Saturday, May 26, 2007
Welcome back. We've been gone, but here we are again with "Here and Now" number II.5.4.
I apologize for the inconvenience some of your are running into in loading the blog. Our "Supersize" issue from the end of April is a huge file and is apparently causing some delays in loading for some readers. I'm continuing to fish for ideas on how to speed things up, but haven't come up with anything that works up to now. A consolation is that the when I post next week, the "Supersize" issue will slip into the archive and the problems some are having will go with it. We will still be slower than I would like, but not nearly as bad as it is now.
We start with one of the great old American standards, Carl Sandburg, and some of his short poems from a series he titled Handfuls. The first one is probably his most famous one, the one almost everyone who reads has read (even if they don't remember it).
The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
Your bow swept over a string, and a long low note quiv-
ered in the air.
(A mother of Bohemia sobs over a new child perfect
learning to suck milk.)
Your bow ran fast over all the high strings fluttering and
(All the girls in Bohemia are laughing on a Sunday after-
noon in the hills with their lovers.)
Crimson is the slow smolder of the cigar end I hold.
Gray is the ash that stiffens and covers all silent the fire.
(A great man I know is dead and while he lies in his coffin
a gone flame I sit here in cumbering shadows and
smoke and watch my thoughts come and go.)
Your whitelight flashes the frost tonight
Moon of the purple and silent west.
Remember me one of your lovers of dreams.
Sand of the sea runs red
Where the sunset reaches and quivers.
Sand of the sea runs yellow
Where the moon slants and wavers.
Your white shoulders
And your shrug of laughter.
From your white shoulders
Yellow dust on a bumble
Gray lights in a woman's
Red ruins in the changing
I take you and pile high
Death will break her claws
on some I keep.
Here's a little culinary advice from me.
ordering chicken at popeye's
I like the
but you gotta
or they'll stick
with a wing
get one of those
and you might as well
Next, a bit of prose from our good friend Alice Folkart
Impossibility of Hate
Ruby hated lots of things, Brussels sprouts, loud music, hot weather, yappy little dogs, but she couldn't hate people.
As a child, she had been urged to hate "Nazis," then "Japs." A few years later, she was supposed to hate North Koreans, Commies and Russians. And, after that, she was told that the Viet Cong, North Vietnamese, also Commies, should be hated. One war after another -- these were bad people she was told. Everyone hated them.
She tried to work up a good hate. She saw the Nazis and Japs in the Newsreels on Saturday, at the movies, then saw the Koreans and the Viet Cong in her own living room, on TV, men in uniforms, with helmets and guns, slogging through mud or jungles, throwing grenades, firing machine guns. She got a good look at them as prisoners, starved-looking, dejected men in rags, hanging their shaved heads, bare feet on dirt or snow.
She wondered about them, their families, why they were fighting, what they did when they weren't soldiers, what they would do after if they weren't killed. These were real people for her. She couldn't hate them.
Ruby's childhood had been uneasy; she had been unwelcome in the world. Her mother, and grandmother, and even some of the neighbors, had roughly passed her from hand to hand, no one wanting the responsibility. She could have hated them. Instead, she became careful, tried to please, made herself useful, and wondered why they'd taken her in and what they were going to do with her. She couldn't help but feel their anger and despair at being stuck with her; she felt as if she were looking into a mirror; she couldn't hate them. She learned that it wasn't her they hated; it was only her existence, such a burden, such an inconvenience, such an expense. They couldn't see past these.
Her life was precarious even when she was kind and thoughtful and made herself very small. What might happen if she ever allowed herself anger, gave in to hatred, burst out in fury?
She was sure she would die. The guardian of the moment would call all the others together, point at her, yell, "Ungrateful, insubordinate, messy, noisy, demanding, dirty, eats too much - there's only one thing to do. FIRING SQUAD!" Machine guns, black and angular, would jump into their hands. One of the women would lead her to the concrete block wall in the back yard, offer tie a blue cowboy bandana over her eyes, then step away.
No, she couldn't hate anyone.
Arlitia Jones is a poet who would have been dear to Carl Sandburg's heart. Jones is a butcher as well as daughter and sister to butchers. Born in Washington state, she moved with her family to Alaska when she was very young. In Alaska, her parents opened a wholesale butcher shop and taught her and her brother the trade.
She continues to work full time in the shop as a meat wrapper and bookkeeper, while also earning a MFA degree from the University of Alaska where she teaches creative writing part-time.
Here are two poems from her book The Bandsaw Riots.
Out of the corner of my eye I peg her
to be the pretty wife of an important man.
