Poem Geek

The Heroes of Villanelles

Hey, poem geeks!  Today we’re looking at the Villanelle, which is a closed form of poetry. A closed form of poetry is that kind which must hold to certain rules, while an open form is the kind that finds it’s identity in themes rather than structures.  We’re not going to delve too deep into the waters of prosody on this site because, frankly, it’s boring. We’d rather read poetry and gossip about the boozing habits of dead Irish writers! So let’s discuss in brief what the Villanelle is but for anything beyond that, you iambic pentamanerds are going to have to look else where!

The Villanelle is an old French form that consists of 5 tercets followed by a quatrain. The poem contains two rhyme sounds throughout and two alternating refrains. The structure looks like this:  

[1a, b, 2a] [a, b, 1a] [a, b, 2a ] [a, b, 1a] [a, b, 2a] [a, b, 1a, 2a]

The stanzas are in brackets with lines separated by commas. Letters indicate rhyme sounds and numbers represent refrains.

That wasn’t so bad. Here’s a Villanelle in action by the great W. H. Auden:

Villanelle by W. H. Auden

Time can say nothing but I told you so, 
Time only knows the price we have to pay; 
If I could tell you, I would let you know. 

If we should weep when clowns put on their show, 
If we should stumble when musicians play, 
Time can say nothing but I told you so. 

There are no fortunes to be told, although 
Because I love you more than I can say, 
If I could tell you, I would let you know. 

The winds must come from somewhere when they blow, 
There must be reasons why the leaves decay; 
Time can say nothing but I told you so. 

Perhaps the roses really want to grow, 
The vision seriously intends to stay; 
If I could tell you, I would let you know. 

Suppose the lions all get up and go, 
And all the brooks and soldiers run away? 
Time can say nothing but I told you so. 
If I could tell you, I would let you know.


When it comes to the Villanelle there are no neautral feelings. It is either loathed or adored by poets depending on their point of view. To advocates of formalism it is the symbol of everything they love. For antiformalist it is the epitome of verse at it’s most rediculous and suffocating. The Villanelle has been falsely attributed to the french troubadors of the 13th century, but the first one was actually written by the renaissance poet Jean Passat about a partridge (my guess is Keith). It’s poularity has waxed and waned with the times. 

This poem demonstrates how the refrain can be used to the poet’s advantage. This is a poem about change that is incapable of changing:

Villanelle of Change by Edwin Arlington Robinson

Since Persia fell at Marathon,
The yellow years have gathered fast: 
Long centuries have come and gone. 

And yet (they say) the place will don
A phantom fury of the past, 
Since Persia fell at Marathon; 

And as of old, when Helicon
Trembled and swayed with rapture vast
(Long centuries have come and gone), 

This ancient plain, when night comes on, 
Shakes to a ghostly battle-blast, 
Since Persia fell at Marathon. 

But into soundless Acheron
The glory of Greek shame was cast: 
Long centuries have come and gone, 

The suns of Hellas have all shone, 
The first has fallen to the last:— 
Since Persia fell at Marathon, 
Long centuries have come and gone.

This Villanelle has enjoyed some popularity since Leonard Cohen put it to music in one of his later albums. Here we have the form being used for the purpose of social commentary. I wrestled with playing the Cohen version in the outro but like most of his music, it’s 20 minutes long and it sounds like it’s being read by your stalker. So enjoy the creep free version: 

Villanelle For Our Time by Frank Scott

From bitter searching of the heart,
Quickened with passion and with pain
We rise to play a greater part.

This is the faith from which we start:
Men shall know commonwealth again
From bitter searching of the heart.

We loved the easy and the smart,
But now, with keener hand and brain,
We rise to play a greater part.

The lesser loyalties depart,
And neither race nor creed remain
From bitter searching of the heart.

Not steering by the venal chart
That tricked the mass for private gain,
We rise to play a greater part.

Reshaping narrow law and art
Whose symbols are the millions slain,
From bitter searching of the heart
We rise to play a greater part.

This is my favorite from a poetry professor and editor at Columbia in Chicago. It’s silly, profound, and I wish I’d thought of it!

Chatty Cathy Villanelle by David Trinidad

When you grow up, what will you do?
Please come to my tea party.
I’m Chatty Cathy. Who are you?

Let’s take a trip to the zoo.
Tee-hee, tee-hee, tee-hee. You’re silly!
When you grow up, what will you do?

One plus one equals two.
It’s fun to learn your ABCs.
I’m Chatty Cathy. Who are you?

