Poetry request

bewsher500

Well-Known Member
A odd one but I was wondering if those with a more classical education could help me.

i am looking for a poem

ideally about stalking, stalkers, shooting or general countrymen,
emphasis on British, have found lots of American influenced poems

not too graphic, something that highlights misty mornings and bird song at dawn rather than killing and blood or trophies
hopefully something that emphasises a countyman's love of the bigger picture rather than just the chase and kill.

I have searched an awful lot lately and can't find quite what I need.

this will be a reading at a funeral so needs to cater to a wide audience

can you help?
 

Buchan

Well-Known Member
I had a feeling Ted Hughes would work, try this:

In the dawn's early light, in the the biggest snow of the year
Two blue-dark deer stood in the road, alerted.

They had happened into my dimension
The moment I was arriving just there.

They planted their two or three years of secret deerhood
Clear on my snow-screen vision of the abnormal

And hesitated in the all-way disintegration
And stared at me. And so for some lasting seconds

I could think the deer were waiting for me
To remember the password and sign

That the curtain had blown aside for a moment
And there where the trees were no longer trees, nor the road a road

The deer had come for me.

Then they ducked through the hedge, and upright they rode their legs

Away downhill over snow-lonely field

Towards tree dark - finally
Seeming to eddy and glide and fly away up

Into the boil of big flakes.
The snow took them and soon their nearby hoofprints as well.

Revising its dawn inspiration
Back to the ordinary.
 

enfieldspares

Well-Known Member
None really. Although the hymn "All things bright and beautiful" is fitting for a countryman.

Omitting the bit about the poor man at his gate.

But a poem that hung in my father's gunroom was "The Fox's Prophecy".

Even today some of it is chillingly true in what it predicted.
 
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bewsher500

Well-Known Member
None really. Although the hymn "All things bright and beautiful" is fitting for a countryman.

Omitting the bit about the poor man at his gate.

But a poem that hung in my father's gunroom was "The Fox's Prophecy".

Even today some of it is chillingly true in what it predicted.

hymn firmly on the agenda already
need a reading for a nephew to read
 

Wapinschaw

Well-Known Member
None really. Although the hymn "All things bright and beautiful" is fitting for a countryman.

Omitting the bit about the poor man at his gate.

But a poem that hung in my father's gunroom was "The Fox's Prophecy".

Even today some of it is chillingly true in what it predicted.

I had not heard of this and had to Google for it. http://www.legendarydartmoor.co.uk/the-foxs-prophecy-poem.htm


"The Fox’s Prophecy was written in 1871 by D. W. Nash and presented to the then master of the Ledbury Hounds. It the respect of Dartmoor it bears no relation but when Dartmoor is taken as part of the United Kingdom it very much reflects our times. It is eerie how prophetic these words have turned out to be especially in light of the recent ‘Britexit’ vote, terrorism, the economy, immigration and other issues. It is hard to imagine how relevant these lines which were written some two hundred years ago could be applicable to today."

I'm not one for poetry but I found this haunting and frighteningly prophetic at the same time. I could have been written by Nostradamus. I don't think it is what you are looking for and given the circumstances apologise for hijacking your thread but I feel this needs to be shared:

For swiftly o’er the level shore
The waves of progress ride;
The ancient landmarks one by one
Shall sink beneath the tide.
Time-honoured creeds and ancient faith,
The Altar and the Crown,
Lordship’s hereditary right,
Before that tide go down.
Base churl shall mock the mighty names
Writ on the roll of time;
Religion shall be held a jest
And loyalty a crime.
No word of prayer, no hymns of praise
Sound in the village school;
The people’s education
Utilitarians rule.
In England’s ancient pulpits
Lay orators shall preach
New creeds, and free religions
Self-made apostles teach.
No harvest feast nor Christmastide
Shall farm or manor hold;
Science alone can plenty give,
The only God is Gold.
Homes where love and peace should dwell
Fierce politics shall vex,
And unsexed woman strive to prove
Herself the coarser sex.
Mechanics in their workshops
Affairs of State decide;
Honour and truth old fashioned words
The noisy mobs deride.
The statesmen that should rule the realm
Coarse demagogues displace;
The glory of a thousand years
Shall end in foul disgrace.
Trade shall be held the only good
And gain the sole device;
The statesman’s maxim shall be peace,
And peace at any price.
Her army and her navy
Britain shall cast aside;
Soldiers and ships are costly things,
Defence an empty pride.
The footsteps of the invader
Then England’s shore shall know,
While home-bred traitors give the hand
To England’s every foe.
But not for aye yet once again
When purged by fire and sword
The land her freedom shall regain
To manlier thoughts restored.
Taught wisdom by disaster,
England shall learn to know
That trade is not the only gain
Heaven gives to man below.
The greed for gold departed,
The golden calf cast down,
Old England’s sons again shall raise
The Altar and the Crown.

 

enfieldspares

Well-Known Member
Ah Wapinshaw that's the abridged version! A poor thing it is too for it.

Here's the full bit with

"With its fur all sil'red o'er, it must have been an Artic fix escaped from Greenland's shore"

and

"Last of my race to me 'tis given the future to unfold..."

Anyway, here's a link to the full thing:

The Fox's Prophecy... D.W. Nash

I don't know if there's verses, perhsps in the full version, that might be useful to the OP?
 
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alasdair

Well-Known Member
Here's a contemporary poem, if you Google "Gun" & "Vicki Feaver" you'll find plenty information about it!

[h=1]The Gun[/h]by Vicki Feaver
Bringing a gun into a house
changes it.
You lay it on the kitchen table,
stretched out like something dead
itself: the grainy polished wood stock
jutting over the edge,
the long metal barrel
casting a grey shadow
on the green-checked cloth.
At first it’s just practice:
perforating tins
dangling on orange string
from trees in the garden.
Then a rabbit shot
clean through the head.
Soon the fridge fills with creatures
that have run and flown.
Your hands reek of gun oil
and entrails. You trample
fur and feathers. There’s a spring
in your step; your eyes gleam
like when sex was fresh.
A gun brings a house alive.
I join in the cooking: jointing
and slicing, stirring and tasting –
excited as if the King of Death
had arrived to feast, stalking
out of winter woods,
his black mouth
sprouting golden crocuses.

From The Book of Blood (Jonathan Cape, 2006). reproduced with kind permission of Random House Group
 

Muir

Well-Known Member
The Hunter.
It is he who loves the Foe that quarries out his forces,
And every arrow is feathered soft, with wishes to atone,
That even the surest sword, in sorrow, bleeds for it's spoiling blow.

I don't remember who wrote it but my dad made us memorize it before we were allowed to hunt by ourselves. I've always liked it.~Muir
 

wildfowler1

Well-Known Member
The Wildfowler.
The true philosopher of the gun is the Wildfowler-
for he must have the sensitive eye of the artist,a love of solitude and lonely places.
He measures beauty by the flash of a bird's wing-
by the glint of dawn sun on sliding waters,
by the march of slow clouds.
He is the son of solitude-
the lonely one.

I was brought up on this one it has always hung on my wall.Wf1
 

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