Outdoor Tales & Poetry

Deep in the forest the squirrels are quiet,
Something is coming that squirrels don't like.
Humans with rifles are coming to shoot them,
Nuts to all that! *They will all run and hide.

Swimming against all the cold rushing waters,
Game fish will struggle as long as they can.
Sensible fish, though, show much more acumen,
Following water that's rushing on down.

Birds of the air and birds of the water
Share the bright feathers that dinosaurs wore.
Once long ago, before the great asteroid,
Birds would have sunk their teeth into our throats.

A little cloud, a little sky, a little wet, a little dry,
Another day as life goes on to find its own way.
 
bobs1415 said:
This is pretty heavy company, but I'm going to offer a work of mine.

Jefferson County, Kansas
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A fine match for the heavy company ...

This poem is evocative of midnight trips to the woodpile in winter here, as the stars are wheeling close to the horizon ... and you simply have to stop to listen. The connection is powerful.

Thank you
 
Esav Benyamin said:
A little cloud, a little sky, a little wet, a little dry,
Another day as life goes on to find its own way.
Click to expand...

I hope you know how much you enrich this community ...

Somehow it is always a surprise to me to find your verse in these pages, and always a delight too.
 
i missed the mist
got up too late
lingered over the breakfast plate
but when i left to walk outside
i found the morning dew had scarcely dried
and gleamed like scattered, precious gems
in the growing heat of the summer sun

-- EB
 
arcana

deep beneath the soothing dirt
of barren lands, the lizard sleeps
and far from green and noisy strands
his quiet, lonely vigil keeps

he knows the silence of the dust
and how the heat drives men to drink
and why the wind said that we must
and what the passing beetles think

so while we shuffle through the sand
arriving where we'd rather not
the lizard understands
the sun is hot

-- EB
 
In honor of the changing of the seasons ...


summer sometimes

briefly at the summers end
we follow sunshine on the water
follow memories and pretend
the days are really not much shorter

sometimes at the summers end
we remember summers past
and the life that we enjoyed
knowing that it cannot last much longer

tracing memories through the years
years of triumph years of fears
till success is who we've met
not what we've got

life is only where we've been
not what we dreamed

-- EB
 
This, though not strictly of the bush itself has a lot to do with the classic Aussie legend. It's a bit of a lark and I hope you enjoy.
"Bush Christening"
On the outer Barcoo where the churches are few,
And men of religion are scanty,
On a road never cross'd 'cept by folk that are lost,
One Michael Magee had a shanty.


Now this Mike was the dad of a ten-year-old lad,
Plump, healthy, and stoutly conditioned;
He was strong as the best, but poor Mike had no rest
For the youngster had never been christened,


And his wife used to cry, "If the darlin' should die
Saint Peter would not recognise him."
But by luck he survived till a preacher arrived,
Who agreed straightaway to baptise him.


Now the artful young rogue, while they held their collogue,
With his ear to the keyhole was listenin',
And he muttered in fright while his features turned white,
"What the divil and all is this christenin'?"


He was none of your dolts, he had seen them brand colts,
And it seemed to his small understanding,
If the man in the frock made him one of the flock,
It must mean something very like branding.


So away with a rush he set off for the bush,
While the tears in his eyelids they glistened-
"'Tis outrageous," says he, "to brand youngsters like me,
I'll be dashed if I'll stop to be christened!"


Like a young native dog he ran into a log,
And his father with language uncivil,
Never heeding the "praste" cried aloud in his haste,
"Come out and be christened, you divil!"


But he lay there as snug as a bug in a rug,
And his parents in vain might reprove him,
Till his reverence spoke (he was fond of a joke)
"I've a notion," says he, "that'll move him."


"Poke a stick up the log, give the spalpeen a prog;
Poke him aisy-don't hurt him or maim him,
'Tis not long that he'll stand, I've the water at hand,
As he rushes out this end I'll name him.


"Here he comes, and for shame! ye've forgotten the name-
Is it Patsy or Michael or Dinnis?"
Here the youngster ran out, and the priest gave a shout-
"Take your chance, anyhow, wid 'Maginnis'!"


As the howling young cub ran away to the scrub
Where he knew that pursuit would be risky,
The priest, as he fled, flung a flask at his head
That was labelled "Maginnis's Whisky!"


And Maginnis Magee has been made a J.P.,
And the one thing he hates more than sin is
To be asked by the folk who have heard of the joke,
How he came to be christened "Maginnis"!
The Bulletin, 16 December 1893. Banjo Paterson.
 
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Remember? Elementary school performances. :) Eager little ones all costumed in laundered burlap potato sacks tied with twine at the waist (staples in every kitchen of the time). Singing and dancing ... Land of the Silver Birch, My Paddle's Keen and Bright, of Hiawatha and Minnehaha.

