Hog Poem

Pig

Thanks, GWB, for this New Year Hog Poem - with apologies to the Confederate dead:

There is no crying allowed here past midnight,
But only hogs,
Flying, plunge and expire,
Here by the sagging gate,
Stopped by the wall.

Good hunting,

LSP

Hog Poem, Innit.

Photograph: Niall Benvie/Corbis

My good friend GWB, philosopher, theologian, shooter, fisherman and fowler, has been branching out into verse and turned in this number about the tuskers. With apologies to The Cause and Mr. Tate:

You know who have waited by the wall

The twilight certainty of an animal,

Those midnight restitutions of the blood

You know--the immitigable pines, the smoky frieze

Of the sky, the sudden call: you know the rage,

The cold pool left by the mounting flood,

Of muted Zeno and Parmenides.

You who have waited for the angry resolution

Of those desires that should be yours tomorrow,

You know the unimportant shrift of death

And praise the vision

And praise the arrogant circumstance

Of those who fall

Rank upon rank, hurried beyond decision--

Here by the sagging gate, stopped by the wall.

Seeing, seeing only the hogs

Flying, plunge and expire

Well, one word's original and that makes all the difference. Thanks, GWB, for the line and Mr. Tate for genius.

God bless,

LSP

PS. Go to Virtual Mirage for an amusing Cell Phone Karma video. Thanks LL.