Please help me tie my shoe.
Can you come out and play with me?
When you grow up, what will you do?

The rooster says cock-a-doodle-doo.
Please read me a bedtime story.
I’m Chatty Cathy. Who are you?

Our flag is red, white and blue.
Let’s makebelieve you’re Mommy.
When you grow up, what will you do?
I’m Chatty Cathy. Who are you?





Elizabeth Bishop never achieved great popular fame but she has a reputation for being “the poet’s poet”. This poem is the one the old man is teaching Cameron Diaz to read in In Her Shoes, a movie my wife absolutely loved but I felt the only thing that would have justified it being any longer was a Hobbit or an iceberg.

One Art by Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

So you’ve probrably already guessed the challenge: write your own Villanelle.  Of course I didn’t forget the Villanelle, the one that leaves them all in the dust. Dylan Thomas will take us out! Better far than praise of men, ’tis to it with book and pen!

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night by Dylan Thomas

read by the author


The Sonnets of e. e. cummings

Beautiful. If I had to sum up the poetry of e. e. cummings in a single word it would be beautiful. The beauty of cumming’s poetry is not in his flowery vocabulary or even his evocative imagery. cummings uses a common every day vocabulary and is unusually light on the descriptors, yet his poetry leaps off the page and pulls you in, entangling you with all it’s mystery, sensuality, spirituality, and yes, beauty. cumming’s true genius lies in syntax and sentence structure. cummings did for the sentence what Picasso did for the color blue… what John Coltrane did for the quarter note. He rearranges all the parts and creates a thing of unquestionable… oh hell, I’ll say it again, beauty!

 So, I thought we’d take a look at every poem geek’s favorite form: the sonnet, as a window into how cummings can take a traditional form and totally transform it. This should be the antidote to everyone who ever says they hate to write in forms because they are too confining. cummings refuses to be confined! 

being to timelessness as it’s to time, by e. e. cummings

nude man carrying nude woman

being to timelessness as it’s to time,
love did no more begin than love will end;
where nothing is to breathe to stroll to swim
love is the air the ocean and the land

(do lovers suffer?all divinities
proudly descending put on deathful flesh:
are lovers glad?only their smallest joy’s
a universe emerging from a wish)

love is the voice under all silences,
the hope which has no opposite in fear;
the strength so strong mere force is feebleness:
the truth more first than sun more last than star

-do lovers love?why then to heaven with hell.
Whatever sages say and fools, all’s well

These paintings, by the way, are all by cummings. He was a painter and a playwright in addition to being a great poet. This next poem is a good example of how cummings approaches the Shakespearean sonnet the way a painter would approach the canvas. Actually, it’s a better example of how cummings approaches the Shakespearean sonnet the way Hannibal Lecter approaches the science of psychology.

life is more true than reason will deceive by e. e. cummings 

turbulent landscape

life is more true than reason will deceive
(more secret or than madness did reveal)
deeper is life than lose:higher than have
—but beauty is more each than living’s

allmultiplied by infinity sans if
the mightiest meditations of mankind
cancelled are by one merely opening leaf
(beyond whose nearness there is no beyond)

or does some littler bird than eyes can learn
look up to silence and completely sing?
futures are obsolete;pasts are unborn
(here less than nothing’s more than everything)

death,as men call him,ends what they call men
—but beauty is more now than dying’s when

Edward Estlin Cummings as he was born, became e. e. cummings after his editors took very seriously his demands that the typography of his poetry be reproduced exactly as he had it written. According to wikipedia, which is always wikiright about wikieverything, cummings may have been just being humble rather than idiosyncratic when he signed his name in lowercase letters. Yeah, and Madonna only took one name because she didn’t want anyone to make a fuss over her. Demanding that you be the only person in the history of the English language to not have any capital letters in your name is pure unadulterated hubris. I highly doubt cummings was so humble he didn’t want his overworked  copy editors to have to bother with the shift key. But this is all a fine example of how cummings subverts expectations. Look at this sonnet! Now he even breaks up the stanza structure, giving the sonnet a totally different look and feel! I know this sonnet has 13 lines, but the whole point of this discussion is that e. e. does whatever the hell he wants.

what time is it?it is by every star

embracing couplewhat time is it?it is by every star
a different time,and each most falsely true;
or so subhuman superminds declare

-nor all their times encompass me and you:

when are we never,but forever now
(hosts of eternity;not guests of seem)
believe me,dear,clocks have enough to do

Time cannot children,poets,lovers tell-
measure imagine,mystery,a kiss
-not though mankind would rather know how than feel;

mistrusting utterly that timelessness

whose absence would make your whole life and my
(and infinite our)merely to undie

 just(    bring)in (        sex        )timber[yback] lake  :-(

look, I just wrote a poem. DEAL WITH IT!