Always, it's ones like her who ask, "How can you
stand the sight of blood?" She watches me
weigh out the three pounds of extra lean ground round
and wipe my hands on my apron to keep
from spoiling the clean white butcher paper
I wrap it in. "You get used to it," I shrug
and think of the blood's aged color -
not that hot red shock of a life leaked out -
more brown and watery as old coffee,
blood dull as engine oil on the cutting room floor
where we've racked through with our heavy boots.
Thursday night must be "her night" to cook
for husband and two kids. Her recipe, from a magazine,
will clutter her kitchen with forth-eight separate ingredients,
an electric chopper and, I'd bet money, a double broiler.
I smile. Count back change. "It's no big thing.
I wash my hands a lot and when I get home
the kidses dog goes apeshit licking my feet."
Raise a ruckus, I told those women,
beat pots and pans and rattle your chains.
Enough of coyness. Give 'em hell
and when the bosses tell you go home
you tell 'em Mother Jones gave you a chore to do.
Put your brooms in the air, start to howl
and tell 'em by God you'll clean up
any scab dares cross your line.
Fifteen men died
in that explosion in Arlington. I saw
their bodies hauled up
out of the ground and I looked
in the eyes of those miners' wives
and found desperation, not grief. Miners' wives
can’t afford grief, they still got children to feed
and nothing left to them but a handful of scrip and a debt
at the company store. Mother, they cried,
what do we do now? and this is all I knew
to tell them: you fight like hell
till you go to heaven and God willing
that ain't coming yet. And I'll tell you this,
I'd been there the year before and I'm grateful
to say those men died organized. And the next day
the miners came out and Mr. Rockerfeller
didn't make a dime off anyone's brokedown back.
Enough of hypocrites! Your men
have breathed black air long enough. Now
the Pinkertons are carrying arms, I said, so you keep
our men busy at home and you go
and claim their right to see the sun.
It ain't fair to spend the daylight underground
with nothing but the yellow flick of a candle.
You claim your right to your husbands, to wash
the hell off them one day a week. Sisters, I told them,
power is never given, it's always taken.
Rockerfeller has no heart, and the poor man
has a mansion of sorrow.
Here's a fun poem from "Here and Now" first-timer, Dawn Shepler Shimp.
Dawn says of herself that she lives in rural Ohio, where she writes poems and tries to save the birds who continually fly into her windows.
Sonnet on How My Husband is Making Me Fat, Wherein I Randomly Change Rhyme Scheme Mid-Poem for No Reason Whatsoever, but Decide to Leave it because, Hell, this is just Practice and Hell, the Original Rhyme Scheme was Wrong for a Sonnet Anyway
I look up and gaze down my long driveway
to see a man who's walking, dressed in gray
it's just my husband going out to get
the paper in his jammies, sure, but yet
it startles seeing his form in the haze
of fog that's lifting up and off the pond
and it occurs to me that in my brain
the chemicals don't know that I am wrong
to startle, only know that I felt fear
and set to work to normalize and keep
homeostasis, try their best to clear
the panic chemicals, and what is cheap
to use in this process is cortisone
which leads to belly fat. So, there you go!
Here's another one of mine, written last week.
an old man coming
if an apple
on my head
and eat it
and the whole
of Newtonian physics
would have been
has a yang,
a deeper issue
that must be
as well as lessons
that must be learned
I used to be
then I looked
in a mirror,
saw and old man
Now a poem by Rita Dove from her book On The Buss With Rosa Parks.
It gets you nowhere but deeper into
your own shit - pure misery a luxury
one never learns to enjoy. there's always some
meatier malaise, a misalliance ripe
to burst; Soften the mouth to a smile and
it stutters; laugh, and your drink spills into the wake
of repartee gone cold. Oh, you know
all the right things to say to yourself: Seize
the day, keep the faith, remember the children
starving in India....the same stuff
you say to your daughter
whenever a poke-out lip betrays
a less than noble constitution. (Not that
you'd consider actually going to India - all
those diseases and fervent eyes.) But if it's'
not your collapsing line of credit, it's
the scream you let rip when a centipede
shrieks up the patio wall. And that
daughter? She’ll find a reason to laugh
at you, her dear mother: "Poor thing
wouldn't harm a soul!" she'll say, as if
she knew of such things -
innocence, and a soul smart enough to know
when to get out of the way.
And another of mine, from several weeks ago.
From New Zealand, our friend Thane Zander presents us with this piece.
An Errant Poet Paints an Andy Warhol piece
It started with a painting at auction
reaching ninety five million dollars
The artist passed away in 1988
the same year another artist, my mother
passed away, though her works command
a striking free fee, such a giving lady she was.
