"savannas" poems
Lions are majestic
Or, I was told so
Once they were majestic
Rampant beasts in far-flung savannas
Mythic lords of the dark continent
I didn't hear the lion roar, not even once
Everyone was disappointed
Even our pet cat wasn't so lazy
What a joke the lion is!
Sleepy from doing nothing
Growing fat behind it's bars
A million fingers pointing at it
Waiting for the lion's pride
They all laugh, and the lion waits for dinner
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 3:55 PM UTC
…*in every visible character man differs less from the higher apes,
than these do from the lower members of the same order of Primates*.
Charles Darwin, 1871
The Other claims descent from apes
then acts like a violent monkey.
It pillages, it loots and rapes
performing as Satan’s flunkey.
Its actions bear the mark of Cain;
brandishing cameras, smashing things.
We feel its proto-human pain
yet dread the urban woe it brings.
It tries to justify, with words
its primal carnage, childish rage.
With anthropoid designs deferred
it struts the Darwinian stage.
The higher primate government
rewards them well in ripe bananas
for wrecking their environment
(jungle as well as savannas).
Their mate selection (naturally):
a semi-simian solution:
intercoursing sexually,
to hasten their evolution.
The wombs enlarge—they drop their young
then text their friends while getting high.
They swing from tree-tops, fling their dung,
while down below the humans sigh.
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 7:00 PM UTC
Thine eyes shall see the light of distant skies:
Yet, COLE! thy heart shall bear to Europe's strand
A living image of thy native land,
Such as on thine own glorious canvas lies;
Lone lakes--savannas where the bison roves--
Rocks rich with summer garlands--solemn streams--
Skies, where the desert eagle wheels and screams--
Spring bloom and autumn blaze of boundless groves.
Fair scenes shall greet thee where thou goest--fair,
But different--everywhere the trace of men,
Paths, homes, graves, ruins, from the lowest glen
To where life shrinks from the fierce Alpine air,
Gaze on them, till the tears shall dim thy sight,
But keep that earlier, wilder image bright.
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Ay, this is freedom!--these pure skies
Were never stained with village smoke:
The fragrant wind, that through them flies,
Is breathed from wastes by plough unbroke.
Here, with my rifle and my steed,
And her who left the world for me,
I plant me, where the red deer feed
In the green desert--and am free.
For here the fair savannas know
No barriers in the bloomy grass;
Wherever breeze of heaven may blow,
Or beam of heaven may glance, I pass.
In pastures, measureless as air,
The bison is my noble game;
The bounding elk, whose antlers tear
The branches, falls before my aim.
Mine are the river-fowl that scream
From the long stripe of waving sedge;
The bear that marks my weapon's gleam,
Hides vainly in the forest's edge;
In vain the she-wolf stands at bay;
The brinded catamount, that lies
High in the boughs to watch his prey,
Even in the act of springing, dies.
With what free growth the elm and plane
Fling their huge arms across my way,
Gray, old, and cumbered with a train
Of vines, as huge, and old, and gray!
Free stray the lucid streams, and find
No taint in these fresh lawns and shades;
Free spring the flowers that scent the wind
Where never scythe has swept the glades.
Alone the Fire, when frost-winds sere
The heavy herbage of the ground,
Gathers his annual harvest here,
With roaring like the battle's sound,
And hurrying flames that sweep the plain,
And smoke-streams gushing up the sky:
I meet the flames with flames again,
And at my door they cower and die.
Here, from dim woods, the aged past
Speaks solemnly; and I behold
The boundless future in the vast
And lonely river, seaward rolled.
Who feeds its founts with rain and dew;
Who moves, I ask, its gliding mass,
And trains the bordering vines, whose blue
Bright clusters tempt me as I pass?
Broad are these streams--my steed obeys,
Plunges, and bears me through the tide.
Wide are these woods--I thread the maze
Of giant stems, nor ask a guide.
I hunt till day's last glimmer dies
O'er woody vale and grassy height;
And kind the voice and glad the eyes
That welcome my return at night.
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Similiter et omnes revereantur Diaconos, ut
mandatum Jesu Christi; et Episcopum, ut Jesum
Christum, existentem filium Patris; Presbyteros
autem, ut concilium Dei et conjunctionem
Apostolorum. Sine his Ecclesia non vocatur; de
quibus suadeo vos sic habeo.
S. Ignatii Ad Trallianos.
And when this epistle is read among you, cause that
it be read also in the church of the Laodiceans.
The broad-backed hippopotamus
Rests on his belly in the mud;
Although he seems so firm to us
He is merely flesh and blood.
Flesh and blood is weak and frail,
Susceptible to nervous shock;
While the True Church can never fail
For it is based upon a rock.
The hippo’s feeble steps may err
In compassing material ends,
While the True Church need never stir
To gather in its dividends.
