Get Your Premium Membership

Best Famous Porcupine Poems

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

Search and read the best famous Porcupine poems, articles about Porcupine poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Porcupine poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See Also:
Written by Pablo Neruda | Create an image from this poem

A Dog Has Died

 My dog has died.
I buried him in the garden next to a rusted old machine.
Some day I'll join him right there, but now he's gone with his shaggy coat, his bad manners and his cold nose, and I, the materialist, who never believed in any promised heaven in the sky for any human being, I believe in a heaven I'll never enter.
Yes, I believe in a heaven for all dogdom where my dog waits for my arrival waving his fan-like tail in friendship.
Ai, I'll not speak of sadness here on earth, of having lost a companion who was never servile.
His friendship for me, like that of a porcupine withholding its authority, was the friendship of a star, aloof, with no more intimacy than was called for, with no exaggerations: he never climbed all over my clothes filling me full of his hair or his mange, he never rubbed up against my knee like other dogs obsessed with sex.
No, my dog used to gaze at me, paying me the attention I need, the attention required to make a vain person like me understand that, being a dog, he was wasting time, but, with those eyes so much purer than mine, he'd keep on gazing at me with a look that reserved for me alone all his sweet and shaggy life, always near me, never troubling me, and asking nothing.
Ai, how many times have I envied his tail as we walked together on the shores of the sea in the lonely winter of Isla Negra where the wintering birds filled the sky and my hairy dog was jumping about full of the voltage of the sea's movement: my wandering dog, sniffing away with his golden tail held high, face to face with the ocean's spray.
Joyful, joyful, joyful, as only dogs know how to be happy with only the autonomy of their shameless spirit.
There are no good-byes for my dog who has died, and we don't now and never did lie to each other.
So now he's gone and I buried him, and that's all there is to it.


Written by Dame Edith Sitwell | Create an image from this poem

When Cold December

 WHEN cold December 
Froze to grisamber 
The jangling bells on the sweet rose-trees-- 
Then fading slow 
And furred is the snow 
As the almond's sweet husk-- 
And smelling like musk.
The snow amygdaline Under the eglantine Where the bristling stars shine Like a gilt porcupine-- The snow confesses The little Princesses On their small chioppines Dance under the orpines.
See the casuistries Of their slant fluttering eyes-- Gilt as the zodiac (Dancing Herodiac).
Only the snow slides Like gilded myrrh-- From the rose-branches--hides Rose-roots that stir.
Written by Marianne Moore | Create an image from this poem

Peter

 Strong and slippery,
built for the midnight grass-party
confronted by four cats, he sleeps his time away--
the detached first claw on the foreleg corresponding
to the thumb, retracted to its tip; the small tuft of fronds
or katydid-legs above each eye numbering all units
in each group; the shadbones regularly set about the mouth
to droop or rise in unison like porcupine-quills.
He lets himself be flattened out by gravity, as seaweed is tamed and weakened by the sun, compelled when extended, to lie stationary.
Sleep is the result of his delusion that one must do as well as one can for oneself, sleep--epitome of what is to him the end of life.
Demonstrate on him how the lady placed a forked stick on the innocuous neck-sides of the dangerous southern snake.
One need not try to stir him up; his prune-shaped head and alligator-eyes are not party to the joke.
Lifted and handled, he may be dangled like an eel or set up on the forearm like a mouse; his eyes bisected by pupils of a pin's width, are flickeringly exhibited, then covered up.
May be? I should have said might have been; when he has been got the better of in a dream-- as in a fight with nature or with cats, we all know it.
Profound sleep is not with him a fixed illusion.
Springing about with froglike accuracy, with jerky cries when taken in hand, he is himself again; to sit caged by the rungs of a domestic chair would be unprofitable--human.
What is the good of hypocrisy? it is permissible to choose one's employment, to abandon the nail, or roly-poly, when it shows signs of being no longer a pleasure, to score the nearby magazine with a double line of strokes.
He can talk but insolently says nothing.
What of it? When one is frank, one's very presence is a compliment.
It is clear that he can see the virtue of naturalness, that he does not regard the published fact as a surrender.
As for the disposition invariably to affront, an animal with claws should have an opportunity to use them.
The eel-like extension of trunk into tail is not an accident.
To leap, to lengthen out, divide the air, to purloin, to pursue.
To tell the hen: fly over the fence, go in the wrong way in your perturbation--this is life; to do less would be nothing but dishonesty.
Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Create an image from this poem

