‘Glog Gets Participation Prize’ and Other Caveman Poetry by Brian Yapko

Glog Gets Participation Prize

Our tale’s set in a prehistoric cave
Carved in a cliff above a vast expanse
Which offers Aurochs Clan a safe enclave
Within a land the future shall call “France.”

The fecund plains below are lush and teeming
With toothy predators and shrieking prey.
A hunter who is sharp-eyed, skilled and scheming
Can readily find game to catch each day.

One hunter in this Clan of thirty souls
Has dozens of his kills marked on the wall;
He dominates the grasslands, rills and knolls—
A great tactician whose name is K’jal.

K’jal can track a mammoth, form a plan,
And with the help of practiced Aurochs brothers
Attack and slay great beasts to feed his Clan;
He has a spear-sense which confounds the others.

But some caves can’t leave well enough alone.
Sharp jealousy consumes the Chief’s first son
Whose name is Glog. He chips and shapes the stone
For spearheads—useful work which must be done.

But Glog detests his job. He whines his dole—
And claims that K’jal’s feats are just a stunt.
Glog wants to be promoted to the role
That K’jal holds—the leader of the hunt.

“The Aurochs Clan must act on Glog’s concerns!”
The Chief—Glog’s father—can’t be any blunter.
“We give K’jal more merit than he earns!
No more! From now on Glog shall be the hunter!”

The Chief has spoken. Let no Clansman sneer!
And so K’jal is formally demoted
As Glog goes out and tries to throw a spear.
Such rotten aim! But that’s how the Clan voted.

K’jal resents this and is quite annoyed
That his outstanding work has been diminished
In favor of an unskilled git devoid
Of guts. But c’est la vie, they say. He’s finished.

Of course, the saga doesn’t end just there.
What happens next… How could it be foreseen?
As Glog keeps throwing spears but hitting air,
The food stores dwindle. All grow rather lean.

The Elders still back Glog who cannot aim
And brings no meat while K’jal sits and carves
More useless spears for non-existent game,
Besmirched and slandered as his whole Clan starves.

As Glog returns home once more empty-handed,
K’jal declares he’s done—he’s had enough!
He’s leaving Aurochs Clan. K’jal is candid:
Glog should not hunt. He’s neither skilled nor tough.

K’jal then packs his skins and hies him hence.
Progressive Aurochs Clan exclaims, “Good riddance!
Such arrogance to question our good sense!”
Then Glog arrives. He’s caught a rabbit! Pittance.

But no one in the Cave will say a thing
That might hurt Glog or stifle his ambition—
Not even if they feel starvation’s sting
And are becoming weak from malnutrition.

But as they now start dying one by one
One father thinks to join K’jal’s new cave.
Survival matters, for he has a son
And wife in Aurochs Clan he might yet save.

Within a week Glog’s cave has dropped to half
As people flee who fully grasp the stakes:
A hunter must have skill to kill a calf
And bring home something they can roast as steaks.

Competing caves—but only one well-fed;
The other built on jealousy and lies.
K’jal hunts well; his spear is sharp and red;
Still, Glog gets a participation prize:

Those cavemen praising Glog despite his lack
Of skill, proclaim him hunter of the year.
They sneer at those who wish K’jal was back,
And pay no heed that winter’s drawing near.

As Glog fans starve, more quietly depart
To K’jal’s well-fed cave to join their kin.
They finally grasp that hunting is an art;
That skill, not feelings, is how Clan caves win.

The Aurochs Clan (three left) still has Glog’s back
Insisting pride weighs more than hurtful truths.
That’s when some tigers lunge for the attack.
Glog’s fate? A meal for hungry saber-tooths.

Taming the Wolf

It’s dark. I sit four paces from the fire.
I turn and see you cower near the rocks.
You do not flee yet you do not come near.
I do not want you here! You are a threat.
I throw a rock. I shout. You do not leave.
You hope to steal my food. You watch me eat.
I hear you growl. I see you stand and pace.
You’re very thin. You limp as if you had
A broken leg which must have badly healed.
I wonder if your pack abandoned you
The way that I was banished from my clan?

***

A new day passes. I live all alone.
I’m not alone. I see you hiding there.
Again, I sit four paces from the fire
While you lie staring at me from the rocks.
I pity you. I toss a fat-charred rib.
You grab it quickly, grunt and limp away.
But with the rising moon you soon return.
You share my loneliness. I miss my clan.
They’re wrong to blame me for my brother’s death.
They said they’d kill me if I show my face.
They took my son. Don’t leave me, injured wolf.

***

It’s night. I sit four paces from the fire.
This time you venture closer than the rocks.
You watch me eat. You moan. I toss to you
A piece of roasted sloth. You grunt and grab
And limp away. But this time you return.
I see you are still lame. I see your ribs.
You starve for food—not for revenge like men.
I do not have more meat or fat for you.
Your eyes meet mine. I offer you a bone.
You gnaw on it. You do not run away.
The fire dies. I watch you fall asleep.

***

Today I came in contact with the Others.
They thought I was a threat. They yelled at me.
I did not raise my spear. I came in peace.
Their leader threw a rock which hit my head.
It bled so much that I could barely stand.
They slashed my leg and laughed when I fell down.
I crawled away. I will not try again
To live with men. I’m hurt. I cannot hunt.
You look to me for food. I cannot help.
Right now, I cannot even feed myself.
So, hungry wolf, perhaps we die together.

***
I fainted from the pain. But for how long?
It’s night—another night. I lie four paces
Before the empty pit. There is no fire.
I hear you but I can’t see where you are.
But then I feel your wolf fur by my calf.
I fast sit up. With shock I see that you
Stayed next to me and sought to keep me safe.
You’re lame yet brought a rabbit that you killed.
You could have wolfed it down, but you did not.
I stare. Why would you want to be my friend?
I sob great heaving sobs. I build the fire.

***
The moon is full. I sit before the fire.
And you rest only one short pace from me.
Today you helped me hunt and kill a deer.
Your teeth are sharp; its jugular was weak.
You’re dangerous. A wolf who lives to hunt.
I’m mad to let you in my broken world.
Perhaps I ought to kill you while I can.
A wolf can be a vicious, fearsome beast.
When I was young, one mauled me—here’s the scar.
Might you do that to me one day as well?
Or might we be companions unto death?

***
A storm is coming, Wolf. Come in the cave.
I do not fear you now. We will survive
Together—my sharp spear, your lethal fangs.
We will not starve. We now are our own clan.
And if I die, I know that you will care
Enough to mourn by howling at the moon.
They banished me in hate but then you came.
I trust you now—far more than my own kind.
How they betrayed me though I had no guilt!
They hope I die. They know not what they do;
They never will be tamed as you’ve tamed me.

Brian Yapko is a retired lawyer whose poetry has appeared in over fifty journals.  He is the winner of the 2023 SCP International Poetry Competition. Brian is also the author of several short stories, the science fiction novel El Nuevo Mundo and the gothic archaeological novel  Bleeding Stone.  He lives in Wimauma, Florida.