Whimsical Pastoral Poetry: Ode to the Milk Cow

Fourteen-year-old author's poem and homage to Edgar Allan Poe.


| March/April 1982



Milking Cow

A 14-year-old's take on the trials and errors of milking a cow.  


PHOTO: FOTOLIA/CONSTANTINOS

When we received this 14-year-old reader's submission, we just knew that we had to publish it. Here is Beth Simer's homage to cows — and Edgar Allen Poe. 

Once upon an evening balmy, with a book that did enthrall me, Lo! I heard my mother call me, call me from the lower stair. And with soft impatient moaning, then I laid my book down, groaning. And, since there was no postponing, ran to see what waited there.

Said my mother (small, but sturdy), "See, the clock now says 6:30. Go put on your barn clothes dirty, and your boots so big and strong, for the cows are nicely waiting, and their cuds they're masticating, and their milk's accumulating in the udders, all along."

Thought I, "Mother, so deluded, from this happy task excluded, your ideas may be disputed by the ones that truly know. True, the task may be quite pleasing, warm milk from the udder squeezing, listening to the rhythmic wheezing, and the chewing soft and low.

"True, some cows may come politely, with their long tails moving lightly. Coming calmly, daily, nightly, steps so dignified, so sure. But the other has to vent her anger on the one who's pent her... If she does decide to enter, coverall things with manure."

From the green and tender pasture, she runs fast and then runs faster, fleeing from her irate master, jumping fences, dodging trees, plunging deep in mud and water to escape from those who sought her, and when you have finally caught her, thick with mud up to her knees.





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