You can hear a reading of this poem, and play our game, at the bottom of the page.
Poetry teems with charismatic beasts, from Shelley’s skylark to “Aunt Jennifer’s Tigers.” A comprehensive anthology of zoological verse would be fat with doggerel and birdsong, limericks and nursery rhymes, nightingales, foxes and toads.
But let’s slow down and take it one creature — and one poem — at a time. Consider the turtle, as captured by Kay Ryan.
Turtles may not have the charm or charisma of other beasts — they don’t dominate the human imagination like eagles or lions, or domesticate it like dogs or cats — but they have a notable presence in literature and myth. They are symbols of wisdom and longevity; their shells are sturdy enough to hold up the world. The cosmos, in one famous account, consists of “turtles all the way down.”
In Aesop’s fable, the turtle (traditionally called a tortoise, which is a type of turtle) is a winner, a perpetual underdog who defeats the arrogant hare. The tortoise’s slowness turns out to be a virtue.
In Ryan’s poem, the turtle’s physical attributes — her cumbersome shell and short legs, above all — seem only to be liabilities. That armor may have evolved as protection against predators, but it’s a lot of baggage for a poor, halting herbivore to lug around. Her patience isn’t going to win her any races: It’s her best response to a tough break; a way of making light of a heavy situation.
But at the same time, the poem’s mood and manner, its sense and sound, defy the constraints of turtleness. To read it a second time — or aloud — is to note how nimbly and swiftly it moves.
Want to learn this poem by heart? We’ll help.
Hearing a poem can make it more memorable. Listen to A.O. Scott read this one:
Who would be a turtle who could help it?
A barely mobile hard roll, a four–oared helmet,
she can ill afford the chances she must take
in rowing toward the grasses that she eats.
Her track is graceless, like dragging
a packing case places, and almost any slope
defeats her modest hopes. Even being practical,
she’s often stuck up to the axle on her way
to something edible. With everything optimal,
she skirts the ditch which would convert
her shell into a serving dish. She lives
below luck–level, never imagining some lottery
will change her load of pottery to wings.
Her only levity is patience,
the sport of truly chastened things.
Get to know the poem better by filling in the missing words below. Start on easy mode, and
when you’re ready, try hard mode.
Question 1/7
We’ll take it one step at a time.
Who would be a turtle who could help it?
A barely mobile hard roll, a four–oared helmet,
Tap a word above to fill in the highlighted blank.
Question 1/7
Strap in.
Who would be a turtle who could help it?
A barely mobile hard roll, a four–oared helmet,
Tap a word above to fill in the highlighted blank.