the hunting poet has me thinking

    

    Night Hunting

Because we wanted things the way they were

in our minds' black eyes we waited. The beaver

raising ripples in a vee behind his head

the thing we wanted. A weed is what might grow

where you don't want it; a dahlia could be a weed,

or love, or other notions. The heart can't choose

to find itself enchanted; the hand can't choose

to change the shape of water. How strange, to hope

to see the signs of motion, to make an end

to Peter's old refrain: He'll be along, son of a bitch,

and then you best be ready. So sure, and so sure

that when he shines the light the thing will show

along the other shore. What next? Well,

you've killed animals before. Invited here

for company in the cold night, and because

ever handy with rifles. What next is wait

and see, what next may be the lone report, the ever-

widening circles, blood-blossom, the spirit rising slow

like oily smoke above still waters. We wanted

a pond to look like a pond: standing poplars,

shallows unsullied, fish and frogs and salamanders.

The gleaming back of fur and fat may not belong,

or may: God of varmints, God of will, forgive us

our trespasses. We know precisely what we do.

Because we wanted things the way they were
in our minds’ black eyes we waited. The beaver
raising ripples in a vee behind his head
the thing we wanted. A Yesterday as I was on a long ride to work I was listening to one of my favorite radio programs on NPR.It is Resound from Third Coast Video Festival.The program searches for thoughtful inspiring audio pieces from around the globe.Within a few sentences of listening to a new story ,new sounds ,new words ,my mind and spirit  are traveling on uncharted journies outside of myself,beyond the confines of what is safe and already known to me.Yesterday was such a journey.The name of the piece was "poet hunter".it was an interview of a poet in the wilds of a Virginia forest

on a hunting expedition of deer, one of my favored animals ,me that I am a vegetarian for most of my life,felt a tinge of "self righteous judgement" rising.The poet,John Casteen had a deep contemplatve voice.I listened carefully to the  voice ,his words to describe the chill in the forest air, ,the mist,the natural world around him,all were transfixing.He was out walking,climbing,waiting,"to hunt  deer".He was quiet still content.I had  not thought about the private thoughts, feelings,intentions of a hunter before this moment. I was transposed out of my comfort zone, taken into another's perspective. It was something  of a carnal primitive  truthful moment as I heard his words that permeated  the images it evoked in my mind. He spoke of the state of meditative reflection , respect for the natural processes ,the rituals of honoring and preparing an animal that he hunted.He then recited a poem that he wrote contemplating the morality of why people hunt.I have not been converted to a hunter of deer or a carnivore,but hearing this poet's  words.,I am faced eye to eye with the "hunter" in me.We are all hunters of sorts,perhaps not of deer.Can we be honest to ourselves and if life must naturally include a hunting of sorts can we remain dignified ,honorable ,respectful  compassionate .Thank you John  Casteen, for your humanity and integrity and courageous truthfulness.eed is what might grow
where you don’t want it; a dahlia could be a weed,
or love, or other notions. The heart can’t choose
to find itself enchanted; the hand can’t choose
to change the shape of water. How strange, to hope
to see the signs of motion, to make an end
to Peter’s old refrain: He’ll be along, son of a bitch,
and then you best be ready. So sure, and so sure
that when he shines the light the thing will show
along the other shore. What next? Well,
you’ve killed animals before. Invited here
for company in the cold night, and because
ever handy with rifles. What next is wait
and see, what next may be the lone report, the ever-
widening circles, blood-blossom, the spirit rising slow
like oily smoke above still waters. We wanted
a pond to look like a pond: standing poplars,
shallows unsullied, fish and frogs and salamanders.
The gleaming back of fur and fat may not belong,
or may: God of varmints, God of will, forgive us
our trespasses. We know precisely what we do.

