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The Endearment Of The Deer ~ Trilogy

Deer Hill

In the shadow of the hill
I made my home, I have it still.
There the purple heather grows,
There the crystal water flows.

Where the northern blizzard blows
When the shade of evening shows;
Where the birds fly high and free
Here is where it's home to me.

And soon the springtime comes to be,
A vista, rich, for all to see.
Melted iceflows downward dash
As streams and rivers wildly crash.

The driven rainstorms lash and plash
Hard against the mountain ash
But when the sun returns to smile
The day is vibrant all the while.

So deer pass by in single file
And leave behind the winter's trial;
Antler-proud and pointed high,
A sanguine sparkle in their eye.

Then in the summer, calm and dry,
Deep in the heather sprays I'll lie
And bide until the autumn chill
In the shadow of the Hill.

 

Morning Trespass

Good morning, I said to the hind of the red,
Good morning, say I, how are you?
I'm fine she replies with the twink of her eyes
Good morning and how do you do?

I'm feeling quite well, as I sense you can tell,
My day has begun with a glow;
I can judge by your coat and the song in your throat
Felicity fulfills you so.

This morning you're out and early about,
She bleats as she sees me come near;
What causes you stray and come by this way
And spree with the likes of a deer?

The gate was ajar and I watched from afar
As you gad in the morning sunlight.
At the time of the day when dawn has its say
And disowns the dun of the night.

Well this is my ground and here all around
You trespass, says she, to conclude;
If I leave you be, do likewise to me,
You and I may forgo to intrude.

As I looked at her square, as she standing there,
A suddenly breeze started on;
And sure and secure, mid the lure of the moor,
With a toss of her head she was gone.

 

The Amber Hind

I aimed at a hind in the dingle,
Her eyes looking right back at me;
Her face set my sinews a-tingle,
Delight of the daybreak was she.

I pointed my gun at her torso
And cocked it with barely a sound;
But I watched her with awe, even more so,
When all of a haste she turned round.

She, peering head on with her ebony glare,
Loomed handsome as handsome can loom;
The sun on her back and the wind in her hair
She wondered at me, I presume.

Yet, still, she remained in the clearing
Not knowing I stalked her ~ I think;
Boldly and brave, nothing fearing,
I'm certain she noticed me blink.

She winked back at me as she stood in the breeze
(I swear I partook of her smile)
That moment I knew, when the trigger I'd squeeze,
I would miss her by half of a mile.

 

 

Style / type: 
Structured: Western
Review Request (Intensity): 
I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Last few words: 
I cautiously present a trilogy from a series of collected poems from the past which I titled 'Tales From The Wooded Dingle'. I am not sure if the term 'Dingle' is in common use in The States although here in Blighty we use it to describe a small wooded dell. My 'tales' are collected poems themed on the English countryside (most of which are true stories). The three pieces of this particular trilogy celebrate the red deer which flourish and blossom in my own spectacular hiding place within these islands. My home is high up on the Western Yorkshire moorland and answers to the name of 'Deer Hill'. Kind regards and compliments to all at Neo, Alan.
Editing stage: 
Content level: 
Not Explicit Content

Comments

beautiful trilogy of poems. My favorite would be, by far, the first, and I love its creative rhyme scheme. All your rhyme schemes are creative and so refreshingly so. The rhyme pattern and meter is so smooth in every poem. I love how you arranged this as a trilogy. I hope you post more of these tale poems!
~

"To reveal art and conceal the artist is art's true aim." Oscar Wilde

Thalassa, I am flattered by your wonderful praise of my trilogy. The first piece, which you favour, is a portrait of my home in the Pennine hills of Yorkshire. It has a strict rhyming pattern whereby the last line of a stanza must rhyme with the first line of the next.
I am surrounded by countryside and animals here so it is easy to write about these things. It is sometimes quite special to spend ones day in the company of these creatures instead of people.

I sometimes think that God in creating man somewhat overestimated his ability.
Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde.
 

It is a real compliment to have one's work called beautiful so thanks for that Thalassa.

It is better to be beautiful than good. But... it is better to be good than ugly.
Sorry ~ Oscar again.

'Tales From The Wooded Dingle'  is a series of collected poems which I wrote many years ago.  The collection contains several trilogies but begins with a simple poem which introduces my 'tales' (poems) and bears the same title as the collection. Take a look and tell me what you think!

Tales From The Wooded Dingle

Grandpa sat me on his knee
Where I would sometimes sit,
Then, I stationed comfortablee,
His smoking pipe he lit.
Amid a veil of grey and blue
He puffed and wheezed his smile

And so he'd tell a tale ot two
To thrill me for a while.

He told me tales of eagles, high,
A-soaring overhead.
Of foxes far below the sky
A rustic shade of red.
He told of hares a-boxing, tall,
In March they madly brawled;
Of weasels, shrewd, outfoxing all
As through the scrub they crawled.

I listened well to all he said
And savoured all his words.
I wondered what may lie ahead ~
He spoke of bees and birds.
A magic world where we would go,
Our secrets we could keep;
I never heard the ending though
For I was sound asleep.

ASJ  1991

I do know that this type of poetry cannot be everyone's cup of tea but the collection (100 plus) generated a little income at the time.

