Hunting and fishing poetry. Post your favorite quotes.

[fourtycal]

The hunters horn sounds early for some, later for others. For some unfortunates, prisoned by city sidewalks and sentenced to a cement jungle more horrifying than anything found in Tanganyika, the horn of the hunter never sounds at all. But deep in the guts of most men is buried the involuntary response to the hunters horn, a prickle of the nape hairs, and acceleration of the pulse, an atavistic memory of his father's, who killed first with stone, and then with the club, and then with the spear, and then with the bow, and then with the gun, and finally with formulas. How meek the man is of no importance; somewhere in the pigeon chest of the clerk is still the vestigial remnant of the hunters heart; somewhere in his nostrils the half forgotten smell of blood. Robert Ruark.

[fourtycal]

No one, but he who has partaken thereof, can understand the keen delight of hunting in lonely lands. For him is the joy of the horse well ridden and the rifle well held; for him the long days of toil and hardship, resolutely endured, and crowned at the end with triumph. In after years there shall come forever to his mind the memory of endless prairies shimmering in the bright sun, of vast snow-clad wastes lying desolate under gray skies; of the melancholy marshes; of the rush of mighty rivers; of the breath of evergreen forest in summer; of the crooning of ice-armored pines at the touch of the winds of winter; of cataracts roaring between hoary mountain masses; of all the innumerable sights and sounds of the wilderness; of its immensity and mystery; and of the silences that brood in its still depths.
- Theodore Roosevelt, The Wilderness Hunter

[StudChild]

I don't know what you listen to around the camp fire while hunting and fishing, but my hunting and fishing poetry doesn't sound like that. It sound more like this:

[fourtycal]

I don't usually quote poetry around the campfire unless I am really drunk

[fourtycal]

The Oak Leaf

In a tapestry of fall colors, a Llewellin setter is braced on point,
with a front foot lifted and tail straight out, the essence of upland hunting.
From a stand of golden birch and aspen trees, a ruffed grouse flushes.
Oak leaves, framed by the autumn sky, flutter by the barrel of the shotgun.
He loves his old Browning twenty-gauge.
Today, he is seventy, and shooting the grouse would lessen
the beauty of the day.
He catches one of the falling Oak leaves,
places it in the pocket of his tan hunting jacket,
from his knapsack he removes a smoked chub and onion sandwich.
He sits with his back to a tree while his companion,
the dog, rests his head on his knee. Together as one, again,
encompassed by the ambiance of a northern October day.
On the paper that wrapped his sandwich, he sketches the oak leaf,
a memory of the day.
On route seventy-two while motoring back to his cabin in the woods,
he pulls into the tavern’s gravel parking lot. Inside is filled with hunters,
and their tales of other opening days, as beautiful and poignant as a Robert Frost poem.
In a corner by himself, feeling the warmth of the fireplace, he sips on a martini.
A year later at an estate auction, a tan upland field coat,
with an oak leaf drawing in the pocket, was sold.

-Larry E. Slaughterbeck

[accadacca]

[fourtycal]

Pitch black outside, ten below zero,
Man I am freezing cold;
My age is starting to creep up on me,
and boy am I feeling old.
But as the sky starts to lighten,
once black starts to turn blue;
My heart starts to beat a little faster,
my energy and strength are renewed.
Then I see the ducks in the distance,
take off for their morning flight;
I no longer notice the cold,
as I keep the ducks in my sight.
Slowly I start to call,
I see the ducks look my way;
Their checkin out my decoy spread,
and the safety that is displayed.
They circle once, they circle twice,
Then I see them cup their wings;
They are going to try and land,
oh what happiness this brings.
Ten feet or so from the water,
just before they land;
I bring my shotgun to my shoulder,
and steady it with my hands;
I squeeze the trigger slowly,
and let my steel shot fly;
My aim is true, my shot is perfect,
I watch the ducks fall from the sky.

Dwayne Bailey

[fourtycal]

It seems like we thrive from the adrenaline flow
While hunting the morning of the very first snow.
For all the mornings that we practically froze
When we can't feel our fingers, or the tips of our toes.
Yet, we still hunt day after day
In anticipation of the moment we can finally say
'I GOT A DEER' with a cheerful shout.
As we jump up and down and run all about.
We think it's skill, but it's mostly luck
That feeling we get when we get our first buck.
When we talk about the hunt, or the antler size
No one knows the real truth, 'cause everyone lies.
It's remembering our first hunt, as a girl or a boy
When we felt the excitement with a heart full of joy.
It's the fun that we have with our family and friends.
It's the sharing and experience that we hope never ends.
So, go deer hunting...just do it some day
Then you might understand what I'm trying to say.
Hunting deer is special to me
So, try it sometime and you'll find out and see.

Roger Horsch

[fourtycal]

MEDITATION

Last year's hunting invitation,
For to spend this fall's vacation,
Carries my imagination
To the best place in creation.
Many miles from civilization,
In a state of isolation,
Where industry's devastation
Hasn't started excavation.
Sure we met with some privation,
But it's truly recreation,
There's no need for hesitation,
Things surpass your expectation.
Leave behind all animation,
Discard trials and vexation,
Learn the forest's valuation,
Trees, and rocks of queer formation.
This is no insinuation,
But an honest declaration,
Based on pure infatuation.
'Tis the loved spot of our Nation.
I have asked for information.
As to cost of transportation,
To the nearest main line station,
To my favorite location.
Taking gun and ammunition,
With a wife's fond admonition,
Mind your failing disposition,
Don't forget we've prohibition.

Hunter-Trader-Trapper. October: 1921,

[jonniekin]

When we were young boys on our farm.
A fish tale never meant any harm,
We oft were given a look,
When from such a tiny brook,
We claimed a fish as long as your arm.

But then our neighbor named Meg,
Beat the fib and put us down a peg,
By claiming from the same brook,
With not a worm on her hook,
She caught a fish as long as your leg!

Well that truth was quite hard to beat,
Then Summer beat a hasty retreat.
Winter changed the fishing world,
Meg turned from tomboy to girl.
And now this fishing tale is complete!