In all seriousness, it seems only cummings can do what he does. All imitations fall flat. But that’s the point. cummings is showing the way for us all to explore outside of the artificial boundaries of form and structure and find our own voice! or… finding what you didn’t lose.

the trick of finding what you didn’t lose by e. e. cummings

street scene

the trick of finding what you didn’t lose
(existing’s tricky:but to live’s a gift)
the teachable imposture of always
arriving at the place you never left

(and i refer to thinking)rests upon
a dismal misconception;namely that
some neither ape nor angel called a man
is measured by his quote eye cue unquote.

Much better than which,every woman who’s
(despite the ultramachinations of
some loveless infraworld)a woman knows;
and certain men quite possibly may have

shal we say guessed?”we shall” quoth gifted she:
and played the hostess to my morethanme

cummings was quite a hit with the ladies. When he would give poetry readings there were always throngs of young women just dying to hear his sensual poetry up close. The painting below is of his third wife, Marrion Morehouse.

your homecoming will be my homecoming- by e. e. cummings 

portrait of marion morehouse

your homecoming will be my homecoming-

my selves go with you,only i remain;
a shadow phantom effigy or seeming
(an almost someone always who’s noone)

a noone who,till their and your returning,
spends the forever of his loneliness
dreaming their eyes have opened to your mourning

feeling their stars have risen through your skies:

so,in how merciful love’s own name,linger
no more than selfless i can quite endure
the absence of that moment when a stranger
takes in his arms my very lifes who’s you

-when all fears hopes beliefs doubts disappear.
Everywhere and joy’s perfect wholeness we’re.

So, the challenge today is to write your own sonnet. OWN IT! Make this one unmistakably you! Make this sonnet so fresh and original you can spell your name however you want! Make this the one that puts you on the map! no pressure. But remember as you seek adulation and artistic immortality that better far than praise of men, ’tis to sit with book and pen!

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in by e. e. cummings

read by Cameron Diaz

Quote “THE RAVEN” Nevermore… the other poems of Edgar Allan Poe
January 6, 2009, 3:39 pm
Filed under: poetry, poets | Tags: , , , , , , ,



Hey there Poem Geeks! When I was in 4th grade, I bought a copy of The Raven and other poems by Edgar Allan Poe at the Scholastic Book Fair and it was my first introduction to the wonderful world of poetry. I even managed to become a huge Poe fan in highschool without wearing black lipstick and drawing intense scenes of sad angels stabbing themselves all over my Algebra homework. I liked The Raven alright, even Annabelle Lee, but what really got me were those “other poems”. This is my tribute to the other poems of Edgar Allen Poe. So without further adieu…


I’ll start off with my all time favorite, the one that in 4th grade made me aspire to live a life of haunt and heartbreak and die drunk and penniless. ‘Eldorado’ feels like a short little children’s poem, but beneath the surface is the  universal theme of chasing after immortality, for what lies in the mythical city but the fountain of youth? 

Eldorado by Edgar Allan Poe

Gaily bedight,
A gallant knight,
In sunshine and in shadow,
Had journeyed long,
Singing a song,
In search of Eldorado.

But he grew old–
This knight so bold–
And o’er his heart a shadow
Fell as he found
No spot of ground
That looked like Eldorado.

And, as his strength
Failed him at length,
He met a pilgrim shadow-
“Shadow,” said he,
“Where can it be–
This land of Eldorado?”

“Over the Mountains
Of the Moon,
Down the Valley of the Shadow,
Ride, boldly ride,”
The shade replied–
“If you seek for Eldorado!”

Poe is credited with inventing the modern detctive story. It all started with his love of cryptograms. As an editor, he constantly challenged his readers to send in cryptograms for him to solve and he was brilliant at it (having no formal training as a cypher). Sensing the public’s great interest in cryptograms, he wrote a story called The Gold Bug in which the hero solves a mystery by deciphering a mysterious letter. This next poem has nothing to do with that, I just thought it was interesting!