Warhol on the other hand, Green Cars Crashing
sucks a load of cash out of some suspecting buyer,
generally a mish mash of paint and papier mache
the likes of school aged kids splattering with love.
The times when he held a can of Campbell's Soup
up as art, cracked my funny bone, I have a gift then
as I dabble freehand with pastels and watercolours,
One senses his pop culture versus my kiwi culture
far outweigh the latter. I search my room
for a masterpiece, something worthy of millions
and spy a decrepit translation of the Maori in me,
I had displayed and received reverence and accord.
What would a dead artist do with ninety five million?
What would you do with that amount? Swing from
the rafters and do bally hoop with chickens
in the foul house of life, cluck cluck, what the fuck?
I measure my next attempt at Art, raise the hands
above the keyboard, and ..... The End, signed me.
Gilbert Sorrentino was born in Brooklyn in 1929 and lived there and in Manhattan all his life. He published six volumes of poetry and five novels before he died in 2006.
This poem is from his collection, Selected Poems, 1958-1980
We all know too much of loneliness. I used to think
a man came stronger out of it. That might
be so. Testing the old vapidities
is not the same as saying them. They come at you
screaming, they cut up the soul,
injure you remorselessly: these things
that once lay under our surfaces waiting to be used
as objects to cause laughter, are become
fiends, they have northern eyes, blue
eyes, there is nothing at the bottom of them, they
sit in faces that leer obscenely, that take on
the faces, the shapes and declensions of friends, They
if you will listen to them, if you can
"Caelum non animum mutant qui trans mae currunt,"
not necessarily so, not at all so, or say that
the sky changes you. I picked up
pieces of petrified wood in Arizona, climbed
a mesa that had stood there 6 million years, it was
made of clay and rose coral, on top of it, I saw
as far as I could see in all directions, nothing: but
sky, but earth, but sky and earth, meeting, the
evil winds laughed at and past me. On the road you sat
in the car, the children in the car, your leg protruded
from the open door, and I was suddenly made barren,
a terrible aloneness, and the winds
I thought I should not see you again,
the sky was full of blood and darkness, the blue was
the blue of the west, our west, deadly and implacable. it
the eye of Satan, of all false gods, the evil eye.
He said he could give up everything
except he could not give up anything
when the test was made of him. He
is a quiet man, I used to mistake
that for strength
when I was younger.
I mistook it for solidity
and thought all stronger
men were silent. I have always
talked, to much, and hated
it in myself. But what is speech
but the release of strength
that threatens to destroy us?
What is speech but
the incantation that can make
me out of mud and mountains
out of slime and nothingness?
"Still waters run deep," is a lie,
bring me the talkers, the windbags,
confessors and liars, the
men who talk all night and all day
who do nothing but talk, who
won't stop even when they have no more
to say, silence
is no more than the lid
of the garbage can.
I touched you, it was as if
I had never touched anything, you
were water, there was a smell of water
in your hair, your ands
were quick and nervous
fragile to hold and there was water
I want to shatter the winds
that prey on us I reach
through years for your hand.
Our next poem is from another "Here and Now" first-timer, Khadija Anderson.
Khadija says she is a Butoh dancer, poet, and alumni of The Evergreen State College. A mother of four, ages 3 1⁄2 to 22, she lives in Seattle and is pursuing a career as a poet while earning a living playing with babies. She says she actively challenges the myth that persons near age 50 are getting old.
I told you he grabbed my ass
as we danced a slow salsa
told me I was beautiful
hell yes it was a line
but I fall for those
Tony with his smooth
merengue pulled me close
hips swaying together
god I fall for that
the tall man I danced with
asked if I knew the cha cha
are you alone
my heart is pounding que linda
you laughed but
here I am now
thinking about them
Another observation piece, from a young girl I saw at Borders.
Sister Rosa would not like this at all
worked ok at home
in the mirror
but now, out in public
with her friends,
she is excruciatingly
of the scooped
that shows the
of the sides of her
and the little
of her nipples
against the soft fabric
of her blouse and she is embarrassed,
looking left and right
with downcast eyes
like a child about to be
with her hands held
in front of her chest
if Sister Rosa
were to see her now
Driving 4,000 miles, as I did several weeks ago, allows plenty of time to listen to CD's. Among the ones we listened to was an old CD called The Highwaymen, featuring Willie Nelson, Kris Kristoffrerson, Waylon Jennings and Johnny Cash. They recorded the CD then did a tour together. This was probably 15-20 years ago. I like all four and remembered, when listening to it in the car, how much I had liked the CD when it came out.
