Poetry

    Dog Poems

    This one’s hitting in a new and tender way today:

    Her Grave

    Mary Oliver

    She would come back, dripping thick water, from the
    green bog.
    She would fall at my feet, she would draw the black skin
    from her gums, in a hideous and wonderful smile —
    and I would rub my hands over her pricked ears and her
    cunning elbows,
    and I would hug the barrel of her body, amazed at the
    unassuming perfect arch of her neck.

    It took four of us to carry her into the woods.
    We did not think of music,
    but anyway, it began to rain
    slowly.

    Her wolfish, invitational, half-pounce.

    Her great and lordly satisfaction at having chased
    something.

    My great and lordly satisfaction at her splash
    of happiness as she barged
    through the pitch pines swiping my face with her
    wild, slightly mossy tongue.

    Does the hummingbird think he himself invented his
    crimson throat?
    He is wiser than that, I think.

    A dog lives fifteen years, if you’re lucky.

    Do the cranes crying out in the high clouds
    think it is all their own music?

    A dog comes to you and lives with you in your own house,
    but you
    do not therefore own her, as you do not own the rain, or the
    trees, or the laws which pertain to them.

    Does the bear wandering in the autumn up the side of
    the hill
    think all by herself she has imagined the refuge and the
    refreshment
    of her long slumber?

    A dog can never tell you what she knows from the
    smells of the world, but you know, watching her,
    that you know
    almost nothing.

    Does the water snake with his backbone of diamonds think
    the black tunnel on the bank of the pond is a palace
    of his own making?

    She roved ahead of me through the fields, yet would come
    back,
    or wait for me, or be somewhere.

    Now she is buried under the pines.

    Nor will I argue it, or pray for anything but modesty, and
    not to be angry.

    Through the trees there is the sound of the wind,
    palavering.

    The smell of the pine needles, what is it but a taste
    of the infallible energies?

    How strong was her dark body!
    How apt is her grave place.

    How beautiful is her unshakable sleep.

    Finally,
    the slick mountains of love break
    over us.