Serenade by Edgar Allan Poe

So sweet the hour, so calm the time,
I feel it more than half a crime,
When Nature sleeps and stars are mute,
To mar the silence ev’n with lute.
At rest on ocean’s brilliant dyes
An image of Elysium lies:
Seven Pleiades entranced in Heaven,
Form in the deep another seven:
Endymion nodding from above
Sees in the sea a second love.
Within the valleys dim and brown,
And on the spectral mountain’s crown,
The wearied light is dying down,
And earth, and stars, and sea, and sky
Are redolent of sleep, as I
Am redolent of thee and thine
Enthralling love, my Adeline.
But list, O list,- so soft and low
Thy lover’s voice tonight shall flow,
That, scarce awake, thy soul shall deem
My words the music of a dream.
Thus, while no single sound too rude
Upon thy slumber shall intrude,
Our thoughts, our souls- O God above!
In every deed shall mingle, love.

Though Poe was baptised as an Episcopalian , his tourtured life led to a tortured relationship with his faith. While Poe tends to write about death and tragedy and his works contain far more pagan allusions than Christian ones, he does appear believe in some sort of afterlife. The following poem seems to be written without a hint of irony and could fit well in the pages of John Dunne or William Blake but like Christopher Walken in our time, Poe has a way of making even the most innocent and uplifting things sound creepy… 

Sancta Maria by Edgar Allan Poe

Sancta Maria! turn thine eyes –
Upon the sinner’s sacrifice,
Of fervent prayer and humble love,
From thy holy throne above.
At morn – at noon – at twilight dim –
Maria! thou hast heard my hymn!
In joy and wo – in good and ill –
Mother of God, be with me still!

When the Hours flew brightly by,
And not a cloud obscured the sky,
My soul, lest it should truant be,
Thy grace did guide to thine and thee;  

Now, when storms of Fate o’ercast
Darkly my Present and my Past,
Let my Future radiant shine
With sweet hopes of thee and thine!

It’s amazing that with his stunningly creative output, Edgar Allen Poe was known more in his day as an editor than a writer. Poe did have a great critical eye and all aspiring poets would do well to heed his advice in this next poem.

Elizabeth by Edgar Allan Poe

Elizabeth, it surely is most fit
[Logic and common usage so commanding]
In thy own book that first thy name be writ,
Zeno and other sages notwithstanding;
And I have other reasons for so doing
Besides my innate love of contradiction;
Each poet – if a poet – in pursuing
The muses thro’ their bowers of Truth or Fiction,
Has studied very little of his part,
Read nothing, written less – in short’s a fool
Endued with neither soul, nor sense, nor art,
Being ignorant of one important rule,
Employed in even the theses of the school-
Called – I forget the heathenish Greek name
[Called anything, its meaning is the same]
“Always write first things uppermost in the heart.”


Edgar Allan Poe was the Jerry Lee Lewis of his day! He scandalously married his 13 year old cousin Virginia Clemm, who was the love of his life. Tragically, she died only two years later of tuberculosis. Poe often said that the greatest tragedy is the death of a beautiful young woman. Poe was never the same after Virginia died and his writing began to be much more about sorrow, heart ache, and the death  beautiful young women. Poe would have been a horrible writer for Hallmark. Can you imagine this poem on a wedding invitation?


Bridal Ballad by Edgar Allan Poe

The ring is on my hand, 
And the wreath is on my brow;
Satin and jewels grand
Are all at my command,
And I am happy now.
And my lord he loves me well;
But, when first he breathed his vow,
I felt my bosom swell-
For the words rang as a knell,
And the voice seemed his who fell
In the battle down the dell,
And who is happy now.

But he spoke to re-assure me,  
And he kissed my pallid brow,
While a reverie came o’er me,
And to the church-yard bore me,
And I sighed to him before me,
Thinking him dead D’Elormie,
“Oh, I am happy now!”

And thus the words were spoken,  
And this the plighted vow,
And, though my faith be broken,
And, though my heart be broken,
Here is a ring, as token
That I am happy now!

Would God I could awaken!  
For I dream I know not how!
And my soul is sorely shaken
Lest an evil step be taken,-
Lest the dead who is forsaken
May not be happy now.