Among my favorite songs on the disc is the title song, written by Willie Nelson. It's a four verse song, with Nelson taking the first verse, Kristoffrerson, the second, Jennings, the third, and Cash finishing with the final verse.
Here it is.
I was a highwayman, along the coach roads I did ride,
With sword and pistol by my side.
Many a young maid lost her baubles to my trade.
Many a soldier shred his lifeblood on my blade.
The bastards hung me in the spring of twenty-five:
But I am still alive.
I was a sailor, I was born upon the tide,
And with the sea I did abide.
I sailed a schooner round the Horn to Mexico.
I went aloft and furled the mainsail in a blow.
And when the yards broke off, they said that I got killed:
But I am living still.
I was a dam builder across the river deep and wide;
Where steel and water dud collide.
A place called Boulder on the wild Colorado,
I slipped and fell into the wet concrete below.
They buried me in that great tomb that knows no sound;
But I am still around.
I'll always be around,
And around and around and around and around.
I fly a starship across the Universe divide.
And when I get to the other side,
I'll find a place to rest my spirit if I can.
Perhaps I may become a highwayman again.
Or I may simple be a single drop of rain;
But I will remain,
And I'll be back again,
And again, and again and again and again.
If you've never heard the song, or haven't heard it in a while, find it on the web somewhere and pull it up. These guys, unique in their own right, really work well together as an equally unique four of a kind.
Now, something darker from me, written after Virginia State.
the devil can find you anywhere
it's part of living in the city
the noise of sirens
the fire trucks
the police cars
their supercharged engines
whoosh of air
and power like a bear's
as they cross the creek
just down the road;
all the little murders
the little killings that come
so often it begins to seem
like a stream of blood
a flood of blood
passing on weekends
the nude woman found
in a drainage ditch
the baby in her crib
shot dead as a drive by
bullet penetrates the thin wall
she sleeps by
that lead to shootings
in parking lots
blood on oily asphalt shinning
in the flashing lights
that rise from desperation
separation from hope
and too much to drink ending in rage-deaths
(I had a friend when I was thirteen, killed
by his father, shot as he tried to protect
his mother) so many
that we loose count and it's just another
half inch story on the back pages
and when we think of it at all we
shake our heads at the viciousness of it all
imagine quite places
where the sirens don't wail
all night, where murder and tragedy and rage
only happens on tv and we daydream
like this until something happens like happened
this week and we realize the devil can
always find you anywhere
and we see that
quiet places too
Michael J. Sottak is a strong poet, visiting "Here and Now" for the first time.
He included this note with his poem
"We all travel somewhere for something. I think some few strays actually find it....but the definition of what you've found is dubious,,,,and fleeting....leave me no walls."
There is a vital, driven element to his work that is reflected strongly in his note.
the wind drops the temperature
not enough to stop the heat
and the reggae man is singing marley
as margueritas and women sweat on salt
rims of stained glasses chilled raw conch
and the hollow ring of marimbas
you have you got any mamba in you
do you can you
the train at three a.m. the
who did you say where it was going
or what do i care
you smell like heaven
god and whiskey
Carol Ann Duffy was born in Glasgow, Scotland, in 1955, grew up in Stafford, England, and attended the University of Liverpool where she received an honors degree in philosophy in 1977. Her poetry publications have received many awards
She is a member of the Royal Society of Literature and currently lives in Manchester, where she lectures on poetry for the Writing School at Manchester Metropolitan University.
These two very funny poems are from her book The World's Wife.
Mrs. Rip Van Winkle
I sank like a stone
into the still, deep waters of late middle age,
aching from head to foot.
I took up food
and gave up exercise.
It did me good.
And while he slept
I found some hobbies for myself.
Painting. Seeing the sights I'd always dreamed about:
The Leaning Tower
The Pyramids. The Taj Mahal.
I made little watercolors of them all.
But what was best,
what hands-down beat the rest,
was saying a none-too-fond farewell to sex.
Until the day
I came home with this pastel of Niagara
and he was sitting up in bed rattling Viagra.