Copyright © John Casteen

Originally published in Ploughshares, Winter 2006-07

Night Hunting

Because we wanted things the way they were
in our minds’ black eyes we waited. The beaver
raising ripples in a vee behind his head
the thing we wanted. A weed is what might grow
where you don’t want it; a dahlia could be a weed,
or love, or other notions. The heart can’t choose
to find itself enchanted; the hand can’t choose
to change the shape of water. How strange, to hope
to see the signs of motion, to make an end
to Peter’s old refrain: He’ll be along, son of a bitch,
and then you best be ready. So sure, and so sure
that when he shines the light the thing will show
along the other shore. What next? Well,
you’ve killed animals before. Invited here
for company in the cold night, and because
ever handy with rifles. What next is wait
and see, what next may be the lone report, the ever-
widening circles, blood-blossom, the spirit rising slow
like oily smoke above still waters. We wanted
a pond to look like a pond: standing poplars,
shallows unsullied, fish and frogs and salamanders.
The gleaming back of fur and fat may not belong,
or may: God of varmints, God of will, forgive us
our trespasses. We know precisely what we do.

Copyright © John Casteen

Originally published in Ploughshares, Winter 2006-07   

Night Hunting

Because we wanted things the way they were
in our minds’ black eyes we waited. The beaver
raising ripples in a vee behind his head
the thing we wanted. A weed is what might grow
where you don’t want it; a dahlia could be a weed,
or love, or other notions. The heart can’t choose
to find itself enchanted; the hand can’t choose
to change the shape of water. How strange, to hope
to see the signs of motion, to make an end
to Peter’s old refrain: He’ll be along, son of a bitch,
and then you best be ready. So sure, and so sure
that when he shines the light the thing will show
along the other shore. What next? Well,
you’ve killed animals before. Invited here
for company in the cold night, and because
ever handy with rifles. What next is wait
and see, what next may be the lone report, the ever-
widening circles, blood-blossom, the spirit rising slow
like oily smoke above still waters. We wanted
a pond to look like a pond: standing poplars,
shallows unsullied, fish and frogs and salamanders.
The gleaming back of fur and fat may not belong,
or may: God of varmints, God of will, forgive us
our trespasses. We know precisely what we do.

Copyright © John Casteen
Originally published in Ploughshares, Winter 2006-07

Night Hunting

Because we wanted things the way they were
in our minds’ black eyes we waited. The beaver
raising ripples in a vee behind his head
the thing we wanted. A weed is what might grow
where you don’t want it; a dahlia could be a weed,
or love, or other notions. The heart can’t choose
to find itself enchanted; the hand can’t choose
to change the shape of water. How strange, to hope
to see the signs of motion, to make an end
to Peter’s old refrain: He’ll be along, son of a bitch,
and then you best be ready. So sure, and so sure
that when he shines the light the thing will show
along the other shore. What next? Well,
you’ve killed animals before. Invited here
for company in the cold night, and because
ever handy with rifles. What next is wait
and see, what next may be the lone report, the ever-
widening circles, blood-blossom, the spirit rising slow
like oily smoke above still waters. We wanted
a pond to look like a pond: standing poplars,
shallows unsullied, fish and frogs and salamanders.
The gleaming back of fur and fat may not belong,
or may: God of varmints, God of will, forgive us
our trespasses. We know precisely what we do.

Copyright © John Casteen
Originally published in Ploughshares, Winter 2006-07

Night Hunting

Because we wanted things the way they were
in our minds’ black eyes we waited. The beaver
raising ripples in a vee behind his head
the thing we wanted. A weed is what might grow
where you don’t want it; a dahlia could be a weed,
or love, or other notions. The heart can’t choose
to find itself enchanted; the hand can’t choose
to change the shape of water. How strange, to hope
to see the signs of motion, to make an end
to Peter’s old refrain: He’ll be along, son of a bitch,
and then you best be ready. So sure, and so sure
that when he shines the light the thing will show
along the other shore. What next? Well,
you’ve killed animals before. Invited here
for company in the cold night, and because
ever handy with rifles. What next is wait
and see, what next may be the lone report, the ever-
widening circles, blood-blossom, the spirit rising slow
like oily smoke above still waters. We wanted
a pond to look like a pond: standing poplars,
shallows unsullied, fish and frogs and salamanders.
The gleaming back of fur and fat may not belong,
or may: God of varmints, God of will, forgive us
our trespasses. We know precisely what we do.

Copyright © John Casteen
Originally published in Ploughshares, Winter 2006-07