The Hunt – a whaling poem

The Hunt


I hear them come.

I run.

But there is nowhere

To hide.

I dive.

I surface and gasp

And dive.

But they are relentless.

They never tire.

In panic

I strain and race.

Their engines pound

Their mechanical,

Metallic coldness,

Their metronomic


Of death.

No escape.

No matter which way

I twist and turn.

They hunt me down.


I gasp.

And it hits.

It slams into my side.


Sending white hot barbs

Of liquid fury

To pierce my insides.

No matter how much I struggle

They have me

Torn, bleeding

And pierced

Writhing in agony,

On the end of a rope.

It pulls, it rips, it tears

But there is no escape.

I feel the life blood

Flow freely

As the searing pain

Floods my mind,

As my body weakens.

Yet still,


Driven by the

Will to survive,

With the knowledge

Of the hopelessly,

I thrash.

It is tearing my insides.

The agony is white hot.

My mind shrieks.

Yet there is no escape.

With gaff and hook

They reel me in

And, eventually,

I cease to struggle.


Opher – 28.12.2018



A hundred pound harpoon is blasted from a gun on deck into the flesh of the whale as it surfaces. It penetrates deep and explodes, ripping flesh and sending barbs deep into the tissue to anchor it to the ship.

As many as seven harpoons may be used.

The whale thrashes around in agony as the barbs tears at its flesh but it can’t escape.

It will take half an hour of searing pain until the loss of blood causes it to weaken and die.

The whalers do not care about the whales intelligence, nor its highly developed social life. They do not care about the songs it has composed or its family. They do not care about how much agony they cause. To them it is a big piece of meat to be sold for profit.

They bloody the waters, hack and saw the flesh into lumps to sell.

It is all about the money.

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