by Pa Rock
Poetry Appreciator
Yesterday was the 79th birthday of former United States Poet Laureate Billy Collins. I first became familiar with the work and voice of Billy Collins when he was a guest on Garrison Keillor's A Prairie Home Companion radio show back in 2013. One of his poems that he read on that program was "The Revenant," a sardonic and very funny account of a dog that had been "put down' by his owner, an account that was given from the dog's point of view. I borrowed it for this space in November of 2013. The first stanza goes as follows:
And then the poor dog proceeded to air his thoughts on the relationship that he had with his master!
Over the years Mr. Collins has written other poems which featured dogs as the central characters. Yesterday, in honor of the poet's birthday, Garrison Keillor, who now pens a daily internet column called "The Writer's Almanac," featured one of those, a piece called "Dharma" in which the poet reflected on a dog in his life that he obviously loved and cherished. Dharma is, in many respects, much like my little Rosie.
May neither ever face the ugly - and ghastly - needle of oblivion!
Rosie, this one's for you!
Dharma
by Billy Collins
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 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 two portals of her study 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.
Poetry Appreciator
Yesterday was the 79th birthday of former United States Poet Laureate Billy Collins. I first became familiar with the work and voice of Billy Collins when he was a guest on Garrison Keillor's A Prairie Home Companion radio show back in 2013. One of his poems that he read on that program was "The Revenant," a sardonic and very funny account of a dog that had been "put down' by his owner, an account that was given from the dog's point of view. I borrowed it for this space in November of 2013. The first stanza goes as follows:
"I am the dog you put to sleep,
as you like to call the needle of oblivion,
come back to tell you this simple thing:
I never liked you - not one bit."
And then the poor dog proceeded to air his thoughts on the relationship that he had with his master!
Over the years Mr. Collins has written other poems which featured dogs as the central characters. Yesterday, in honor of the poet's birthday, Garrison Keillor, who now pens a daily internet column called "The Writer's Almanac," featured one of those, a piece called "Dharma" in which the poet reflected on a dog in his life that he obviously loved and cherished. Dharma is, in many respects, much like my little Rosie.
May neither ever face the ugly - and ghastly - needle of oblivion!
Rosie, this one's for you!
Dharma
by Billy Collins
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 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 two portals of her study 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.
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