Hunting Season - Poem by Oskar Hansen
Every Saturdays and Sunday there is a war going on in the woods,
man against birds and rabbits. On my lemon tree sparrows and
hawks sit and wait for Monday. In my garden rabbits seek shelter
from shoot gun pellets, eat my flowers and dig holes. My dog is
desperate its instinct is to go out and kill them. Killing for sport, is
like bullfighting without spectators, grown men, sneaking about
amongst trees slaughtering the innocent; not unlike the Settlers
behaviour against the Palestinian olive pickers and goat herders.
Monday morning I shovel wheel barrow’s full of bird droppings
from the ground that is also full of holes. Something got to be done
with these awful animals, why do they not move to neighbouring
woods and seek shelter there?
Comments about Hunting Season by Oskar Hansen
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep
Mary Elizabeth Frye
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You