hundred times the height of a man,
Lord of the race since the world began.

This is my city Springfield,
My home on the breast of the plain.

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poem by Vachel Lindsay
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Mammoth Are The Bubbles

Mammoth are the bubbles,
In which they live.
None are squeaky-clean.
Or could pass a health inspection test.
It's the image that is protected.
A visual left to digest.
A way a life delusions have tested.
And left undetected as one to suspect.

Humongous are their issues.
Excused but viewed as tremendous.
Overexposed are they but don't know it.
The extent of it has been ignored.
And wishes they should be received...
In grand receptions,
Based upon a greatness they have let sour.
Has pomped and circumstanced them into bankruptcy!
And truths like these are difficult to camouflage.

Mammoth are the bubbles.

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Story Of Ung

Once, on a glittering ice-field, ages and ages ago,
Ung, a maker of pictures, fashioned an image of snow.
Fashioned the form of a tribesman -- gaily he whistled and sung,
Working the snow with his fingers. ~Read ye the Story of Ung!~

Pleased was his tribe with that image -- came in their hundreds to scan --
Handled it, smelt it, and grunted: "Verily, this is a man!
Thus do we carry our lances -- thus is a war-belt slung.
Lo! it is even as we are. Glory and honour to Ung!"

Later he pictured an aurochs -- later he pictured a bear --
Pictured the sabre-tooth tiger dragging a man to his lair --
Pictured the mountainous mammoth, hairy, abhorrent, alone --
Out of the love that he bore them, scribing them clearly on bone.

Swift came the tribe to behold them, peering and pushing and still --
Men of the berg-battered beaches, men of the boulder-hatched hill --
Hunters and fishers and trappers, presently whispering low:
"Yea, they are like -- and it may be -- But how does the Picture-man know?"

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poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Death Is Death, Dissolution Of All

All over this mammoth Earth,
There is nothing like death;
All over this mammoth Earth,
Nothing escapes death
Except that strange death itself.

What is this death,
Perchance, death itself knows not;
Whence it springs,
Where are its wings,
Fancied none in these million years.

It’s the live black hole
In dance along the time’s scale;
Nothing escapes its rapacious field
And nothing ever breaks out of its shield,
Death is death, dissolution of all.

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poem by Praveen Kumar
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The Dorchester Giant

THERE was a giant in time of old,
A mighty one was he;
He had a wife, but she was a scold,
So he kept her shut in his mammoth fold;
And he had children three.

It happened to be an election day,
And the giants were choosing a king;
The people were not democrats then,
They did not talk of the rights of men,
And all that sort of thing.

Then the giant took his children three,
And fastened them in the pen;
The children roared; quoth the giant, "Be still!"
And Dorchester Heights and Milton Hill
Rolled back the sound again.

Then he brought them a pudding stuffed with plums,
As big as the State-House dome;

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poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Queen Mab in the Village

Once I loved a fairy,
Queen Mab it was. Her voice
Was like a little Fountain
That bids the birds rejoice.
Her face was wise and solemn,
Her hair was brown and fine.
Her dress was pansy velvet,
A butterfly design.

To see her hover round me
Or walk the hills of air,
Awakened love's deep pulses
And boyhood's first despair;
A passion like a sword-blade
That pierced me thro' and thro':
Her fingers healed the sorrow
Her whisper would renew.
We sighed and reigned and feasted
Within a hollow tree,
We vowed our love was boundless,

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poem by Vachel Lindsay
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The March

In early, prehistoric days, before the reign of Man,
When neolithic Nature fashioned things upon a plan
That was large as it was rugged, and, in truth, a trifle crude,
There arose a dusky human who was positively rude.

Now, this was in the days when lived the monster kangaroo;
When the mammoth bunyip gambolled in the hills of Beetaloo;
They'd owned the land for centuries, and reckoned it their own;
For might was right, and such a thing as 'law' was quite unknown.

But this dusky old reformer in the ages long ago,
One morning in the Eocene discovered how to 'throw';
He studied well and practised hard until he learned the art;
Then, having planned his Great Campaign, went forth to make a start.

'See here,' he said - and hurled a piece of tertiary rock,
That struck a Tory bunyip with a most unpleasant shock -
'See here, my name is Progress, and your methods are too slow,
This land that you are fooling with must be cut up. Now go!'

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Stones Flake to Sand

Stone flakes to sand, and mountains melt to mould,
as Time's transgressions fault lines day by day.
Nature's plans, tectonic placques enfold,
grind growth to grit as bit by bit they fray.

Each season’s growth, though loth, fails, tale soon told,
same story – morning glory - passing play.
Dictators fêted, mated stranglehold -
as swift their rise their fall, ball out of play.

Raging volcanoes age, old page stone cold.
Gone - lifeless echo – mighty mammoth's sway.
Alas what fossil still sends scented spray?
Ruined are idols piled, forgot, unsold.

Yet galaxies from dust clouds coalesced, -
add H²O and Time … Life’s lit_mus[t] test.

Yet hibernation's dreams strange themes may range,
encouragment when sleeper will away

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poem by Jonathan Robin
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For centuries, the mammoth buried in ice had been dreaming the heat of a museum.

aphorism by Fabrizio Caramagna from Dropper (Contagocce) (2009), translated by Dan Costinaş
Added by Dan Costinaş
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Vanity is as old as the mammoth.

quote by W.L. George
Added by Lucian Velea
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