How It Is With Us, and How It Is With Them

We become religious,
then we turn from it,
then we are in need and maybe we turn back.
We turn to making money,
then we turn to the moral life,
then we think about money again.
We meet wonderful people, but lose them
    in our busyness.
We’re, as the saying goes, all over the place.
Steadfastness, it seems,
is more about dogs than about us.
One of the reasons we love them so much.


--Mary Oliver (1935-2019), best-selling American poet, author, and teacher,  from Dog Songs, 2013

If Feeling Isn't In It

You can take it away, as far as I'm concerned—I'd rather spend the afternoon with a nice dog. I'm not kidding. Dogs have what a lot of poems lack: excitements and responses, a sense of play the ability to impart warmth, elation . . . .
                                                                              ----Howard Moss


Dogs will also lick your face if you let them.
Their bodies will shiver with happiness.
A simple walk in the park is just about
the height of contentment for them, followed
by a bowl of food, a bowl of water,
a place to curl up and sleep. Someone
to scratch them where they can't reach
and smooth their foreheads and talk to them.
Dogs also have a natural dislike of mailmen
and other bringers of bad news and will
bite them on your behalf. Dogs can smell
fear and also love with perfect accuracy.
There is no use pretending with them.
Nor do they pretend. If a dog is happy
or sad or nervous or bored or ashamed
or sunk in contemplation, everybody knows it.
They make no secret of themselves.
You can even tell what they're dreaming about
by the way their legs jerk and try to run
on the slippery ground of sleep.
Nor are they given to pretentious self-importance.
They don't try to impress you with how serious
or sensitive they are. They just feel everything
full blast. Everything is off the charts
with them. More than once I've seen a dog
waiting for its owner outside a café
practically implode with worry. “Oh, God,
what if she doesn't come back this time?
What will I do? Who will take care of me?
I loved her so much and now she's gone
and I'm tied to a post surrounded by people
who don't look or smell or sound like her at all.”
And when she does come, what a flurry
of commotion, what a chorus of yelping
and cooing and leaps straight up into the air!
It's almost unbearable, this sudden
fullness after such total loss, to see
the world made whole again by a hand
on the shoulder and a voice like no other.

-- John Brehm (1955- ) American poet, editor, and teacher

Pangur Bán

Pangur Bán and I at work,
Adepts, equals, cat and clerk:
His whole instinct is to hunt,
Mine to free the meaning pent.

More than loud acclaim, I love
Books, silence, thought, my alcove.
Happy for me, Pangur Bán
Child-plays round some mouse’s den.

Truth to tell, just being here,
Housed alone, housed together,
Adds up to its own reward:
Concentration, stealthy art.

Next thing an unwary mouse
Bares his flank: Pangur pounces.
Next thing lines that held and held
Meaning back begin to yield.

All the while, his round bright eye
Fixes on the wall, while I
Focus my less piercing gaze
On the challenge of the page.

With his unsheathed, perfect nails
Pangur springs, exults and kills.
When the longed-for, difficult
Answers come, I too exult.

So it goes. To each his own.
No vying. No vexation.
Taking pleasure, taking pains,
Kindred spirits, veterans.

Day and night, soft purr, soft pad,
Pangur Bán has learned his trade.
Day and night, my own hard work
Solves the cruxes, makes a mark.

-- Anonymous 9th century monk, written in Irish, found in the monastery of St. Paul in Carinthia, southern Austria, translated by Seamus Heaney, with comments on the translation here.

Fox

I heard a cough
as if a thief was there
outside my sleep
a sharp intake of air

a fox in her fox-fur
stepping across
the grass in her black gloves
barked at my house

just so abrupt and odd
the way she went
hungrily asking
in the heart's thick accent

in such serious sleepless
trespass she came
a woman with a man's voice
but no name

as if to say: it's midnight
and my life
is laid beneath my children
like gold leaf

-- Alice Oswald (1966- ), award winning English poet and editor, from her book Falling Awake, 2016

The Donkey

When fishes flew and forests walked
And figs grew upon thorn,
Some moment when the moon was blood
Then surely I was born;

With monstrous head and sickening cry
And ears like errant wings,
The devil’s walking parody
On all four-footed things.

The tattered outlaw of the earth,
Of ancient crooked will;
Starve, scourge, deride me: I am dumb,
I keep my secret still.

Fools! For I also had my hour;
One far fierce hour and sweet:
There was a shout about my ears,
And palms before my feet.


-- G. K. Chesterton (1874-1936), English critic, novelist, poet, and convert to Roman Catholicism

Scripture Reference: Matthew 21:1-11, Palm Sunday, Lent A

July Thunder (Domine non est)

 Psalm 131

 

My shivering dog draping himself over me 

like a quaking blanket, pride abandoned,

driven to anxiety by the sound of thunder 

rumbling overhead for most of this week, sometimes 

bringing rain, sometimes just a threat. And for all with pets, 

 

this entire week holds more of the same--

the neighborhood will echo with the report of 

fireworks and hopefully not gunfire 

at least through the sixth of July. 

 

 “Domine non est

exaltatum cor meum…”

 

But the sky right now is exactly the color of a bruise, 

matching the one inflicted on me as

he pawed me last night to make the insufferable

thunder stop. Stevie Nicks once 

famously sang, “Thunder only happens when it’s raining.”

