The Chase

I often write poems down in a notebook and never bother to type them up or share them; they just get forgotten. I have also found them scribbled on the backs of envelopes and post it notes, words I wrote sometimes years ago and paid no heed to.

This is one of those; one of Mark(opoetoo)’s poems about hunting reminded me of it  If you’ve ever tried to write something that just wouldn’t come right, you’ll know what I mean.

The Chase



It takes more than clever words

Strung out in an elegant pattern

Dazzling the eye and mind with wit

To make a real poem live

It takes more than a visionary mind

And a yearning heart full of pain

Stumbling over shreds of thought

To write verse that truly speaks.

Tonight I chase words

Like an untrained hunter

Chases deer that elude him with ease

Hurtling through thickets

Staggering through the undergrowth

To lie finally in the bracken

Gazing gasping at the blue sky

Knowing again I have failed

And the words will remain hungry.



8 thoughts on “The Chase

  1. Viv,

    What you said about poems that lie forgotten, is true. I write poetry (not in English though) and they usually get written on a sudden impulse. I write them in the nearest, handiest notebook – and then I forget them for years.

    Your poem too is beautiful. The pain of a lost pursuit is the same for a hunter who loses his booty and for the poet who can’t find the right words to mold his thoughts into poetry.

    Another thought – the hunter is out to destroy a creation, the poet is out to create beauty…your poem tells us why we all are essentially the same – because we feel the same emotions – despite the triggers being different.

    Warm Regards,

    • Sometimes one writes a poem simply on the impulse of the moment and when the moment passes, so to does the need to share it. There are a few dozen in my notebook I have never typed up, and may not do so.
      The pursuit of game in the hunt is a strange stylised dance that is not part of my own personal culture but one that has caught my curiosity in many ways. My husband’s stepfather used to work as a part time gamekeeper in one of the big estates in the north, after he retired from work, to help his much younger brother; we inheritted some of his equipment when he passed away. As a marksman he was often required to stalk and bring down deer wounded by poor shooting by those who paid to come and shoot; knowing him cursing the b**tard who fluffed the shot the whole way, sometimes for days. While being logically against “blood sports” I used to see the local fox hunt off(before the ban) when we lived in the midlands, slap bang in the territory of one of the most famous fox hunts of England, the Quorn, on Boxing Day(the day after Christmas Day) and it gave me a queer, atavistic feeling of intense excitement and connection to tradition and English history and even to ancient history where the hunt meant no one starved. So it gives me huge conflictions.
      It’s a shame you don’t write poetry in English; but I also suspect it may lose its power when translated.

  2. it all sounds so intimidating.
    wake me when its over and i will just write down my dreams 🙂

    thanks for the link

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