"The Loch Ness Monster's Song" by a true Scottish Poet, and other Cryptozoological Poetry.

The following is a poem by the Scottish poet Edwin Morgan - The Loch Ness Monster's Song.

Found in academic courses on English poetry across the globe, some call it absurd or nonsense poetry, but for me it truly captures the essence of the Loch Ness Monster.

The poem, a voice recording, and the history of the poet can be found in this link.
www.poetryarchive.org...

The sounds are truly monstrous, yet somehow quaint, and the Scottish accent is present even in Nessie's imagined grumbling.

Are there any other poems related to Cryptozoology?

Original poetic submissions on such creatures are also welcome.

A read version of the poem (although it misses a certain earthiness of the original) from YouTube:

interesting, more folklore than cryptoanimalunkowns , allways a bit of a merging point though

heres one from Linconshire

Wokk's tha will,

tha'll nivver do well,
Wokk's tha mowt,
tha'll nivver gain owt,
For harm an' mischance an' Yallery-Bro-wun,
Tha's let out theesen from unner the sto-wun!

yallery

funBox

The Ogopogo by the Paul Whiteman Orchestra.

The English music hall song from the 1920's that lent its name to the famous Canadian Lake Monster:

There's a Monster in the Lake:

Monster In The Lake - Poem
by ~Hughes-Can-Write

There's a monster in the lake,
So I'm told.
They say he's been there,
Since times of old.
He looks like a dragon,
With saphire scales,
Talons like ice,
And a fishes tail.

There's a monster in the lake,
Who hunts at night,
Beware all those,
Fishing by moonlight.
He slices through boats,
So sharp are his claws,
And the fangs like rocks,
That line his jaws.

There's a monster in the lake,
So says the myth,
With the body of a dragon,
And the tail of a fish.
Who knows where he came from,
Or if it's even true,
But I'd be careful of the monster,
If I were you.

hughes-can-write.deviantart.com...

A poem about Bigfoot, by Larry Belt.

Perhaps not quite one for the Norton Anthology of Poetry, but great nevertheless.

Author:

Larry Belt, USA

Poem:

BigFoot

Now, I believe in Bigfoot
I've seen it with my own eyes
It was hairy and all hunched over
And it's butt was covered with flies

It had a smell that I can't describe
I even had to hold my nose
That hairy thing scared me so bad
I just stood there and froze

It's face was ugly and covered with hair
I couldn't tell about it's gender
It just stood there staring at me
Like it wanted me to surrender

It opened its mouth and a noise came out
It was trying to communicate
I couldn't understand a word it said
And I wasn't about to wait

I took off running as fast as I could
With that monster right on my tail
I thought I was gonna regurgitate
Remember, I told you, "the smell"?

I almost made it,' til my wife made me trip
That's when I started to fall
She said, "Stop it! What are you doing?"
For it was only my mother-in-law

www.voicesnet.org...

"El Chupacabra" - Baby Phat Hazel.

El Chupacabra is near,

The size of a small bear.

A row of spines reaching from his neck to his tail,

If you try to catch him you would surly fail.


Hide your sheep, and hide your goats,

they will be drained of blood, maybe even from their throats.

He is a blood sick creature,

but it's hard to see his every feature.


Many times the creature comes out,

and he will eat your animals no doubt.

This is a warning for those who don't know,

to the chest would be the El Chupacabra's final blow.


Though the sightings are not so great,

your animals disappear at a fast rate.

If you see a creature the size of a small bear,

remember to lock up your animals, because El Chupacabra is near.

allpoetry.com...

Where does the Ogopogo go?

I had this poem in a file, and the author isn't mentioned, so if anybody could help with the author's name, that would be fantastic.

It's a really funny and witty poem.

Where Does The Ogopogo Go?


Where does the Ogopogo go
when it gets cold and snows
Does he

swim under ice
to a cold paradise?
Bump his poor noggin
in Lake Okanagan
looking for holes
to probe with his nose?

Or does he

wiggle his toes,
put on warm clothes,
dig trenches in autumn
and sit on the bottom?
And what does

a famished lake creature eat
when there’s no meat
but ratsicles or duck toes,
do you suppose?

Does he

make people pies,
sit around with the guys:
old hibernating frogs,
deadheads and logs?

Does he

stay green and amphibious,
or get purple reptilious,
drag out his old wings,
human luggage and things
from his wiggly, watery closets
and remove the snail deposits?

Does he


mope in the mud,
eat duck weed and crud,
or pick up his phone,
call the Serpents in Rome?
Where does the Ogopogo go
when it gets cold and snows?

Does he

Loaf in Lome, Togo and
Get an oh-so-vogue-o Togo tan?
Eat mangoes and bananas,
monkey meat and yams?
Or find a big castle,
avoid all the hassle,
eat that dungeon delight,
fair maidens at night?

Emerald, amphibious,
most rambunctilious—
where does the Ogopogo do
when it gets cold and snows?

I don't know much about these things, but S&F for teaching me something new

Peace, NRE.

The Wendigo - Tlares.

This one really had my spine chilled upwards and downwards.
And it's teen poetry!

Fantastic talent.