Scouts and Guides ... camp, fireside, paddling


"Land of the Silver Birch" with lyrics based on a poem by Pauline Johnson, Tekahionwake.


"Land of the Silver Birch"

Land of the silver birch
Home of the beaver
Where still the mighty moose
Wanders at will

Blue lake and rocky shore
I will return once more
Boom diddy-ah da, boom diddy-ah da, boom diddy-ah da, eaa-aaa-aaa

High on a rocky ledge
I'll build my wigwam
Close to the water's edge
Silent and still

My heart grows sick for thee
Here in the low lands
I will return to thee
Hills of the north

Blue lake and rocky shore
I will return once more
Boom diddy-ah da, boom diddy-ah da, boom diddy-ah da, eaa-aaa-aaa

and ...


Written by Margaret Embers McGee (1889-1975) in 1918

"My Paddle's Keen and Bright"

My paddle's keen and bright
Flashing with silver
Follow the wild goose flight
Dip, dip and swingDip, dip and swing her back
Flashing with silver
Swift as the wild goose flies
Dip, dip and swing


and ...


Written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
http://www.hwlongfellow.org/poems_poem.php?pid=62

Excerpt:

The Song of Hiawatha 1855


Should you ask me, whence these stories?
Whence these legends and traditions,
With the odors of the forest
With the dew and damp of meadows,
With the curling smoke of wigwams,
With the rushing of great rivers,
With their frequent repetitions,
And their wild reverberations
As of thunder in the mountains?
I should answer, I should tell you,
"From the forests and the prairies,
From the great lakes of the Northland,
From the land of the Ojibways,
From the land of the Dacotahs,
From the mountains, moors, and fen-lands
Where the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,
Feeds among the reeds and rushes.


Thanks to Feuer686 for a thread so fun and absorbing ... and to those whose own words make it even more so. I revisit often to read these personal verses and every single one, with no exception, has been a great pleasure for me.

Susan
 
Longfellow borrowed the rhythm of The Song of Hiawatha from the Finnish epic Kalevala. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kalevala . Closer to Finland, the Russian poet Afanasy Fet also borrowed this old Finnish style for this poem.

(Courtesy of The Heritage of Russian Verse, edited by Dimitri Obolensky. Translation played with, by me,)

Ya prishol k tebe s privetom,
Rasskazat, shto solntse vstalo,
Shto ono goryachim svyetom
Po listam zatrepetalo.

I have come to you with greeting,
To say the sun has risen,
That its hot light
Through the leaves has quivered.

To say, that the forest wakened,
All has wakened, every branch,
Every bird has stirred,
Full of thirst for Spring.

To say, that with the same passion,
As yesterday, I have arrived again,
That my soul is also ready
To serve happiness and you.

To say, from everywhere
That joy comes to me,
That I don't know what I will
Sing -- only that a song is ripening.
 
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Most welcome. My thanks to you and everyone else who's put in to make this thread way better than I thought it could be. I've been considering putting in some of my own writings but I don't think they really stand well next to those already put up.
 
Feuer686 said:
Most welcome. My thanks to you and everyone else who's put in to make this thread way better than I thought it could be. I've been considering putting in some of my own writings but I don't think they really stand well next to those already put up.
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There is a fair amount of literary content on BF. Two or three word story threads. Jacknife's story telling. Sometimes just reading in every forum the responses from around the world, I can hear the accents, get the flavour, the humour. It's all writing and it's all put out there.

Poetry speaks of more luxury of time to me. Time to craft, time to absorb.

I am no judge but I meant what I said. I revisit often to read these personal verses and every single one, with no exception, has been a great pleasure for me.

Susan
 
Not to mention you have Esav playing with Russian translation ;)
 
Another great Banjo Patterson.

THE MAN FROM SNOWY RIVER by A.B. "Banjo" Paterson

There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around
That the colt from old Regret had got away,
And had joined the wild bush horses - he was worth a thousand pound,
So all the cracks had gathered to the fray.
All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far
Had mustered at the homestead overnight,
For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are,
And the stockhorse snuffs the battle with delight.


There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup,
The old man with his hair as white as snow;
But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly up -
He would go wherever horse and man could go.
And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand,
No better horseman ever held the reins;
For never horse could throw him while the saddle girths would stand,
He learnt to ride while droving on the plains.


And one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy beast,
He was something like a racehorse undersized,
With a touch of Timor pony - three parts thoroughbred at least -
And such as are by mountain horsemen prized.
He was hard and tough and wiry - just the sort that won't say die -
There was courage in his quick impatient tread;
And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye,
And the proud and lofty carriage of his head.


