The Western Holmgang

A Poem about Moose

Pools of blood amassed,
As heads clashed,
Teeth were gnashed,
And antler tines slashed.

Skulls were combined in a daring death dance,
Each thorn was as sharp as a bony lance,
As the soggy rich earth quaked in violent delight,
For the battle would continue throughout the night.

Two moose, made like worn barrels of whiskey,
In drunken rage tumbled around briskly
Through the harsh marsh as their organs sloshed around
Like fiery hard liquor smashing ‘gainst the ground.

In both’s black eyes throbbing were told stories
Of tribulations without much glory.
They both had lived long lives to live and to toil,
To suffer and starve and to be kicked into the soil.

All of which led to that moment-
Of fleeting time they were testingly tried
In a fatal game of muscle and stride.
To death they were destined to fight without truce
Under the watchful gazes of the wise old Black Spruce

The youngest began to withdraw his head
To strike again with his scalp painted red.
Then began the next chapter in life’s grim tale
As he pulled back from the fray- and found that he failed.

Both the bulls were locked in a cage of horn
And neither could exit despite his scorn.
They ran backwards on their heels,
Until the grinding ground made them squeal.

Chaos flooded them without ever an end
As no one of the forest aid could send.
They cried and bleated
Until their hoarse throats leaked.
And with a horrible twist and ghastly shout
An eye from each was swiftly put out.

Blind and enraged they continued to thrash
As they both deepened their mutual gash.
They created vast quagmires of mud ever sliding
With the ravens of the Black Spruce overhead gliding.

The dying light of that cold autumn sighed
And ignored the soor strugglers long-winded cries.
The bulls stayed awake betrothed in hopeless agony
With not a soul to hear them croak so craggily.

Twelve nights and a half passed as the sun beat
On their forlorn foreheads and broken feet.
No wolves of the East came in their packs to freely feast.
And in such a ravaged condition haggard
Together they sidestepped and staggered
And let out a final mournful bleat.

Their bones lie in a bog on a log.
The wild pedestal seasonally obscured by fog.
But know their spirits still ramble through those northern woods
Attempting to finally out do one another
If only they could.

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It’s a real thing that happens to moose and most deer. They’ll fight during the fall, and sometimes the bigger males will get locked in each other’s antlers without the ability to get unstuck and will thus die this way forever at grips with his enemy. The first time I ever heard of this phenomenon was from a famous set of skulls on display at the visitor center in Denali National Park. Those skulls were the ones that inspired me to write this poem about two or three years ago from my room at Military School— while dreaming simply of the West Country.

Danke,

ABSURDISMUS