Sonnet

My heart be brave, and do not falter so, 
Nor utter more that deep, despairing wail. 
Thy way is very dark and drear I know, 
But do not let thy strength and courage fail;  
For certain as the raven-winged night 
Is followed by the bright and blushing morn, 
Thy coming morrow will be clear and bright; 
’Tis darkest when the night is furthest worn. 
Look up, and out, beyond, surrounding clouds,
And do not in thine own gross darkness grope,
Rise up, and casting off thy hind’ring shrouds,
Cling thou to this, and ever inspiring hope: 
 Tho’ thick the battle and tho’ fierce the fight, 
 There is a power making for the right.

--James Weldon Johnson (1871-1938), African American poet, teacher, newspaperman, and lawyer

Dharma

The way the dog trots out the front door
every morning
without a hat or an umbrella,
without any money
or the keys to her doghouse
never fails to fill the saucer of my heart
with milky admiration.

Who provides a finer example
of a life without encumbrance-
Thoreau in his curtainless hut
with a single plate, a single spoon?
Gandhi with his staff and his holy diapers?

Off she goes into the material world
with nothing but her brown coat
and her modest blue collar,
following only her wet nose,
the twin portals of her steady breathing,
followed only by the plume of her tail.

If only she did not shove the cat aside
every morning
and eat all his food
what a model of self-containment she
would be,
what a paragon of earthly detachment.
If only she were not so eager
for a rub behind the ears,
so acrobatic in her welcomes,
if only I were not her god.

--Billy Collins (1941- ), US poet laureate 2001-2003



Photo: My friends' dog Pumpkin, summer 2017, who can play ball for hours. Detachment, my eye.