Thursday, June 30, 2011

Hog Poem

It's that time of year again, hog poem time:

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow 
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,  
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only 
A heap of broken images, where the hog wallows, 
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, 
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only 
There is shadow under this red rock 
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock), 
And I will show you something different from either 
Your shadow at morning striding behind you 
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; 
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
And a shot, the hog is dead.

Apologies to Mr. Eliot.

Hot enough to roast hog on the sidewalk.



darlin said...

That's some hot LSP! Did you write this poem? I'll have to give it a reread when it's not quite so late at night, til then take care and God bless.

LSP said...

Glad you liked it, Darlin. Nothing like a bit of hog poetry to finish off the evening.

It's from TS Eliot's Wasteland - I childishly added the 'hog parts'.