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Best Famous Caribou Poems

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

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Written by A R Ammons | Create an image from this poem

**** List; Or Omnium-gatherum Of Diversity Into Unity

 You'll rejoice at how many kinds of **** there are:
gosling **** (which J.
Williams said something was as green as), fish **** (the generality), trout ****, rainbow trout **** (for the nice), mullet ****, sand dab ****, casual sloth ****, elephant **** (awesome as process or payload), wildebeest ****, horse **** (a favorite), caterpillar **** (so many dark kinds, neatly pelleted as mint seed), baby rhinoceros ****, splashy jaybird ****, mockingbird **** (dive-bombed with the aim of song), robin **** that oozes white down lawnchairs or down roots under roosts, chicken **** and chicken mite ****, pelican ****, gannet **** (wholesome guano), fly **** (periodic), cockatoo ****, dog **** (past catalog or assimilation), cricket ****, elk (high plains) ****, and tiny scribbled little shrew ****, whale **** (what a sight, deep assumption), mandril **** (blazing blast off), weasel **** (wiles' waste), gazelle ****, magpie **** (total protein), tiger **** (too acid to contemplate), moral eel and manta ray ****, eerie shark ****, earthworm **** (a soilure), crab ****, wolf **** upon the germicidal ice, snake ****, giraffe **** that accelerates, secretary bird ****, turtle **** suspension invites, remora **** slightly in advance of the shark ****, hornet **** (difficult to assess), camel **** that slaps the ghastly dry siliceous, frog ****, beetle ****, bat **** (the marmoreal), contemptible cat ****, penguin ****, hermit crab ****, prairie hen ****, cougar ****, eagle **** (high totem stuff), buffalo **** (hardly less lofty), otter ****, beaver **** (from the animal of alluvial dreams)—a vast ordure is a broken down cloaca—macaw ****, alligator **** (that floats the Nile along), louse ****, macaque, koala, and coati ****, antelope ****, chuck-will's-widow ****, alpaca **** (very high stuff), gooney bird ****, chigger ****, bull **** (the classic), caribou ****, rasbora, python, and razorbill ****, scorpion ****, man ****, laswing fly larva ****, chipmunk ****, other-worldly wallaby ****, gopher **** (or broke), platypus ****, aardvark ****, spider ****, kangaroo and peccary ****, guanaco ****, dolphin ****, aphid ****, baboon **** (that leopards induce), albatross ****, red-headed woodpecker (nine inches long) ****, tern ****, hedgehog ****, panda ****, seahorse ****, and the **** of the wasteful gallinule.

Written by Ogden Nash | Create an image from this poem

No Doctors Today Thank You

 They tell me that euphoria is the feeling of feeling wonderful,
well, today I feel euphorian,
Today I have the agility of a Greek god and the appetitite of a
Yes, today I may even go forth without my galoshes, Today I am a swashbuckler, would anybody like me to buckle any swashes? This is my euphorian day, I will ring welkins and before anybody answers I will run away.
I will tame me a caribou And bedeck it with marabou.
I will pen me my memoirs.
Ah youth, youth! What euphorian days them was! I wasn't much of a hand for the boudoirs, I was generally to be found where the food was.
Does anybody want any flotsam? I've gotsam.
Does anybody want any jetsam? I can getsam.
I can play chopsticks on the Wurlitzer, I can speak Portuguese like a Berlitzer.
I can don or doff my shoes without tying or untying the laces because I am wearing moccasins, And I practically know the difference between serums and antitoccasins.
Kind people, don't think me purse-proud, don't set me down as vainglorious, I'm just a little euphorious.
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem


