Famous Short Hunting Poems

Famous Short Hunting Poems. Short Hunting Poetry by Famous Poets. A collection of the all-time best Hunting short poems

Luna Lake Haiku  

 New moon on the lake.

Your voice and the nightingale 
serenade springtime.
 
Full moon on the lake.
 
Your voice and the waterbirds 
celebrate summer.
 
Old moon on the lake.
 
Owls hunting autumnal food -
your voice still singing.

I Have Become Very Hairy  

 I have become very hairy all over my body.

I'm afraid they'll start hunting me because of my fur.


My multicolored shirt has no meaning of love --
it looks like an air photo of a railway station.


At night my body is open and awake under the blanket,
like eyes under the blindfold of someone to be shot.


Restless I shall wander about;
hungry for life I'll die.


Yet I wanted to be calm, like a mound with all its cities destroyed,
and tranquil, like a full cemetery.

Bye, Baby Bunting  

Bye, baby bunting,
Father's gone a-hunting,
Mother's gone a-milking,
Sister's gone a-silking,
And brother's gone to buy a skin
To wrap the baby bunting in.

Nothing To Be Said  

 For nations vague as weed,
For nomads among stones,
Small-statured cross-faced tribes
And cobble-close families
In mill-towns on dark mornings
Life is slow dying.


So are their separate ways
Of building, benediction,
Measuring love and money
Ways of slow dying.

The day spent hunting pig 
Or holding a garden-party,

Hours giving evidence
Or birth, advance
On death equally slowly.

And saying so to some
Means nothing; others it leaves
Nothing to be said.

Root Cellar  

 Nothing would sleep in that cellar, dank as a ditch,
Bulbs broke out of boxes hunting for chinks in the dark,
Shoots dangled and drooped,
Lolling obscenely from mildewed crates,
Hung down long yellow evil necks, like tropical snakes.

And what a congress of stinks!
Roots ripe as old bait,
Pulpy stems, rank, silo-rich,
Leaf-mold, manure, lime, piled against slippery planks.

Nothing would give up life:
Even the dirt kept breathing a small breath.

The Statue  

 When we are dead, some Hunting-boy will pass
And find a stone half-hidden in tall grass
And grey with age: but having seen that stone
(Which was your image), ride more slowly on.

Fields and Gardens by the River Qi  

 I dwell apart by the River Qi,
Where the Eastern wilds stretch far without hills.

The sun darkens beyond the mulberry trees;
The river glistens through the villages.

Shepherd boys depart, gazing back to their hamlets;
Hunting dogs return following their men.

When a man's at peace, what business does he have?
I shut fast my rustic door throughout the day.

The Hunter Of Reigate  

A man went a-hunting at Reigate,
And wished to leap over a high gate.
  Says the owner, "Go round,
  With your gun and your hound,
For you never shall leap over my gate.
"

Lost  

 DESOLATE and lone
All night long on the lake
Where fog trails and mist creeps,
The whistle of a boat
Calls and cries unendingly,
Like some lost child
In tears and trouble
Hunting the harbor's breast
And the harbor's eyes.

Red-headed Restaurant Cashier  

 SHAKE back your hair, O red-headed girl.

Let go your laughter and keep your two proud freckles on your chin.

Somewhere is a man looking for a red-headed girl and some day maybe he will look into your eyes for a restaurant cashier and find a lover, maybe.

Around and around go ten thousand men hunting a red headed girl with two freckles on her chin.

I have seen them hunting, hunting.

 Shake back your hair; let go your laughter.

Pigeon  

 THE FLUTTER of blue pigeon’s wings
Under a river bridge
Hunting a clean dry arch,
A corner for a sleep—
This flutters here in a woman’s hand.


A singing sleep cry,
A drunken poignant two lines of song,
Somebody looking clean into yesterday
And remembering, or looking clean into
To-morrow, and reading,—
This sings here as a woman’s sleep cry sings.


Pigeon friend of mine,
Fly on, sing on.

Man the Man-Hunter  

 I SAW Man, the man-hunter,
Hunting with a torch in one hand
And a kerosene can in the other,
Hunting with guns, ropes, shackles.


 I listened
 And the high cry rang,
The high cry of Man, the man-hunter:
We’ll get you yet, you sbxyzch!

 I listened later.

 The high cry rang:
Kill him! kill him! the sbxyzch!

In the morning the sun saw
Two butts of something, a smoking rump,
And a warning in charred wood:

 Well, we got him,
 the sbxyzch.