The ‘potamus can never reach
The mango on the mango-tree;
But fruits of pomegranate and peach
Refresh the Church from over sea.
At mating time the hippo’s voice
Betrays inflexions hoarse and odd,
But every week we hear rejoice
The Church, at being one with God.
The hippopotamus’s day
Is passed in sleep; at night he hunts;
God works in a mysterious way—
The Church can sleep and feed at once.
I saw the ‘potamus take wing
Ascending from the damp savannas,
And quiring angels round him sing
The praise of God, in loud hosannas.
Blood of the Lamb shall wash him clean
And him shall heavenly arms enfold,
Among the saints he shall be seen
Performing on a harp of gold.
He shall be washed as white as snow,
By all the martyr’d virgins kist,
While the True Church remains below
Wrapt in the old miasmal mist.
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Dream on, my friend,
Like me.
Of a future Heaven on Earth,
Or even just a Heaven.
Peace to all Men,
And Women.
Nor more starvation,
Disease
Or Death.
A Paradise in full bloom.
Endless forest, savannas and parklands
Ringed by towering mounts.
Habitats for countless species:
Humanity united with Mother Nature.
Trivial pleasures too.
Leeds United World Champions.
British wins at Wimbledon.
Another World Cup win.
Girls Aloud joining me,
For a fish and chip tea.
More medals in Rio,
Than we got in twenty twelve.
Crank up that warp drive,
Or better still,
Open up that Uniscape
So we can go
Into a parallel universe
Of our choice.
A realm where fiction becomes fact.
Where Captain Kirk is real
And Shatner just a character
On TV.
Where Telletubbies really watch us,
And Father Christmas truly shows his face.
Golden pavements are mere trifles,
And God gives us his grace.
We have to keep on dreaming.
Our hopes must never die.
Just simply keep on dreaming,
No need to reason why.
Paul Butters
© Paul Butters 27\10\2012 (2) in Yorkshire.
Sep 2, 2016
Sep 2, 2016 at 10:42 PM UTC
she colored space-time
into her hair
using only a paintbrush and patience
strand by strand she formed it:
the glistening planets and stars that are
of her own mind
neurons shooting like rockets
envisioning the galaxies that, built from her hands,
exploded from nothing into everything,
tangible but free, whispering red gold light
she wrote out the oceans
using her hands
lakes rivers and streams, and the lands along the edges
word by word she poured it:
the life of each puddle turned into clay creatures
that breathed reality
existing like trees on the vast new savannas
living freedom that, carved from her fingertips,
developed happiness and sorrow,
careful but real, eating their new knowledge
she gave birth to gods
from her parted lips
speaking out deities and auras
making the small assertion:
that life came from her and all things by her
but the life she loves had long since forgotten
the green of her eyes
and the red rock of her skin,
her writings and whispers
floating throughout the summer smog
so she roared in the thunder and the rushing waves
for her children and worlds to listen
but they could no longer hear, and she was left
lost and awaiting, wrapped
in her own space-time hair
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 3:18 PM UTC
The fresh savannas of the Sangamon
Here rise in gentle swells, and the long grass
Is mixed with rustling hazels. Scarlet tufts
Are glowing in the green, like flakes of fire;
The wanderers of the prairie know them well,
And call that brilliant flower the Painted Cup.
Now, if thou art a poet, tell me not
That these bright chalices were tinted thus
To hold the dew for fairies, when they meet
On moonlight evenings in the hazel bowers,
And dance till they are thirsty. Call not up,
Amid this fresh and ****** solitude,
The faded fancies of an elder world;
But leave these scarlet cups to spotted moths
Of June, and glistening flies, and humming-birds,
To drink from, when on all these boundless lawns
The morning sun looks hot. Or let the wind
O'erturn in sport their ruddy brims, and pour
A sudden shower upon the strawberry plant,
To swell the reddening fruit that even now
Breathes a slight fragrance from the sunny slope.
But thou art of a gayer fancy. Well--
Let then the gentle Manitou of flowers,
Lingering amid the bloomy waste he loves,
Though all his swarthy worshippers are gone--
Slender and small, his rounded cheek all brown
And ruddy with the sunshine; let him come
On summer mornings, when the blossoms wake,
And part with little hands the spiky grass;
And touching, with his cherry lips, the edge
Of these bright beakers, drain the gathered dew.
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All shrubbery around is shaken by the wind
As smoking grey clouds threaten rain.
But I sit snugly in my lounge
Idly contemplating a chicken-breast tea.
The long heatwave is over
For now.
Atlantic air has swept the mugginess
Aside.
Thermometers have settled down
While cooler moisture sooths our very souls.
This lounge of mine presents a landscape too:
Of settee, armchairs and table
Along with dining chairs and TV:
Mountains over carpet savannas.
But the kitchen calls me from next door
So no matter how lazy I feel
I really have to eat now.
This interlude must end
So very soon.