 Of course you've heard of the Nancy Lee, and how she sailed away
On her famous quest of the Arctic flea, to the wilds of Hudson's Bay?
For it was a foreign Prince's whim to collect this tiny cuss,
And a golden quid was no more to him than a copper to coves like us.
So we sailed away and our hearts were gay as we gazed on the gorgeous scene; And we laughed with glee as we caught the flea of the wolf and the wolverine; Yea, our hearts were light as the parasite of the ermine rat we slew, And the great musk ox, and the silver fox, and the moose and the caribou.
And we laughed with zest as the insect pest of the marmot crowned our zeal, And the wary mink and the wily "link", and the walrus and the seal.
And with eyes aglow on the scornful snow we danced a rigadoon, Round the lonesome lair of the Arctic hare, by the light of the silver moon.
But the time was nigh to homeward hie, when, imagine our despair! For the best of the lot we hadn't got -- the flea of the polar bear.
Oh, his face was long and his breath was strong, as the Skipper he says to me: "I wants you to linger 'ere, my lad, by the shores of the Hartic Sea; I wants you to 'unt the polar bear the perishin' winter through, And if flea ye find of its breed and kind, there's a 'undred quid for you.
" But I shook my head: "No, Cap," I said; "it's yourself I'd like to please, But I tells ye flat I wouldn't do that if ye went on yer bended knees.
" Then the Captain spat in the seething brine, and he says: "Good luck to you, If it can't be did for a 'undred quid, supposin' we call it two?" So that was why they said good-by, and they sailed and left me there -- Alone, alone in the Arctic Zone to hunt for the polar bear.
Oh, the days were slow and packed with woe, till I thought they would never end; And I used to sit when the fire was lit, with my pipe for my only friend.
And I tried to sing some rollicky thing, but my song broke off in a prayer, And I'd drowse and dream by the driftwood gleam; I'd dream of a polar bear; I'd dream of a cloudlike polar bear that blotted the stars on high, With ravenous jaws and flenzing claws, and the flames of hell in his eye.
And I'd trap around on the frozen ground, as a proper hunter ought, And beasts I'd find of every kind, but never the one I sought.
Never a track in the white ice-pack that humped and heaved and flawed, Till I came to think: "Why, strike me pink! if the creature ain't a fraud.
" And then one night in the waning light, as I hurried home to sup, I hears a roar by the cabin door, and a great white hulk heaves up.
So my rifle flashed, and a bullet crashed; dead, dead as a stone fell he, And I gave a cheer, for there in his ear -- Gosh ding me! -- a tiny flea.
At last, at last! Oh, I clutched it fast, and I gazed on it with pride; And I thrust it into a biscuit-tin, and I shut it safe inside; With a lid of glass for the light to pass, and space to leap and play; Oh, it kept alive; yea, seemed to thrive, as I watched it night and day.
And I used to sit and sing to it, and I shielded it from harm, And many a hearty feed it had on the heft of my hairy arm.
For you'll never know in that land of snow how lonesome a man can feel; So I made a fuss of the little cuss, and I christened it "Lucille".
But the longest winter has its end, and the ice went out to sea, And I saw one day a ship in the bay, and there was the Nancy Lee.
So a boat was lowered and I went aboard, and they opened wide their eyes -- Yes, they gave a cheer when the truth was clear, and they saw my precious prize.
And then it was all like a giddy dream; but to cut my story short, We sailed away on the fifth of May to the foreign Prince's court; To a palmy land and a palace grand, and the little Prince was there, And a fat Princess in a satin dress with a crown of gold on her hair.
And they showed me into a shiny room, just him and her and me, And the Prince he was pleased and friendly-like, and he calls for drinks for three.
And I shows them my battered biscuit-tin, and I makes my modest spiel, And they laughed, they did, when I opened the lid, and out there popped Lucille.
Oh, the Prince was glad, I could soon see that, and the Princess she was too; And Lucille waltzed round on the tablecloth as she often used to do.
And the Prince pulled out a purse of gold, and he put it in my hand; And he says: "It was worth all that, I'm told, to stay in that nasty land.
" And then he turned with a sudden cry, and he clutched at his royal beard; And the Princess screamed, and well she might -- for Lucille had disappeared.
"She must be here," said his Noble Nibbs, so we hunted all around; Oh, we searched that place, but never a trace of the little beast we found.
So I shook my head, and I glumly said: "Gol darn the saucy cuss! It's mighty *****, but she isn't here; so .
she must be on one of us.
You'll pardon me if I make so free, but -- there's just one thing to do: If you'll kindly go for a half a mo' I'll search me garments through.
" Then all alone on the shiny throne I stripped from head to heel; In vain, in vain; it was very plain that I hadn't got Lucille.
So I garbed again, and I told the Prince, and he scratched his august head; "I suppose if she hasn't selected you, it must be me," he said.
So he retired; but he soon came back, and his features showed distress: "Oh, it isn't you and it isn't me.
" .
Then we looked at the Princess.
So she retired; and we heard a scream, and she opened wide the door; And her fingers twain were pinched to pain, but a radiant smile she wore: "It's here," she cries, "our precious prize.
Oh, I found it right away.
" Then I ran to her with a shout of joy, but I choked with a wild dismay.
I clutched the back of the golden throne, and the room began to reel .
What she held to me was, ah yes! a flea, but .
it wasn't my Lucille.
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