The cause of Poe’s death is shrouded in mystery (or painfully obvious depending upon how you look at it). According to reports at the time he was found by a man named Joseph W. Walker (Dubya) intoxicated out of his wits and in clothes that didn’t belong to him. He was taken inside in a futile attempt to nurse him back to health but he died later that night. Several times throughout the evening, he cried out in a feverish state, the name  “Reynolds!” Who Reynolds was, remains a mystery. This anecdote has spawned many creative theories but I feel the most obvious one is that Reynolds was the name of his dry cleaner. Reportedly Poe’s last words were: “Lord help my poor soul.” His death was reported in the papers as “Congestion of the brain”, which, apart from being the reason I can’t find my car keys, was usually a polite euphemism for a death more scandalous and embarrassing. No records have survived to tell us the actual cause of death. The most widely accepted theory is alchoholism, while syphilis and rabies both deserve honorable mentions. After Poe’s death, a fellow writer, a man named Rufus Griswold who had long held a grudge against him, wrote a biography which was widely read, and has long since been discredited. It claimed among other things that Poe was a mad man and a drug addict (both untrue, he was actually an eccentric who drank alot). Though this portrait of Poe is the one that remains etched in the popular imagination, Edgar Allan Poe did ultimately have the last laugh. When’s the last time you ran down to the local library to pick up a copy of The Complete Rufus Griswold?

The following poem is, I believe, his most beautiful. It combines all of his favorite themes, but like Eldorado it is simple, mesmerizing, and heart breaking.

A Dream Within A Dream by Edgar Allan Poe

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow–
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand–
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep–while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem

But a dream within a dream? 

Your challenge for today: What to you is the greatest the tragedy? The death of a beautiful woman? Genocide? Divorce? The Chicago Cubs? Whatever it is write about it!  Remeber, better far than praise of men, ’tis to sit with book and pen! 

Oh, and lay off the booze.

To Helen by Edgar Allan Poe

read by Tom Hanks

And Every Dog Will Have His Poem…


Hey Poem Geeks! It may be true that the dog is man’s best friend. Certainly he is the poet’s best muse. Today we’re looking at Dog poetry through the ages. Not poetry written by dogs (Sorry Snoopy!) but poetry about dogs. We’ll start with a beautiful ode to a dog named Flush (hopelessly optimistic name for a dog in my opinion), by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Browning is most famous for writing heart-felt sonnets to her husband Robert Browning, but I think you’ll see that she has every bit the tender love for Flush as she has for old Robbie. So how do I  ruvv thee? Let me count the ways…

To Flush, My Dog by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Yet, my pretty sportive friend,

Little is’t to such an end
That I praise thy rareness!
Other dogs may be thy peers
Haply in these drooping ears,
And this glossy fairness.

But of thee it shall be said,
This dog watched beside a bed
Day and night unweary- 
Watched within a curtained room,
Where no sunbeam brake the gloom
Round the sick and dreary.

Roses, gathered for a vase,
In that chamber died apace,
Beam and breeze resigning.
This dog only, waited on,
Knowing that when light is gone
Love remains for shining.

Other dogs in thymy dew
Tracked the hares, and followed through
Sunny moor or meadow.
This dog only, crept and crept
Next a languid cheek that slept,
Sharing in the shadow.

Other dogs of loyal cheer
Bounded at the whistle clear,
Up the woodside hieing.
This dog only, watched in reach
Of a faintly uttered speech,
Or a louder sighing.

And if one or two quick tears
Dropped upon his glossy ears,
Or a sigh came double- 
Up he sprang in eager haste,
Fawning, fondling, breathing fast,
In a tender trouble.

And this dog was satisfied
If a pale thin hand would glide
Down his dewlaps sloping- 
Which he pushed his nose within,
After-platforming his chin
On the palm left open.

Where Browning is verbose as ever, the irrepressible Ogden Nash (who has something to say about every animal) is a bit more succinct about the incredible love of a Dog:

The Dog by Ogden Nash

The truth I do not stretch or shove
When I state that the dog is full of love.
I’ve also found, by actual test,
A wet dog is the lovingest.

The key to reading Robert Burn’s poetry written in the Scottish dialect is to sing it out loud as if you are drunk in an old pub, hanging on the shoulder of one of your buddies swinging a mug back and forth. You’ll find the words making much more sense that way. Is anyone watching? Once the coast is clear, try it! Go to the bathroom if you have to.

 The Rantin Dog, the Daddie o’t by Robert Burns

O WHA my babie-clouts will buy?
O wha will tent me when I cry?
Wha will kiss me where I lie?
The rantin’ dog, the daddie o’t.

O wha will own he did the faut?
O wha will buy the groanin maut?
O wha will tell me how to ca’t?
The rantin’ dog, the daddie o’t.

When I mount the creepie-chair,
Wha will sit beside me there?
Gie me Rob, I’ll seek nae mair,
The rantin’ dog, the daddie o’t.

