Written for: Imaginary Gardens With Real Toads – Wordy Monday with Wild Woman – “The Wolf Mother”
“The loss of the wolf is like the loss of the mother. Somewhere she roams in memory, in darkness. Our bond with her is inexplicable, before the beginning of time. She is fierce love; she is sorrow. She is a howling in the wilderness we can never see, calling us home. She is what we fear – and what we long to return to – the heat of the cave and animal closeness, before all civilization and reason.…The wolf is the dark heart of winter. She is the hot breath of life, red eyes searching for her child at twilight in the snow.”
-from The Memory Palace, by Mira Bartók
Answer the wolf’s call with your poems about wildness and wolves, domesticity and mothers, daughters and sons, or your own fierce love for your child. Allow the passage quoted to take you where it pleases. Bring us back whatever you find.
Animals must be wary
at all times. I have
a special love for them all,
so when I see a deer
with no light left in her eyes,
or that despicable person
who shot my favorite animal,
the giraffe, and posed with it–
a trophy who did not matter.
That photography burns in
my mind. Animals are mothers,
fathers, siblings. You shoot . . .
and destroy the life of a family
who deserves to live in peace.
So true, Sara. Those grinning faces over the corpses of the animals they killed make me wonder if they have hearts. Here in Canada, the gun down wolves from helicopters. Imagine the terror.
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That is awful, Sherry.
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I agree. Except for purposes of food, hunting is despicable.
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Thanks, Toni!
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I am so right there with you Sara. Hunting either comes from a place of cruelty, or some strange misplaced sense of insecurity. Hypocrite that I am, I do eat beef, pork, and fish, but I love domesticated animals (dogs, cats, horses). I especially love wild animals — with a very special place in my heart for the stately giraffes. Please forgive what I say here Sara, but grown men who hunt and murder for sport, are like those who buy insanely fast, gas-guzzling exotic cars — both, as I see it, suffer from SPS (small penis syndrome).
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SPS – priceless! Love it.
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Amen, Sara. That is needless and cruel. I never applaud one with a trophy. My DIL once showed me the family of her SIL, it was full of hunted animal trophies. The one I will not forget, and that makes me feel bad, is the stuffed giraffe that he killed in Africa.
..
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Nightmare to me. Thanks, Jim.
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