10 Best Famous Camouflage Poems

Here is a collection of the top 10 all-time best famous Camouflage poems. This is a select list of the best famous Camouflage poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Camouflage poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of camouflage poems.

• All Famous Camouflage Poems

 Half the people in the world love the other half, 
 half the people hate the other half.
Must I because of this half and that half go wandering 
 and changing ceaselessly like rain in its cycle, 
 must I sleep among rocks, and grow rugged like 
 the trunks of olive trees,
and hear the moon barking at me,
and camouflage my love with worries,
and sprout like frightened grass between the railroad 
 tracks,
and live underground like a mole,
and remain with roots and not with branches, and not 
 feel my cheek against the cheek of angels, and 
 love in the first cave, and marry my wife 
 beneath a canopy of beams that support the earth,
and act out my death, always till the last breath and 
 the last words and without ever understandig,
and put flagpoles on top of my house and a bob shelter 
 underneath. And go out on rads made only for 
 returning and go through all the apalling 
 stations—cat,stick,fire,water,butcher, 
 between the kid and the angel of death?
Half the people love,
half the people hate.
And where is my place between such well-matched halves, 
 and through what crack will I see the white housing 
 projects of my dreams and the bare foot runners 
 on the sands or, at least, the waving of a girl's 
 kerchief, beside the mound?

 Here at the Super Duper, in a glass tank
Supplied by a rill of cold fresh water
Running down a glass washboard at one end
And siphoned off at the other, and so
Perpetually renewed, a herd of lobster
Is made available to the customer
Who may choose whichever one he wants
To carry home and drop into boiling water
And serve with a sauce of melted butter. 

Meanwhile, the beauty of strangeness marks
These creatures, who move (when they do)
With a slow, vague wavering of claws,
The somnambulist¹s effortless clambering
As he crawls over the shell of a dream
Resembling himself. Their velvet colors,
Mud red, bruise purple, cadaver green
Speckled with black, their camouflage at home,
Make them conspicuous here in the strong
Day-imitating light, the incommensurable
Philosophers and at the same time victims
Herded together in the marketplace, asleep
Except for certain tentative gestures
Of their antennae, or their imperial claws
Pegged shut with a whittled stick at the wrist. 

We inlanders, buying our needful food,
Pause over these slow, gigantic spiders
That spin not. We pause and are bemused,
And sometimes it happens that a mind sinks down
To the blind abyss in a swirl of sand, goes cold
And archaic in a carapace of horn,
Thinking: There's something underneath the world. 

The flame beneath the pot that boils the water.

 Securely sunning in a forest glade, 
A mild, well-meaning snake
Approved the adaptations he had made
For safety’s sake.

He liked the skin he had—
Its mottled camouflage, its look of mail,
And was content that he had thought to add
A rattling tail.


The tail was not for drumming up a fight;
No, nothing of the sort.
And he would only use his poisoned bite
As last resort.

 Beside the bare and beaten track of travelling flocks and herds 
The woodpecker went tapping on, the postman of the birds, 
"I've got a letter here," he said, "that no one's understood, 
Addressed as follows: 'To the bird that's like a piece of wood.' 
"The soldier bird got very cross -- it wasn't meant for her; 
The spurwing plover had a try to stab me with a spur: 
The jackass laughed, and said the thing was written for a lark. 
I think I'll chuck this postman job and take to stripping bark." 

Then all the birds for miles around came in to lend a hand; 
They perched upon a broken limb as thick as they could stand, 
And just as old man eaglehawk prepared to have his say 
A portion of the broken limb got up and flew away. 

Then, casting grammar to the winds, the postman said, "That's him! 
The boobook owl -- he squats himself along a broken limb, 
And pokes his beak up like a stick; there's not a bird, I vow, 
Can tell you which is boobook owl and which is broken bough. 

"And that's the thing he calls his nest -- that jerry-built affair -- 
A bunch of sticks across a fork; I'll leave his letter there. 
A cuckoo wouldn't use his nest, but what's the odds to him -- 
A bird that tries to imitate a piece of leaning limb!"

 The hunter crouches in his blind
'Neath camouflage of every kind
And conjures up a quacking noise
To lend allure to his decoys
This grown-up man, with pluck and luck
is hoping to outwit a duck

 Beside the bare and beaten track of travelling flocks and herds 
The woodpecker went tapping on, the postman of the birds, 
"I've got a letter here," he said, "that no one's understood, 
Addressed as follows: 'To the bird that's like a piece of wood.' 
"The soldier bird got very cross -- it wasn't meant for her; 
The spurwing plover had a try to stab me with a spur: 
The jackass laughed, and said the thing was written for a lark. 
I think I'll chuck this postman job and take to stripping bark." 

Then all the birds for miles around came in to lend a hand; 
They perched upon a broken limb as thick as they could stand, 
And just as old man eaglehawk prepared to have his say 
A portion of the broken limb got up and flew away. 

Then, casting grammar to the winds, the postman said, "That's him! 
The boobook owl -- he squats himself along a broken limb, 
And pokes his beak up like a stick; there's not a bird, I vow, 
Can tell you which is boobook owl and which is broken bough. 

"And that's the thing he calls his nest -- that jerry-built affair -- 
A bunch of sticks across a fork; I'll leave his letter there. 
A cuckoo wouldn't use his nest, but what's the odds to him -- 
A bird that tries to imitate a piece of leaning limb!"