The Silent Shearer

 Weary and listless, sad and slow, 
Without any conversation, 
Was a man that worked on The Overflow, 
The butt of the shed and the station.
The shearers christened him Noisy Ned, With an alias "Silent Waters", But never a needless word he said In the hut or the shearers' quarters.
Which caused annoyance to Big Barcoo, The shed's unquestioned ringer, Whose name was famous Australia through As a dancer, fighter and singer.
He was fit for the ring, if he'd had his rights As an agent of devastation; And the number of men he had killed in fights Was his principal conversation.
"I have known blokes go to their doom," said he, "Through actin' with haste and rashness: But the style that this Noisy Ned assumes, It's nothing but silent flashness.
"We may just be dirt, from his point of view, Unworthy a word in season; But I'll make him talk like a cockatoo Or I'll get him to show the reason.
" Was it chance or fate, that King Condamine, A king who had turned a black tracker, Had captured a baby purcupine, Which he swapped for a "fig tobacker"? With the porcupine in the Silent's bed The shearers were quite elated, And the things to be done, and the words to be said, Were anxiously awaited.
With a screech and a howl and an eldritch cry That nearly deafened his hearers He sprang from his bunk, and his fishy eye Looked over the laughing shearers.
He looked them over and he looked them through As a cook might look through a larder; "Now, Big Barcoo, I must pick on you, You're big, but you'll fall the harder.
" Now, the silent man was but slight and thin And of middleweight conformation, But he hung one punch on the Barcoo's chin And it ended the altercation.
"You've heard of the One-round Kid," said he, "That hunted 'em all to shelter? The One-round Finisher -- that was me, When I fought as the Champion Welter.
"And this Barcoo bloke on his back reclines For being a bit too clever, For snakes and wombats and porcupines Are nothing to me whatever.
"But the golden rule that I've had to learn In the ring, and for years I've tried it, Is only to talk when it comes your turn, And never to talk outside it.
"
Written by Ogden Nash | Create an image from this poem

The Porcupine

 Any hound a porcupine nudges
Can't be blamed for harboring grudges.
I know one hound that laughed all winter At a porcupine that sat on a splinter.


Written by Dorothy Parker | Create an image from this poem

Parable For A Certain Virgin

 Oh, ponder, friend, the porcupine;
Refresh your recollection,
And sit a moment, to define
His means of self-protection.
How truly fortified is he! Where is the beast his double In forethought of emergency And readiness for trouble? Recall his figure, and his shade- How deftly planned and clearly For slithering through the dappled glade Unseen, or pretty nearly.
Yet should an alien eye discern His presence in the woodland, How little has he left to learn Of self-defense! My good land! For he can run, as swift as sound, To where his goose may hang high- Or thrust his head against the ground And tunnel half to Shanghai; Or he can climb the dizziest bough- Unhesitant, mechanic- And, resting, dash from off his brow The bitter beads of panic; Or should pursuers press him hot, One scarcely needs to mention His quick and cruel barbs, that got Shakespearean attention; Or driven to his final ditch, To his extremest thicket, He'll fight with claws and molars (which Is not considered cricket).
How amply armored, he, to fend The fear of chase that haunts him! How well prepared our little friend!- And who the devil wants him?
Written by John Berryman | Create an image from this poem

Dream Song 107: Three coons come at his garbage. He be cross

 Three 'coons come at his garbage.
He be cross, I figuring porcupine & took Sir poker unbarring Mr door, & then screen door.
Ah, but the little '****, hardly a foot (not counting tail) got in with two more at the porch-edge and they swirled, before some two swerve off this side of crab tree, and my dear friend held with the torch in his tiny eyes two feet off, banded, but then he gave & shot away too.
They were all the same size, maybe they were brothers, it seems, and is, clear to me we are brothers.
I wish the rabbit & the 'coons could be friends, I'm sorry about the poker but I'm too busy now for nipping or quills I've given up literature & taken down pills, and that rabbit doesn't trust me