Wha will crack to me my lane?
Wha will mak me fidgin’ fain?
Wha will kiss me o’er again?
The rantin’ dog, the daddie o’t.

Of course… there are two types of people: Dog people and poet Laureate Billy Collins.

Another Reason Why I Don’t Keep A Gun In The House by Billy Collins
  The neighbors’ dog will not stop barking.
He is barking the same high, rhythmic bark
that he barks every time they leave the house.
They must switch him on on their way out.          

The neighbors’ dog will not stop barking.
I close all the windows in the house
and put on a Beethoven symphony full blast
but I can still hear him muffled under the music,
barking, barking, barking,

and now I can see him sitting in the orchestra,
his head raised confidently as if Beethoven
had included a part for barking dog.

When the record finally ends he is still barking,
sitting there in the oboe section barking,
his eyes fixed on the conductor who is
entreating him with his baton

while the other musicians listen in respectful
silence to the famous barking dog solo,
that endless coda that first established
Beethoven as an innovative genius. 

Another favorite anti-dog poem of mine is this one by the noble Sir Walter Raleigh. There is a delicious zinger at the end, but it made the list because of its deadpanned title which if it is not meant to be mock-pretentious, is all the funnier.

To a Lady with an Unruly and Ill-mannered Dog Who Bit several Persons of Importance by Sir Walter Raleigh

Your dog is not a dog of grace; 
He does not wag the tail or beg;
He bit Miss Dickson in the face;
He bit a Bailie in the leg.

What tragic choices such a dog
Presents to visitor or friend!
Outside there is the Glasgow fog;
Within, a hydrophobic end.

Yet some relief even terror brings,
For when our life is cold and gray
We waste our strength on little things,
And fret our puny souls away.

A snarl! A scruffle round the room!
A sense that Death is drawing near!
And human creatures reassume
The elemental robe of fear.

So when my colleague makes his moan
Of careless cooks, and warts, and debt,
— Enlarge his views, restore his tone,
And introduce him to your Pet!

Then there is the death of a beloved dog. Nothing like the death of a loved animal to put one in an intense state of brooding. This beautiful poem by the Chilean poet Pablo Neruda speaks of mortality, fondness of the familiar, and the value of a life well-lived. In my humble opinion, this poem alone was enough to win him his 1971 Nobel Prize in literature.

A Dog Has Died by Pablo Neruda

My dog has died.
I buried him in the garden
next to a rusted old machine.

Some day I’ll join him right there,
but now he’s gone with his shaggy coat,
his bad manners and his cold nose,
and I, the materialist, who never believed
in any promised heaven in the sky
for any human being,
I believe in a heaven I’ll never enter.
Yes, I believe in a heaven for all dogdom
where my dog waits for my arrival
waving his fan-like tail in friendship.

Ai, I’ll not speak of sadness here on earth,
of having lost a companion
who was never servile.
His friendship for me, like that of a porcupine
withholding its authority,
was the friendship of a star, aloof,
with no more intimacy than was called for,
with no exaggerations:
he never climbed all over my clothes
filling me full of his hair or his mange,
he never rubbed up against my knee
like other dogs obsessed with sex.

No, my dog used to gaze at me,
paying me the attention I need,
the attention required
to make a vain person like me understand
that, being a dog, he was wasting time,
but, with those eyes so much purer than mine,
he’d keep on gazing at me
with a look that reserved for me alone
all his sweet and shaggy life,
always near me, never troubling me,
and asking nothing.

Ai, how many times have I envied his tail
as we walked together on the shores of the sea
in the lonely winter of Isla Negra
where the wintering birds filled the sky
and my hairy dog was jumping about
full of the voltage of the sea’s movement:
my wandering dog, sniffing away
with his golden tail held high,
face to face with the ocean’s spray.

Joyful, joyful, joyful,
as only dogs know how to be happy
with only the autonomy
of their shameless spirit.

There are no good-byes for my dog who has died,
and we don’t now and never did lie to each other.

So now he’s gone and I buried him,
and that’s all there is to it.

Wow, Powerful stuff! So your challenge for the day: write a poem about your beloved animal. Or if you, like me and Sir Walter Raleigh, have all the affection toward nature’s furry friends as a standard villain in a Disney  movie, capture your ire in ink! Remember: Better far than praise of men, ’tis to sit with book and pen!

Take us out, Neil Young!  

Old King by Neil Young