[Tim Murphy]

On Wednesday the EfH and I put Elmwood's Maud Gonne to sleep. Many of you became acquainted with Maud, who figured largely in Set The Ploughshare Deep. To celebrate her death and long life, I'd like to solicit favorite pet poems, yours, or those by the greats. Alicia has already sent me by way of commiseration, Byron's poem for his Newfoundland.

On the morning of Maud's birth, I wrote this acephalic tetrameter sonnet in Scots:

Passel o' Pups

Bonny bairnies, black an' fine,
wi yir yivver souks an' ruggs,
will ye be guid hountin dugs
worthy o' yir faither's line?
Will ye busk an' tak them doun,
frantik pairtrick, crouchin grouse,
an' the Deil's ain phaisant louse?
Will ye ding the raibbit broon?
Lak the dun deir ye maun lepe
owre yon scraggy, stany hill
whaur the wund blaws lood an' shrill,
sare an' snell, whaur muckle depe
drifts the snaw. Drink yir fill,
glazie beasties; souk an' slepe.


Beginning two years before her death at age 14 (!), I began her little elegy, which I just completed:

The Dominican

Go where the blue wings flash
over the whitecapped wave.

When the returning dove
roosts near your mother’s grave,

I’ll bury a box of ash
beside her in the sod.

Domini Cani, love,
you were the dog of God.


Over the course of the next few days, I'll be posting Alan's poems for his immortal Boots and more of my poems for Dee, Maud, Feeney, etc. I'll be posting Coulette and Byron, and I hope someone will be ambitious enough to type Thomas Gray's poem for his cat. And I look forward to seeing your own poems for your beloved pets. Timothy

[Roger Slater]

Ode On the Death of a Favorite Cat, Drowned in a Tub of Gold Fishes
by Thomas Gray

'Twas on a lofty vase's side,
Where China's gayest art had dyed
The azure flowers that blow;
Demurest of the tabby kind,
The pensive Selima, reclined,
Gazed on the lake below.

Her conscious tail her joy declared;
The fair round face, the snowy beard,
The velvet of her paws,
Her coat, that with the tortoise vies,
Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes,
She saw; and purred applause.

Still had she gazed; but 'midst the tide
Two angel forms were seen to glide,
The genii of the stream:
Their scaly armour's Tyrian hue
Through richest purple to the view
Betrayed a golden gleam.

The hapless nymph with wonder saw:
A whisker first, and then a claw,
With many an ardent wish,
She stretched in vain to reach the prize.
What female heart can gold despise?
What cat's averse to fish?

Presumptuous maid! with looks intent
Again she stretched, again she bent,
Nor knew the gulf between.
(Malignant Fate sat by and smiled)
The slippery verge her feet beguiled,
She tumbled headlong in.

Eight times emerging from the flood
She mewed to ev'ry wat'ry god,
Some speedy aid to send.
No dolphin came, no Nereid stirred:
Nor cruel Tom nor Susan heard.
A fav'rite has no friend!

From hence, ye beauties undeceived,
Know, one false step is ne'er retrieved,
And be with caution bold.
Not all that tempts your wand'ring eyes
And heedless hearts is lawful prize;
Nor all that glisters gold.

[Tim Murphy]

Thank you so much, Bob! The greatest cat poem in history. Here is the other, by Henri Coulette:

Petition

Lord of the Tenth Life,
Welcome my Jerome,
A fierce, gold tabby.
Make him feel at home.

He loves bird and mouse.
He loves a man's lap,
And in winter's light,
Paws, tucked in, a nap.

[Terese Coe]

Tim

You and Alan have my sympathy on losing dear Maud.

You've given me inspiration to start writing my favorite dog story in ip. I have a few stanzas now, and here's part of the beginning:

The Dolpo dog was from the Crystal Gompa,
Where passes close for seven winter moons,
And in the summer, herds of goats with Khampa
Walk over mountains, safe from the monsoons.

He named him "Shey," Tibetan "crystal, snow,"
And introduced him to the Valley life—
No tents to guard, no herds to buffalo,
No predators to fight. And food was rife.

(This is just a draft, but I'll keep working on it. Thanks for the suggestion to do something I'd been wanting to do for a while now.)

Terese



[This message has been edited by Terese Coe (edited December 26, 2002).]

[Lisa Barnett]

LAST WORDS TO A DUMB FRIEND

Thomas Hardy


Pet was never mourned as you,
Purrer of the spotless hue,
Plumy tail, and wistful gaze,
While you humoured our queer ways,
Or outshrilled your morning call
Up the stairs and through the hall--
Foot suspened in its fall--
While, expectant, you would stand
Arched, to meet the stroking hand;
Till your way you chose to wend
Yonder, to your tragic end.

Never another pet for me!
Let your place all vacant be;
Better blankness day by day
Than companion torn away.
Better bid his memory fade,
Better blot each mark he made,
Selfishly escape distress
By contrived forgetfulness,
Than preserve his prints to make
Every morn and eve an ache.

From the chair whereon he sat
Sweep his fur, nor wince thereat;
Rake his little pathways out
Mid the bushes roundabout;
Smooth away his talons' mark
From the claw-worn pine-tree bark,
Where he climbed as dusk embrowned
Waiting us who loitered round.

Strange it is this speechless thing,
Subject to our mastering,
Subject for his life and food
To our gift, and time, and mood;
Timid pensioner of us Powers,
His existence ruled by ours,
Should--by crossing at a breath
Into safe and shielded death,
By the merely taking hence
Of his insignificance--
Loom as largened to the sense,
Shape as part, above man's will,
Of the Imperturbable.

As a prisoner, flight debarred,
Exercising in a yard,
Still retain I, troubled, shaken,
Mean estate, by him forsaken;
And this home, which scarcely took
Impress from his little look,
By his faring to the Dim,
Grows all eloquent of him.

