Howdy folks,
The topic of whether to kill animals, or not, is contentious to say the least. GlenMac (lawyer that he is, and harbinger of disputations -g-) seems to get in the middle of topics that are BOUND to generate friction: politics, hunting, etc. I happen to agree that his topic posts go a bit wide of the mark at times, and he seems to post very little directly to do with tractors. Still, most of us are not just tractor owners, and while his posts skirt the topic of tractor equipment, projects and repairs, they do address the larger issue of the "lifestyle" most of us live, or at least seek---the notion of having a piece of land, and doing whatever we d*** well please on it. Being immersed in nature, taking care of our own, and enjoying the bounties of nature (the notion of a kind of idealized "Eden") is surely the most enduring image and yearning in human beings, and certainly in its Literature.
Our own egos and prejudices are going to make sensible discussion difficult on this topic. I got out a book by the poet James Dickey.
For those of you unfamiliar with the writing of James Dickey, he is probably best known for his hairy-scary backwoods thriller "Deliverance," a bestselling novel that was later made into a blockbuster movie (you probably all have seen it).
James Dickey (who died a couple of years ago) was perhaps America's most gifted poet of the past 50 years. His poetry is published as "The Whole Motion: Collected Poems 1945-1992", Wesleyan University Press, 1992, ISBN: 0-8195-1218-4. A native of Georgia, and former ad man with McCann Erickson agency in New York (he authored the famous slogan "Things Go Better with Coke."), Dickey was hard to characterize. A fighter pilot in WWII, he was an avid outdoorsman, and wrote many poems about ourselves and our relationship to Nature.
He is one I originally read about 30 years ago, and as poetry often does, it can say a lot to us about the issue of animals and hunting.
Originally published in the volume "Drowning with Others."
By James Dickey
The Heaven of Animals
Here they are. The soft eyes open.
If they have lived in a wood
It is a wood.
If they have lived on plains
It is grass rolling
Under their feet forever.
Having no souls, they have come,
Anyway, beyond their knowing.
Their instincts wholly bloom
And they rise.
The soft eyes open.
To match them, the landscape flowers,
Outdoing, desperately
Outdoing what is required:
The richest wood,
The deepest field.
For some of these,
It could not be the place
It is, without blood.
These hunt, as they have done,
But with claws and teeth grown perfect,
More deadly than they can believe.
They stalk more silently,
And crouch on the limbs of trees,
And their descent
Upon the bright backs of their prey
May take years
In a sovereign floating of joy.
And those that are hunted
Know this as their life,
Their reward: to walk
Under such trees in full knowledge
Of what is in glory above them,
And to feel no fear,
But acceptance, compliance.
Fulfilling themselves without pain
At the cycle's center,
They tremble, they walk
Under the tree,
They fall, they are torn,
They rise, they walk again.
BobT.
A Indiana Boy