Hunting Poems

cnimrod · March 14, 2010, 08:46 PM

I did search "poem" here and found some interest so for what its worth - my son and I enjoyed this one, forwarded to me by a non-hunter we turned onto venison this year. Keep the faith ladies and gentlemen.

“Wait”

By Robert Wrigley

He also finds the wood and steel beautiful,
and the slickness with which all the moving parts
slide open and shut, lifting and lodging
into place the sleek, copper-clad,
steel-jacketed projectile, which, weighing less
than half an ounce, will cover, once

the trigger is pulled, the 80 yards to the doe
in the time it would take him to blink.
He aligns the cross hairs of the scope
just behind her right shoulder, where the heart
pumps and the lungs, she being absolutely at ease
and grazing, exchange the same mountain air

he also breathes, though he breathes less easily,
since he hopes the single shot will kill her
cleanly and knows, even so, that
should such a clean kill be accomplished, still
he will mourn and be glad simultaneously and will
for the next hour or more be bathed in her blood

and intimate with the then-stilled machinery
of her living—the yards of guts, the probably full
bladder, the buttery liver, and more—nearly all
of which he will leave on the forest floor
and all of which but the head of her will, he is certain,
be gone within two days, a blessing for the coyotes

and the black-and-white custodial birds. Even still
he has not yet squeezed the bullet free but breathes
with her to be free of her, allowing each breath
to elongate, allowing himself to see and to note
how the light snow that has been falling
all morning lands on her shoulders

and on the dry last leaves of the shrubs
just behind her and even, though he does not see it,
on the barrel of the rifle itself, some of which,
from the concussion of the shot, will fall away,
and some, due to the fire that accompanies it,
will melt and refreeze as ice as he works on her: the doe

who had discovered so close to the coming winter
the same patch of long and still-green mountain fescue
he himself found some weeks ago on a walk, the same day
he found this other spot as well—sheltered, slightly elevated—
from which the fine grass and all the ways to it could be seen, the day
he knew all he'd have to do was wait long enough, as he has.

drhunta2 · March 15, 2010, 03:55 PM

Love it. So rare are the stories and poems of the hunting legacy. Gone are the days of Corey Ford, Gene Hill, and Robert Raurk. I miss the stories and tales of the hunter. The practical jokes in camp, and the commraderie. Much of what I fell in love with about hunting came from hearing my grandpa, my dad and my uncles tell of the total experience.

Thanks for the poem, it returned me to a not so long ago day.

March 14, 2010, 08:46 PM	#1
cnimrod Senior Member Join Date: September 24, 2009 Location: NJ/NY Posts: 152	Hunting Poems I did search "poem" here and found some interest so for what its worth - my son and I enjoyed this one, forwarded to me by a non-hunter we turned onto venison this year. Keep the faith ladies and gentlemen. “Wait” By Robert Wrigley He also finds the wood and steel beautiful, and the slickness with which all the moving parts slide open and shut, lifting and lodging into place the sleek, copper-clad, steel-jacketed projectile, which, weighing less than half an ounce, will cover, once the trigger is pulled, the 80 yards to the doe in the time it would take him to blink. He aligns the cross hairs of the scope just behind her right shoulder, where the heart pumps and the lungs, she being absolutely at ease and grazing, exchange the same mountain air he also breathes, though he breathes less easily, since he hopes the single shot will kill her cleanly and knows, even so, that should such a clean kill be accomplished, still he will mourn and be glad simultaneously and will for the next hour or more be bathed in her blood and intimate with the then-stilled machinery of her living—the yards of guts, the probably full bladder, the buttery liver, and more—nearly all of which he will leave on the forest floor and all of which but the head of her will, he is certain, be gone within two days, a blessing for the coyotes and the black-and-white custodial birds. Even still he has not yet squeezed the bullet free but breathes with her to be free of her, allowing each breath to elongate, allowing himself to see and to note how the light snow that has been falling all morning lands on her shoulders and on the dry last leaves of the shrubs just behind her and even, though he does not see it, on the barrel of the rifle itself, some of which, from the concussion of the shot, will fall away, and some, due to the fire that accompanies it, will melt and refreeze as ice as he works on her: the doe who had discovered so close to the coming winter the same patch of long and still-green mountain fescue he himself found some weeks ago on a walk, the same day he found this other spot as well—sheltered, slightly elevated— from which the fine grass and all the ways to it could be seen, the day he knew all he'd have to do was wait long enough, as he has.

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March 15, 2010, 03:55 PM	#2
drhunta2 Member Join Date: January 20, 2006 Location: Rochester New York Posts: 70	Love it. So rare are the stories and poems of the hunting legacy. Gone are the days of Corey Ford, Gene Hill, and Robert Raurk. I miss the stories and tales of the hunter. The practical jokes in camp, and the commraderie. Much of what I fell in love with about hunting came from hearing my grandpa, my dad and my uncles tell of the total experience. Thanks for the poem, it returned me to a not so long ago day.