Housemate, I can think you still
Bounding to the window-sill,
Over which I vaguely see
Your small mound beneath the tree,
Showing in the autumn shade
That you moulder where you played.

[Lisa Barnett]

EPITAPH FOR BATHSHEBA

J.G. Whittier

To whom none ever said scat,
No worthier cat
Ever sat on a mat
Or caught a rat:
Requies-cat

[Tim Murphy]

Lisa, thank you, and Terese best of luck in the Kumbu Dog-Fall. Here's the Byron Alicia sent me:

INSCRIPTION ON THE MONUMENT OF A NEWFOUNDLAND DOG

When some proud son of man return to earth,
Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth,
The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe,
And storied urns record who rest below;
When all is done, upon the tomb is seen
Not what he was, but what he should have been:
But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend,
Whose honest heart is still his master's own,
Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,
Unhonour'd falls, unnoticed all his worth,
Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth,
While man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven,
And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven.
Oh man! thou feeble tenant of an hour,
Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power,
Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust,
Degraded mass of animated dust!
Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat,
Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit!
By nature vile, ennobled but by name,
Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame.
Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn,
Pass on--it honors none you wish to mourn:
To mark a friend's remains these stones arise;
I never knew but one,--and here he lies.

[Bruce McBirney]

Sorry for your loss, Tim--anyone who's had a long-time pet knows that they really are family members.

I'm sure there's a rule somewhere about never writing a poem about pets or children, but here's mine anyway. The matchmaker for my wife and me when we were upstairs/downstairs neighbors was a stray, sick kitten, which figured out where the handouts were and stayed with us for 15 years after we got married.

CAMELIAS

Camelias dropping in the morning light
Attract the cat's attention as they fall.
On scattered fallen petals, pink and white,
She lies, and waits, and hears the blue jays call.

The overhanging leaves and blazing sky
Are flecked with opening blossoms fine as lace.
She rolls, then yawns and stretches, as she eyes
A perfect moment in a perfect place.

The bush was once a dry, unwatered stick
Before you came and took it in your care.
The cat was once a stray, and thin, and sick,
Until I called her in upon a dare.

We won't, fair love, end pain and worldly strife,
But loves so rich as ours yield flowers and life.

[Renate]

Dear Tim and Alan,
Sorry to hear about Maud.

Helvellyn

I climb'd the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn,
Lakes and mountains beneath me gleam'd misty and wide;
All was still, save by fits, when the eagle was yelling,
And starting around me the echoes replied.
On the right, Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was bending,
And Catchedicam its left verge was defending,
One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending,
When I mark'd the sad spot where the wanderer had died.

Dark green was that spot 'mid the brown mountain-heather,
Where the Pilgrim of Nature lay stretch'd in decay,
Like the corpse of an outcast abandon'd to weather,
Till the mountain winds wasted the tenantless clay.
Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended,
For, faithful in death, his mute favourite attended,
The much-loved remains of her master defended,
And chased the hill-fox and the raven away.

How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber?
When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou start?
How many long days and long weeks didst thou number,
Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart?
And, oh, was it meet, that- no requiem read o'er him-
No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him,
An thou, little guardian, alone stretch'd before him-
Unhonour'd the Pilgrim from lifeshould depart?

When a Prince to the fate of the Peasant has yielded,
The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall;
With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded,
And pages stand mute by the canopied pall:
Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming;
In the proudly-arch'd chapel the banners are beaming,
Far adown the long aisle sacred music is streaming,
Lamenting a Chief of the people should fall.

But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature,
To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb,
When wilder'd, he drops from some cliff huge in stature,
And draws his last sob by the side of his dam.
And more stately thy couch by this desert lake lying,
Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying,
With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying,
In the arms of Helvellyn and Catchedicam.

Sir Walter Scott


Cat's Funeral
by E.V. Rieu

Bury her deep, down deep,
Safe in the earth's cold keep,
Bury her deep-

No more to watch bird stir;
No more to clean dark fur;
No more to glisten as silk;
No more to revel in milk;
No more to purr.

Bury her deep, down deep;
She is beyond warm sleep.
She will not walk in the night;
She will not wake to the light.
Bury her deep.

[Tim Murphy]

My favorite dog poem of all time is Wilbur's "The Pardon," an astonishingly mature poem he wrote in his twenties. Alan's essay in the Seewannee Review considers this poem at some length, and can be read in the essay section of www.crucat.com.

The Pardon

My dog lay dead five days without a grave
In the thick of summer, hid in a clump of pine
And a jungle of grass and honeysuckle vine.
I who had loved him while he kept alive

Went only close enough to where he was
To sniff the heavy honeysuckle-smell
Twined with another odor heavier still
And hear the flies’ intolerable buzz.

Well, I was ten and very much afraid.
In my kind world the dead were out of range
And I could not forgive the sad or strange
In beast or man. My father took the spade

And buried him. Last night I saw the grass
Slowly divide (it was the same scene
But now it glowed a fierce and mortal green)
And saw the dog emerging. I confess

I felt afraid again, but still he came
In the carnal sun, clothed in a hymn of flies,
And death was breeding in his lively eyes.
I started in to cry and call his name,

Asking forgiveness of his tongueless head.
…I dreamt the past was never past redeeming
But whether this was false or honest dreaming
I beg death's pardon now. And mourn the dead.

And from a lesser bard: When I first sent Dick Davis the manuscript for Deed of Gift, he said his favorite poem in the collection was my little elegy for Maud's mother:

Elegy for Diktynna

Go if you must and swim
the dim waters of Acheron
for Actaeon.

When my engraved grouse gun
passes to someone else's son,
I'll whistle "Come."