Paul Butters
© PB 29/7/2018.
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 12:45 PM UTC
Beautiful Sylvain valleys and grassy savannas sooth my soul,
As here within my compact brain-cave
My mind wanders
Though a Multiverse
Of Realms.
From unfathomable gorges and deep down oceans
Up to soaring skies,
My inner eyes take in
Vistas of Infinity.
Imagination has no limits
Being a blessing and a curse.
Endless dreams of gold and honey
Opposed by fears of monstrous evils
Too horrific to ponder here.
My Id keeps churning up all manner of memories
And creations of the brain,
While in the background
Music plays
Punctuated only
By my Inner Voice.
Words, words keep welling up
From subliminal springs
Deep within my head.
Words, images, sounds
Feelings, tastes and smells,
Reality processed and reformed.
Reality recreated indeed
In finest detail,
A confusion of sights and sounds.
Give me those balmy days,
High in the hills
And low on the plains.
Let me bask in glorious sunshine,
Take a slumberous siesta
Then quaff that golden nectar:
Any brew will do.
Lets be kings and queens
Of the poetic landscape
Enjoying all
That The Muses
Will sing.
Paul Butters
© PB 26\6\2019.
Jun 26, 2019
Jun 26, 2019 at 12:18 PM UTC
it's become something of a cliché but
like most trite adages
for all its faults
it is not necessarily
lacking in validity
the journey itself is the destination
a phrase that conjures images
in one's head of subconscious
sojourns across arctic tundras
and windswept plains
savannas and mountain ranges
or perhaps astral and ethereal
projections of the psyche into
some pseudo-spiritual metaphor
for overcoming corporeal suffering
and psychological anguish
but it holds true too
to the metaphysical revolt
explored by Camus in
chapter two of his opus
on the spirit of rebellion
it is not enough to merely **** god
acts of deicide are at once
reactionary and revolutionary
imposing subtle dictatorships as
we merely claim a despot's
stolen throne for our
own whims and fancies
no
to resist the urge to become the master
to destroy dominance and empower each
other is the greatest test humankind will face
a constant struggle to pursue the
better angels of our nature
the means don't
justify the ends
the means
are the end
Feb 5, 2016
Feb 5, 2016 at 12:00 AM UTC
I love to photograph
the wild things in the land
If it weren't for the finned and clawed creatures
We wouldn't understand the
technology in our hands
Sonar is what we use to get a glimpse of pre-born babies
We have sonar from dolphins and bats
and yet we scream, "Rabies!"
We wouldn't understand infrasound if it weren't for
the elephants
But we only see their ivory, not their intelligence
Tigers and leopards are born to be trained assassins with
their patterned camouflaged coats
But we make them our trophies because humans need to gloat
We owe omega three's to the schools of fish who gave us healthy brains and hearts
But instead we fill their bellies with plastic and tear their reefs apart
Savannas and forests are turning into deserts because of climate change
But we insist it's just a theory
Who cares about polar bears anyway?
Yes, I love to photograph the wild beasts with
fins, claws, and tails
Because I'm afraid that someday
future generations will ask,
"What was once a whale?"
Jan 19, 2018
Jan 19, 2018 at 6:06 AM UTC
She indulges joy of movement o'er
Fields of rye that sway below her
breast, as billows roll beneath
inhaling summer's heat
At dawn she sweeps a mirrored lake
Whose surface shudders, now awake
No rest--move on--no time for doubt--
Not prone to be discrete
Savannas bow beneath her gaze
A stand of willows in the haze
Proud trees submit, turn inside out
Deprived of all conceit
Dispersing clouds she leaves a pattern
Of curls and swirls and ions scattered
Defiant crow is tossed about
Concedes a rare defeat
A pause in beauty's wingless pace
Her mood and willfulness displaced
Perhaps caprice, or just blown out
Now calm--she'll soon repeat
Sep 14, 2016
Sep 14, 2016 at 11:26 PM UTC
The annual Darwin Gay Ball
Was a gala occasion for all.
The Australopithecus
looked quite ridiculous
Leaning, half-drunk, on the wall.
Zinjanthropus, high on bananas
Uttered forth a long chain of Hosannas.
Although missing a link,
He knew just what to think
And went cruising for greener savannas.
The Cro-Magnons (more agile than Lucy)
Like their hunting and gathering juicy.
The mating was prime
And their dance, so sublime,
could out-monkey the funky Watusi.
Twas a lowbrow event; all the same,
Proto-drag-queens competed for fame.
The divine **** Habilis***,
Hairy, but fabulous,
Gave Knuckle-Dragging its name.
**** Sapiens***' wisdom has wrecked us
As the Darwinist doctrines infect us.
Knuckle-draggers may dream,
But bonobos now scream
That the winner is: **** Erectus***!
Feb 26, 2020
Feb 26, 2020 at 7:08 AM UTC