The Atavist

 What are you doing here, Tom Thorne, on the white top-knot o' the world,
Where the wind has the cut of a naked knife and the stars are rapier keen?
Hugging a smudgy willow fire, deep in a lynx robe curled,
You that's a lord's own son, Tom Thorne -- what does your madness mean?

Go home, go home to your clubs, Tom Thorne! home to your evening dress!
Home to your place of power and pride, and the feast that waits for you!
Why do you linger all alone in the splendid emptiness,
Scouring the Land of the Little Sticks on the trail of the caribou?

Why did you fall off the Earth, Tom Thorne, out of our social ken?
What did your deep damnation prove? What was your dark despair?
Oh with the width of a world between, and years to the count of ten,
If they cut out your heart to-night, Tom Thorne, her name would be graven there!

And you fled afar for the thing called Peace, and you thought you would find it here,
In the purple tundras vastly spread, and the mountains whitely piled;
It's a weary quest and a dreary quest, but I think that the end is near;
For they say that the Lord has hidden it in the secret heart of the Wild.
And you know that heart as few men know, and your eyes are fey and deep, With a "something lost" come welling back from the raw, red dawn of life: With woe and pain have you greatly lain, till out of abysmal sleep The soul of the Stone Age leaps in you, alert for the ancient strife.
And if you came to our feast again, with its pomp and glee and glow, I think you would sit stone-still, Tom Thorne, and see in a daze of dream, A mad sun goading to frenzied flame the glittering gems of the snow, And a monster musk-ox bulking black against the blood-red gleam.
I think you would see berg-battling shores, and stammer and halt and stare, With a sudden sense of the frozen void, serene and vast and still; And the aching gleam and the hush of dream, and the track of a great white bear, And the primal lust that surged in you as you sprang to make your kill.
I think you would hear the bull-moose call, and the glutted river roar; And spy the hosts of the caribou shadow the shining plain; And feel the pulse of the Silences, and stand elate once more On the verge of the yawning vastitudes that call to you in vain.
For I think you are one with the stars and the sun, and the wind and the wave and the dew; And the peaks untrod that yearn to God, and the valleys undefiled; Men soar with wings, and they bridle kings, but what is it all to you, Wise in the ways of the wilderness, and strong with the strength of the Wild? You have spent your life, you have waged your strife where never we play a part; You have held the throne of the Great Unknown, you have ruled a kingdom vast: .
But to-night there's a strange, new trail for you, and you go, O weary heart! To the place and rest of the Great Unguessed .
at last, Tom Thorne, at last.
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

