THE BUFFALO HUNTER - For Comandante Chavez



The beast archetypical crashes through gospel of the jungle

Plunders our wealth historical and make the motheers tremble

Lies hyperventillating, waiting for the last breath to past

Is not the subject of our sorrow, but the sunset shrinking, for nothing last

Beside its still breathing carcas el commandante silent lies

His last arrow from the quiver drawn, his spear has blooded point

The raven over him make dark shadows and tumult its cries:

The Buffalo hunter is no more. This is what his destiny appoint,

This is how good men die,  not in the height of mortal combat cast down

But by an evil silent, with invisible stealth, an arrow flown unseen

Impaled him where he genders love. Yet the great hunter without a frown

Knows his equal, though the others style he had never used (the keen

Confrontation was polite, it forecast intent, and opened choice in the fight).

The Buffalo always knew where this hunter stood, and for what he stood

There is no secret in it if the cause uplifting it is demonnstrated right.

O come you wild world trek your homage to the grief pillaged wood,

The Buffalo hunter is dead, like a phony shaft of light the enemy gored

The soldier of huuman rights, and he is dead. Hope he has restored

Is fallen again, and the world is not the same, is not the same again.

The Buffalo hunter have said finally farewell, farewell terminal pain

For him, ours has just began, and we stalked by the shadowed sun

Will lie still too, where the great man lies when our futile life is done.

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Submitted on July 05, 2013

Modified on March 21, 2023

1:21 min read
1

Quick analysis:

Scheme A A B B C D C D E F E F G H G H I I X X J J
Characters 1,481
Words 270
Stanzas 22
Stanza Lengths 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1

David Smalling

I have been writing poems since I was 12 years; but writing had been my blanket for loneliness since age 11. My father died when I was 13 and poetry was my therapy for pain since then. Only I wanted the world to think, feel, laugh, but not cry. I had been forgotten in the grief of my father's death because everyone else needed the consolation I did not get. I became the even more the withdrawn loner, and saw a world more aggressively hostile. Books became my better friend and drove me deeper into academic seclusion. I wrote thousands of poems everywhere: on rocks, trees, sand, and all over house and school - this was how I interrogate the world, and how I weep alone. Poetry was my quest and comfort. I trusted paper and pen and spoke my truths to them above all else. Yes, I am graduate, a business major, a science major, an humanities major ... still searching for consolation, love, security, and joy obtained in poetry. Then again Jamaica is such an ideal place to live as a poet; the history and memories, juxtaposed against the world, is pure inspiration. more…

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