 

She was wrong. But Kobe believes her. His first owners 

left him outside in all weather, and thunder is a memory 

of being swept into wind and downpour 

with no chance of shelter. Thunder is the memory 

of storms and cruelties long past, 

the menace fresh, the carelessness vivid.

 

Don’t we all know the weight of helplessness

when hoping in God is all there is? 

 

So into the basement we descend. I will 

sit next to him, the press of my body and 

Bach cello suites by Ma in attempted comfort, 

notes gliding and bouncing exactly like rain,

the blare of the C string masking the thunder 

perhaps enough that he can be quieted and rest.

 

And sleep will come and breath will ease 

for all afraid yet drawn into love’s leeward side,

like a child upon his mother’s shoulder

asleep on a damp cheek,

sliding gratefully into open-hearted trust,

elusive too often for the proud and haughty self

I too often wear like armor.

 

I wait upon you gratefully, O Mothering God,

and rest upon you as the storms 

within and without subside.

I have no need to walk in mighty matters

for the reward in my soul

is your abundant lovingkindness and mercy--

more than enough.

--LKS, written for Episcopal Cafe's Speaking to the Soul for July 1, 2021.

Come Into Animal Presence

Come into animal presence 

No man is so guileless as
the serpent. The lonely white
rabbit on the roof is a star
twitching its ears at the rain.
The llama intricately
folding its hind legs to be seated
not disdains but mildly
disregards human approval.
What joy when the insouciant
armadillo glances at us and doesn't
quicken his trotting
across the track into the palm brush.

What is this joy? That no animal
falters, but knows what it must do?
That the snake has no blemish,
that the rabbit inspects his strange surroundings
in white star-silence? The llama
rests in dignity, the armadillo
has some intention to pursue in the palm-forest.
Those who were sacred have remained so,
holiness does not dissolve, it is a presence
of bronze, only the sight that saw it
faltered and turned from it.
An old joy returns in holy presence.

--Denise Levertov, Anglo American poet, teacher, and convert to Catholicism.

A Blessing

Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota, 

Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass. 

And the eyes of those two Indian ponies 

Darken with kindness. 

They have come gladly out of the willows 

To welcome my friend and me. 

We step over the barbed wire into the pasture 

Where they have been grazing all day, alone. 

They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness 

That we have come. 

They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other. 

There is no loneliness like theirs. 

At home once more, 

They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness. 

I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms, 

For she has walked over to me 

And nuzzled my left hand. 

She is black and white, 

Her mane falls wild on her forehead, 

And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear 

That is delicate as the skin over a girl’s wrist. 

Suddenly I realize 

That if I stepped out of my body I would break 

Into blossom.


-- James Wright (1927-1980), American poet, from Above the River: The Complete Poems & Selected Prose (edited by Anne Wright), 1990.

Prayer for Animals

We pray, Lord, for the humble beasts
who with us bear the burden and heat of the day,
giving their lives for the well-being of their countries,
and for the wild creatures,
whom You have made wise, strong, and beautiful;
we ask for them your great tenderness of heart,
for you have promised to save both man and beast,
and great is your loving-kindness,
O Savior of the world.

-- anonymous Russian prayer, from Canticles of the Earth: Celebrating the Presence of God in Nature

The Poet Thinks About the Donkey

On the outskirts of Jerusalem
the donkey waited,
Not especially brave, or filled with understanding,
he stood and waited.

How horses, turned into the meadow,
     leap with delight!
How doves, released from their cages,
     clatter away, splashed with sunlight!

But the donkey, tied to a tree as usual, waited.
Then he let himself be led away.
Then he let the stranger mount.

Never had he seen such crowds!
And I wonder if he at all imagined what was to happen,
Still, he was what he had always been: small, dark, obedient.

I hope, finally, he felt brave.
I hope, finally, he loved the man who rode so lightly upon him,
as he lifted one dusty hoof and stepped, as he had to, forward.

--Mary Oliver (1935-2019), American poet, teacher, and author, from Thirst: Poems, 2006.



Photo: detail from a window at St. Stephen's Episcopal Church, Ferguson, MO, by Emil Frei and Sons.

Prayer of Compassion

O God, enlarge within us

the sense of fellowship with all living things,

our brothers the animals

to whom thou gavest the earth

as their home in common with us.

We remember with shame

that in the past

we have exercized the high dominion of man

with ruthless cruelty

so that the voice of the earth,

which should have gone up to thee in song,

has been a groan of travail.

May we realize that they live

not for us alone

but for themselves

and for thee,

and that they love

the sweetness of life.

--St. Basil the Great (330-379), one of the "Cappadocian fathers," bishop, theologian, and father of Eastern monasticism, from Celtic Nature Prayers, Vol. 1

Costa Rican monkey

The Little Dog's Rhapsody in the Night (Percy Three)

He puts his cheek against mine
and makes small, expressive sounds.
And when I'm awake, or awake enough

he turns upside down, his four paws
         in the air
and his eyes dark and fervent.

Tell me you love me, he says.

Tell me again.

Could there be a sweeter arrangement? Over and over
he gets to ask it.
I get to tell.

-- Mary Oliver, (1935- ), from Dog Songs (2013) and Devotions (2017)