Im Scared Of It All

 I'm scared of it all, God's truth! so I am;
It's too big and brutal for me.
My nerve's on the raw and I don't give a damn For all the "hoorah" that I see.
I'm pinned between subway and overhead train, Where automobillies swoop down: Oh, I want to go back to the timber again -- I'm scared of the terrible town.
I want to go back to my lean, ashen plains; My rivers that flash into foam; My ultimate valleys where solitude reigns; My trail from Fort Churchill to Nome.
My forests packed full of mysterious gloom, My ice-fields agrind and aglare: The city is deadfalled with danger and doom -- I know that I'm safer up there.
I watch the wan faces that flash in the street; All kinds and all classes I see.
Yet never a one in the million I meet, Has the smile of a comrade for me.
Just jaded and panting like dogs in a pack; Just tensed and intent on the goal: O God! but I'm lonesome -- I wish I was back, Up there in the land of the Pole.
I wish I was back on the Hunger Plateaus, And seeking the lost caribou; I wish I was up where the Coppermine flows To the kick of my little canoe.
I'd like to be far on some weariful shore, In the Land of the Blizzard and Bear; Oh, I wish I was snug in the Arctic once more, For I know I am safer up there! I prowl in the canyons of dismal unrest; I cringe -- I'm so weak and so small.
I can't get my bearings, I'm crushed and oppressed With the haste and the waste of it all.
The slaves and the madman, the lust and the sweat, The fear in the faces I see; The getting, the spending, the fever, the fret -- It's too bleeding cruel for me.
I feel it's all wrong, but I can't tell you why -- The palace, the hovel next door; The insolent towers that sprawl to the sky, The crush and the rush and the roar.
I'm trapped like a fox and I fear for my pelt; I cower in the crash and the glare; Oh, I want to be back in the avalanche belt, For I know that it's safer up there! I'm scared of it all: Oh, afar I can hear The voice of my solitudes call! We're nothing but brute with a little veneer, And nature is best after all.
There's tumult and terror abroad in the street; There's menace and doom in the air; I've got to get back to my thousand-mile beat; The trail where the cougar and silver-tip meet; The snows and the camp-fire, with wolves at my feet; Good-bye, for it's safer up there.
To be forming good habits up there; To be starving on rabbits up there; In your hunger and woe, Though it's sixty below, Oh, I know that it's safer up there!

Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

The Squaw Man

 The cow-moose comes to water, and the beaver's overbold,
The net is in the eddy of the stream;
The teepee stars the vivid sward with russet, red and gold,
And in the velvet gloom the fire's a-gleam.
The night is ripe with quiet, rich with incense of the pine; From sanctuary lake I hear the loon; The peaks are bright against the blue, and drenched with sunset wine, And like a silver bubble is the moon.
Cloud-high I climbed but yesterday; a hundred miles around I looked to see a rival fire a-gleam.
As in a crystal lens it lay, a land without a bound, All lure, and virgin vastitude, and dream.
The great sky soared exultantly, the great earth bared its breast, All river-veined and patterned with the pine; The heedless hordes of caribou were streaming to the West, A land of lustrous mystery -- and mine.
Yea, mine to frame my Odyssey: Oh, little do they know My conquest and the kingdom that I keep! The meadows of the musk-ox, where the laughing grasses grow, The rivers where the careless conies leap.
Beyond the silent Circle, where white men are fierce and few, I lord it, and I mock at man-made law; Like a flame upon the water is my little light canoe, And yonder in the fireglow is my squaw.
A squaw man! yes, that's what I am; sneer at me if you will.
I've gone the grilling pace that cannot last; With bawdry, bridge and brandy -- Oh, I've drank enough to kill A dozen such as you, but that is past.
I've swung round to my senses, found the place where I belong; The City made a madman out of me; But here beyond the Circle, where there's neither right or wrong, I leap from life's straight-jacket, and I'm free.
Yet ever in the far forlorn, by trails of lone desire; Yet ever in the dawn's white leer of hate; Yet ever by the dripping kill, beside the drowsy fire, There comes the fierce heart-hunger for a mate.
There comes the mad blood-clamour for a woman's clinging hand, Love-humid eyes, the velvet of a breast; And so I sought the Bonnet-plumes, and chose from out the band The girl I thought the sweetest and the best.
O wistful women I have loved before my dark disgrace! O women fair and rare in my home land! Dear ladies, if I saw you now I'd turn away my face, Then crawl to kiss your foot-prints in the sand! And yet -- that day the rifle jammed -- a wounded moose at bay -- A roar, a charge .
I faced it with my knife: A shot from out the willow-scrub, and there the monster lay.
Yes, little Laughing Eyes, you saved my life.
The man must have the woman, and we're all brutes more or less, Since first the male ape shinned the family tree; And yet I think I love her with a husband's tenderness, And yet I know that she would die for me.
Oh, if I left you, Laughing Eyes, and nevermore came back, God help you, girl! I know what you would do.
I see the lake wan in the moon, and from the shadow black, There drifts a little, empty birch canoe.
We're here beyond the Circle, where there's never wrong nor right; We aren't spliced according to the law; But by the gods I hail you on this hushed and holy night As the mother of my children, and my squaw.
I see your little slender face set in the firelight glow; I pray that I may never make it sad; I hear you croon a baby song, all slumber-soft and low -- God bless you, little Laughing Eyes! I'm glad.
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