It is better to have a permanent income than to be fascinating.
And yes ~ Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde.

 

 

 

 

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Critique is a compliment
Kind regards, Alan
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author comment

Another beautiful poem, and truly does feel like such an excellent introduction/opening. You say that the collection generated some income, does this mean you have published a book? Might I know the title?
Ahhhh, I love how you keep quoting Oscar Wilde! XD And I was not aware that his name is so long! I might add-
"The only thing to do with good advice is to pass it on. It is never of any use to oneself." ~ You-know-who ;)
I do hope I may read your whole collection for, while you are completely correct that such poetry is not everyone's cup of tea, it certainly is and ever has been mine. I am excited every time I see you have posted a new poem on NeoPoet. Thank you so much for sharing your excellent, aesthetic work.

"To reveal art and conceal the artist is art's true aim." Oscar Wilde

If you enjoy Oscar Wilde Thalassa I would like to point you in the direction of a friend and contemporary of his, A. E. Housman. Mr. Housman is up there among my favourite poets. When Wilde was convicted and sent to prison (1895) Housman wrote a piece (now called) 'The Colour of his Hair' and stands as a much read poem today. It may be, of course that you are familiar with this poem, if not it is worth a read as are other Housman poems.

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Critique is a compliment
Kind regards, Alan
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author comment

Dear Alan, what a lovely trilogy about your Yorkshire moors and countryside in general. It must be nice to live there and be able to write in tranquility. I'll have to return to take in the whole trilogy, but at first reading I find no fault, it makes me want to visit England again.
I'd planned it, as you know, but it's all on hold. I think I mentioned that my grand niece (?) had Covid recently. She's OK and the family is out of quarantine.
I'll be back soon, Gracy

*
*
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"My soul is painted like the wings of butterflies; fairy tales of yesterday will grow but never die, I can fly, my friends.” – Freddie Mercury

about your g/niece Gracy I am pleased to hear that she is OK. Thanks for calling in.

.......................................
Critique is a compliment
Kind regards, Alan
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author comment

Yes yes I never have anything intelligent enough to say, so I will just say gorgeous every image, as I know Yorkshire quite well I can totally jump into this poem. I go further and say I can see your kind heart within the lines and especially the end. Always feel honoured to read your work.

Thank you...Teddy

and do jump in Teddy, you can go for a villanesque walk and pick some flowers.

Wordsworth's  Daffodils

Far away, over meadows, fields and hills
Or through oak woodland which is ever sweet:
Seeking out Wordsworth's golden daffodils.

Early morning, amid the dewy chills
Where a dawn kissed grassland moistens the feet
Far away over meadows, fields and hills.

A perfumed carpet your raw senses it fills
With a yellow trumpeted aspect replete

Seeking out Wordsworth's golden daffodils.

And by the noon, as mid-day sunlight spills,
I wander onward down a floral street
Far away over meadows, fields and hills.

By farmstead ruins and age-old water mills
Where sheep now dwell and brightly bleat and eat,
Seeking Wordsworth's golden daffodils.

So the land where the poet whet his skills
You walk in springtime in nature's elite.
Far away over meadows, fields and hills
Seeking out Wordsworth's golden daffodils.

 

 

.......................................
Critique is a compliment
Kind regards, Alan
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author comment

Again, Alan, your poetry transports me to a peaceful, serene world. You humbly state that your surroundings offer such poetry, and that sounds true, but one needs to feel it first before they can write about it.
Most appreciated,
L

Your visits are always filled with fine words. I am in my study now, the window of which overlooks the moorland peaks of a place called Harden Moss. I can just about see a mile or so into the distance as heaven has seen fit to gift us with a deluge of wind and rain today. Nevertheless inside my home it is warm and dry ~ what, besides that, could I ever ask for? I may take a look through my back catalogue and find all my 'Rainy Day' poems to celebrate my thanks for being alive today.

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Critique is a compliment
Kind regards, Alan
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author comment

Absolutely! I hope you have a wonderful 'Rainy Day!'
Thank you,
L

Instead of red deer we have whit tails around here. I hunt them but watch far more than I shoot. Your poems all sound as if they were written by a past master. You capture the spirit of both the hunter and the hunted as well as the love the hunter has for his prey. Well done

Yes I've seen the white tails you have. I have a pocket watch on a gold chain with a fine coloured case panel depicting a white tail buck. One of my favourite novels, and one which we were required to read at school, is James Fenimore Cooper's 'Last of the Mohicans'. In the story marksman Nathanial (Natty Bumppo) shoots, as a food source, a deer in flight. Chingachgook then pays tribute to the dead animal and its swiftsness. His is a good practice to follow I think. The reality is that my poems are all written by a dinosaur.

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Critique is a compliment
Kind regards, Alan
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author comment

Well at least two of us old dinosaurs haven'y gone extinct. I guess I've killed about 60-70 deer during my life and each time I have mixed feelings. One part of me is elated at a successful hunt but the other part is saddened at having taken such a wild creature's life. But then I sit down to a dinner of venison and remember that all prey dies and I'm just another predator. I also read the book "Last of the Mohicans "and saw the movie.

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