Hog Poetry

I know, I know, it's been a long while since I posted a hog poem and I apologize for that. But here's something, inspired by Manhattan Infidel.

“Master thyself, then others shall thee beare”

     Pull down thy vanity

Thou art a beaten hog beneath the hail,

A swollen magpie in a fitful sun,

Half black half white

Nor knowst’ou wing from tail

Pull down thy vanity

     How mean thy hates

Fostered in falsity,

     Pull down thy vanity,

Rathe to destroy, niggard in charity,

Pull down thy vanity,

     I say pull down the trigger,

And slay the hog.

With no apologies to Mr. Pound.

LSP 

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.


LSP