The Spell Of The Yukon

 I wanted the gold, and I sought it,
 I scrabbled and mucked like a slave.
Was it famine or scurvy -- I fought it; I hurled my youth into a grave.
I wanted the gold, and I got it -- Came out with a fortune last fall, -- Yet somehow life's not what I thought it, And somehow the gold isn't all.
No! There's the land.
(Have you seen it?) It's the cussedest land that I know, From the big, dizzy mountains that screen it To the deep, deathlike valleys below.
Some say God was tired when He made it; Some say it's a fine land to shun; Maybe; but there's some as would trade it For no land on earth -- and I'm one.
You come to get rich (damned good reason); You feel like an exile at first; You hate it like hell for a season, And then you are worse than the worst.
It grips you like some kinds of sinning; It twists you from foe to a friend; It seems it's been since the beginning; It seems it will be to the end.
I've stood in some mighty-mouthed hollow That's plumb-full of hush to the brim; I've watched the big, husky sun wallow In crimson and gold, and grow dim, Till the moon set the pearly peaks gleaming, And the stars tumbled out, neck and crop; And I've thought that I surely was dreaming, With the peace o' the world piled on top.
The summer -- no sweeter was ever; The sunshiny woods all athrill; The grayling aleap in the river, The bighorn asleep on the hill.
The strong life that never knows harness; The wilds where the caribou call; The freshness, the freedom, the farness -- O God! how I'm stuck on it all.
The winter! the brightness that blinds you, The white land locked tight as a drum, The cold fear that follows and finds you, The silence that bludgeons you dumb.
The snows that are older than history, The woods where the weird shadows slant; The stillness, the moonlight, the mystery, I've bade 'em good-by -- but I can't.
There's a land where the mountains are nameless, And the rivers all run God knows where; There are lives that are erring and aimless, And deaths that just hang by a hair; There are hardships that nobody reckons; There are valleys unpeopled and still; There's a land -- oh, it beckons and beckons, And I want to go back -- and I will.
They're making my money diminish; I'm sick of the taste of champagne.
Thank God! when I'm skinned to a finish I'll pike to the Yukon again.
I'll fight -- and you bet it's no sham-fight; It's hell! -- but I've been there before; And it's better than this by a damnsite -- So me for the Yukon once more.
There's gold, and it's haunting and haunting; It's luring me on as of old; Yet it isn't the gold that I'm wanting So much as just finding the gold.
It's the great, big, broad land 'way up yonder, It's the forests where silence has lease; It's the beauty that thrills me with wonder, It's the stillness that fills me with peace.
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem


 We talked of yesteryears, of trails and treasure,
 Of men who played the game and lost or won;
Of mad stampedes, of toil beyond all measure,
 Of camp-fire comfort when the day was done.
We talked of sullen nights by moon-dogs haunted, Of bird and beast and tree, of rod and gun; Of boat and tent, of hunting-trip enchanted Beneath the wonder of the midnight sun; Of bloody-footed dogs that gnawed the traces, Of prisoned seas, wind-lashed and winter-locked; The ice-gray dawn was pale upon our faces, Yet still we filled the cup and still we talked.
The city street was dimmed.
We saw the glitter Of moon-picked brilliants on the virgin snow, And down the drifted canyon heard the bitter, Relentless slogan of the winds of woe.
The city was forgot, and, parka-skirted, We trod that leagueless land that once we knew; We saw stream past, down valleys glacier-girted, The wolf-worn legions of the caribou.
We smoked our pipes, o'er scenes of triumph dwelling; Of deeds of daring, dire defeats, we talked; And other tales that lost not in the telling, Ere to our beds uncertainly we walked.
And so, dear friends, in gentler valleys roaming, Perhaps, when on my printed page you look, Your fancies by the firelight may go homing To that lone land that haply you forsook.
And if perchance you hear the silence calling, The frozen music of star-yearning heights, Or, dreaming, see the seines of silver trawling Across the sky's abyss on vasty nights, You may recall that sweep of savage splendor, That land that measures each man at his worth, And feel in memory, half fierce, half tender, The brotherhood of men that know the North.