But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay,
And the old man said, "That horse will never do
For a long a tiring gallop - lad, you'd better stop away,
Those hills are far too rough for such as you."
So he waited sad and wistful - only Clancy stood his friend -
"I think we ought to let him come," he said;
"I warrant he'll be with us when he's wanted at the end,
For both his horse and he are mountain bred.


"He hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko's side,
Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough,
Where a horse's hoofs strike firelight from the flint stones every stride,
The man that holds his own is good enough.
And the Snowy River riders on the mountains make their home,
Where the river runs those giant hills between;
I have seen full many horsemen since I first commenced to roam,
But nowhere yet such horsemen have I seen."


So he went - they found the horses by the big mimosa clump -
They raced away towards the mountain's brow,
And the old man gave his orders, "Boys, go at them from the jump,
No use to try for fancy riding now.
And, Clancy, you must wheel them, try and wheel them to the right.
Ride boldly, lad, and never fear the spills,
For never yet was rider that could keep the mob in sight,
If once they gain the shelter of those hills."


So Clancy rode to wheel them - he was racing on the wing
Where the best and boldest riders take their place,
And he raced his stockhorse past them, and he made the ranges ring
With the stockwhip, as he met them face to face.
Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash,
But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view,
And they charged beneath the stockwhip with a sharp and sudden dash,
And off into the mountain scrub they flew.


Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep and black
Resounded to the thunder of their tread,
And the stockwhips woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back
From cliffs and crags that beetled overhead.
And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held their way,
Where mountain ash and kurrajong grew wide;
And the old man muttered fiercely, "We may bid the mob good day,
No man can hold them down the other side."


When they reached the mountain's summit, even Clancy took a pull,
It well might make the boldest hold their breath,
The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full
Of wombat holes, and any slip was death.
But the man from Snowy River let the pony have his head,
And he swung his stockwhip round and gave a cheer,
And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed,
While the others stood and watched in very fear.


He sent the flint stones flying, but the pony kept his feet,
He cleared the fallen timber in his stride,
And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat -
It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride.
Through the stringybarks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground,
Down the hillside at a racing pace he went;
And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound,
At the bottom of that terrible descent.


He was right among the horses as they climbed the further hill,
And the watchers on the mountain standing mute,
Saw him ply the stockwhip fiercely, he was right among them still,
As he raced across the clearing in pursuit.
Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met
In the ranges, but a final glimpse reveals
On a dim and distant hillside the wild horses racing yet,
With the man from Snowy River at their heels.


And he ran them single-handed till their sides were white with foam.
He followed like a bloodhound on their track,
Till they halted cowed and beaten, then he turned their heads for home,
And alone and unassisted brought them back.
But his hardy mountain pony he could scarcely raise a trot,
He was blood from hip to shoulder from the spur;
But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery hot,
For never yet was mountain horse a cur.


And down by Kosciusko, where the pine-clad ridges raise
Their torn and rugged battlements on high,
Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze
At midnight in the cold and frosty sky,
And where around The Overflow the reed beds sweep and sway
To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide,
The man from Snowy River is a household word today,
And the stockmen tell the story of his ride.
The Bulletin, 26 April 1890.
 
Thanks again to everyone contributing and adding to the thread, great reads all around.

I wrote this about a month ago.


- Untitled - [Trees' Testament]

Alone, I wondered into a copse - a den; dark, dense and green
All around were branches, boughs and beams - with little space left in between
I gazed into the thick - what stared back were needles, cones and leaves
My eyes peered deeper - reaching, grasping for what remained unseen

The trees stood in close rank to hide and conceal - yet I knew they were more than what they seemed
Moonlight shown down revealing the forest, bearing it's soul surround - entrancing and serene
I heard cicadas, crickets, owls - midnight creatures roaming, calling out not yet abed nor asleep
My mind in like turn at all the sounds - strode down the trails and as the deer had, bound, for their beds - to sleep, perchance to dream

Laying amongst the brush and trunks - the Moon and stars whispered, calling down to me
In breezes softy comforting - beckoning reveries to flow; round and round at first quick then slow - swirling in eddies like the streams
Summoned into those woods I strayed - the forest, my faithful friend my fears allayed, ghosts of yore silently flee

With each visit my concerns and cares to spare - are unwound, unraveling to tarry there, and in the soil are buried deeply
Should I stay longer, a little while - sinking, seeping into fertile ground, to commune with roots deep in the submerged, sylvan sea

Beneath it all - the forest continues its unending sprawl - branch and hollow, boughs and eaves

I lay with my ear and heart pressed to the earth
A disciple to the testament of the trees
 
To me, this is where a mind can go ... in the dark, in the woods, when there is no fear of being alone in nature. You've captured it so well.

When dark obscures, the mind draws us just such pictures. Thanks for this.
 
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