The thing to remember of course is that poetry should always be read aloud, or at least imagined aloud.

The Wendigo

I run.
The trees rustle above me,
I hear its wings flap.
It snarls and flashes its fangs,
glittering like the moon.

I load my gun.
A silver bullet.
My last hope.

Will it work?
I haven't a clue,
I have no time to think.
I can only run.

I pass a broken tree.
Will that be me?
Broken?
Dilapidated?
Rotten?
Forgotten?

I shant think of such things.
I must run.
And only run.

I see a cottage in the dark,
I enter.
Its door is firm as cement,
and it closes with a lock.
I feel safe.

I crawl beneath the frame of a once bed.
Curling like a baby in a womb.
I watch the shadows pass the broken window.

All is quiet.
I fall asleep.

I awake to a thump.
Dust falls from the ceiling.
It begins to scratch its way in.

I open the door quietly,
trying to take my enemy by surprise.

I point my gun.
I have but one shot.
One chance of safety.
One chance of salvation.

I pull the trigger.
Hit.

A bright light fills the forest.
The beast erupts into a brilliant purple flame.
Turning to ashes before my eyes.

I feel safe if only for a moment,
when branches begin to break all around me.

I then realize I have not found my haven.
I have found their den.

www.teenink.com...

My Street Ballin' Bigfoot by Tommy G.
allpoetry.com...

A humorous mixture of mythology and urban hip-hop culture with a basketball theme.

My Street Ballin' Bigfoot
by TommyGpoetry:

I met a bigfoot today,
at least eight feet tall.
He was all brown and gray
and I gave him a B-ball.

Then I took him to the court
and showed him how to play.
I taught him this new sport,
trash talk and what to say.

Introduced him to some groups,
the very best on the street.
Challenged 'em to some hoops,
my bigfoot could not be beat!

Then someone said his mama
was big, ugly, and hairy.
This caused a bunch of drama,
my bigfoot got real scary!

He rolled the player up,
turned him into a little ball,
then said “NOW WASUP?”
and bounced him off a wall!

My bigfoot was so mad,
he continued, “I'm no punk!”
and I really did feel bad
when he slammed him with a dunk!

A poem about Werewolves.

The Pack ... A Werewolf Poem,

The mist covers the forest swirling

Through the trees they run

Their eyes glowing and teeth flashing

They won’t stop until the hunt is done


Paws striking the earth as the moon glows

The pack moves as a single force

The prey tonight just too slow

As nature takes its course


As one mind they attack

Dragging the vampire to the ground

The un-dead demon turning to face the pack

As the wolves circle around


With a roar they surge forward

Their bodies changing, fuelled with rage

Nature's warriors forever altered

Impossible to stop or cage


Summoning dark power, the vampire lashes out

His magic slamming hard and fast

His denial loud in every shout

Knocking wolves back with every blast


But with no friend at his back

The un-dead were fighting a losing battle

As he faced the relentless were-wolf pack

His face twisted and hateful


As his cold flesh was ripped apart

The claws and jaws tearing

Destroying his demonic heart

The wolves’ voices high and howling


The moon hangs low above the trees

As the pack moves away running

Ever vigilant as nature's sentries

Always hunting


© K.A.E Grove

nighthag.hubpages.com...

(With minor editing.)

The Sasquatch Poems by Sherman Alexie (2012).

A fascinating mixture of mythology and local knowledge.

www.zyzzyva.org...

reply to post by halfoldman


heres one i just brain farted , see if you can guess what they are, heres a hint there not quinotaurs

the flocks flocked on old ops crop
thier necks asqued in hungary drop
thier talens long within the earth
an old op crop did surely birth

Boxedfun

I found this poem really exceptional.

It was penned by a Youtube blogger called mainesloneranger and titled: "The Haunted Wood: An ode to Bigfoot hunters".

The Haunted Wood: an ode to Bigfoot hunters

The woods at night are all aglow
From the moonlit shine for the evening show
The nights alive for those who know
And feel the darkened winds to blow

The spook's afoot, it starts to roam
He tramps his secret nighttime home
If he is real, he will be shown
If he is not, it won't be known

Is he there, or is he not?
Just what evidence have we got?
Clues and news as proof it's not,
Except for those that have been shot-

Not with guns, but film and lens
Upon the proof the truth depends
All else, the message sends
Is fodder for the tales, held 'tween the bookends

The haunted wood comes alive at night
With creatures there to give one fright
Darkened shadows obscure your sight
As you wander, searching for what is right

A ghost exists in memories old
A ghost lives on in stories told
A ghost who lives in darkness bold
A legend, of which the tabloids told

From mountains high to valley's low
This creature gives a midnight show
As searchers hunt him, in the know,
Never finding, sadly giving hopes a blow

But still, they search and linger on
From sunset low to mornings dawn
As they tire, and start to yawn
Still no proof, but they'll carry on

Searching, hunting for this thing
And the knowledge that it will bring
Of money, fame and fortune they'll sing
If only they could find and capture this old king,

This king of ancient forests high
That sings a song under the midnight sky!
But until it's found, this creature shy,
We'll keep looking for that giant hairy old guy!

A clip by the author includes a poetry reading and some other narrative.