Ladies, for argument's sake, let us say
that I've seen my fair share of ding-a-ling, member and jock,
of todger and nudger and percy and cock, of tackle.
of three-for-a bob, of willy and winky; in fact,
you could say, I'm as au fait with Hunt-the Salami
as Ms. M. Lewinsky - equally sick up to here
with the beef bayonet, the port sword, the saveloy,
love-muscle, night-crawler, dong, the dick, prick
dipstick and wick, the rammer, the slammer, the rupert,
the shlong. Don't get me wrong, I've no axe to grind
with the snake in the trousers, the wife's best friend,
the weapon, the python - I suppose what I mean is,
ladies, dear ladies, the average penis - not pretty....
the squint of its envious solitary eye....one's feeling of
Conflict, conflict, conflict - I report on the conflict in my life.
is not talking
at the time
of the dread
flea collar exchange
I was the villain
does not forget
a conservative cat
she does not welcome
finding every variation
in her daily routine
and every instance
when her pillow is moved
from one side of the room
and even the best intentioned
cat food brand change
to the natural order
in the kingdom of the
as it happens
I am a trans-border
and the more laid back
realm of the dog
so I'll just swim
the river, so to speak,
and spend some time
with the dog regime
until she gets over it
they'll put up with
so long as you
their hairy tummy
without good reason
like for example
a new chew toy
or a walk in the park
should take notice
Charles Entekin was born in Alabama, took his B.A. from Birmingham Southern College and was a graduate student in Philosophy at Vanderbilt University and the University of Alabama. He completed an M.F.A. in Creative Writing at the University of Montana.
Entekin was one of the founders of the Berkely Poets Cooperative and has taught at various colleges and universities and served as the Associate Director of the Center for Contemporary Writing at John F. Kennedy University in Orinda, California.
These two poems are from his bookIn This Hour.
2642 Dana, Berkeley, California
To buy an old house, with grace, with sloping ceilings,
brass fixtures, cross beams and redwood cornices...
Our neighbor told us the past owners
had a fortress mentality; giant redwoods,
Chinese and Japanese elms walled them in with greenery;
that the woman of the house wore the pants
in the family.
Our first morning we are fog-bound in the ocean gray
world of shadows and cold wet air. Nathan begins
crawling in his first year of life. Occasional
streaks of sunlight filter through the windows.
I feel us in the bones of the house; your wrinkled belly,
and pink, warm undersides of your breasts.
Today I find myself siding with the woman,
her tastes in small matters, curtains, princess trees,
purple flowers by the back deck; everywhere
the husband left things worse for his efforts, leaky
roof, pressed sawdust floor beneath the caulked kitchen tile,
back door with busted hinges. And I wonder at their lives,
at how it must have been, want to take
everything he did down, start again.
But the house was here before the chaos
that must have plagued their days. The dark red body
of the wood, the wainscoting, like the forces of a language
we live inside of, like the taste of you
I carry in my mouth, like the touch of you, light,
and moist with your longing for me,
that place we come to in the dark.
Night In Yosemite Valley
I have come back weary,
stand with wet hair after a shower,
in moonlight, in the massive blackness
of Cathedral Rock rising up behind us,
blocking the stars.
Here something holds me to the earth,
I move slowly, awake to glass-like granite
of boulders born millions of years ago,
to a flitting in the dark gloaming, bats,
and I feel the planet's deaths,
how they have come and gone,
the quick breaths of a saxophone,
the seasons, and my own life
Listen, I want to slip reasonably
out from the trees, cross meadows in the darkness,
sneak past the shy deer, colorful backpackers,
and climb up to the snow line. Tonight I know the open
moon, and city lights that blink up and down
the freeways call to someone else. I am alive;
my childhood sparks like a filament in the dark.
And I stand still in this thin moon,
between childhood and old age, as if what comes next
will be read from the edge of the wind, coldly,
openly, as obvious as the moon over Basket Lake.
Dan Cuddy has been with us at "Here and Now" several times. Here's his latest.
"act your age"
because it is an act
in a drama
i hang myself upside down
monkey of dreams
view the world
as if young
how cracked the face in the mirror
the road to hell
Brian Blanchfield lives in Brooklyn, New York and teaches in the B.F.A. creative writing program at Pratt Institute of Art. His poems have appeared in various publications. This poem is from his first collection, Not Even Then .
The moon will all but disappear, which is to say the world is in the way
again. It will take two hours to return to full, which is what we, in our
way, call a whole half lit.
I was stunned by lawn sculptures of waves outside the long lobbied
Delano on South Beach, its oceanside wide open, its twenty-five-foot
billowing white drapes sucked to my back and then not and then sucked
again, its cavity fighting mine.
The galaxy is all wrong with a nine-dollar cosmopolitan. I couldn't get
daylight's alibi. Someone said gimme an O. I said gimme another. We
couldn't get the bartender's attention. Obtundity nearly knocked me
Dennis said he didn’t know about lunar ones but the wind that rushes
in when the sun goes out brings the scent of your secret desire.
At Grand Army Plaza, by nine lanes spinning into fewer, I make it to
the middle. The moon is already phased to the size of an eyelash. or
someone's distant hand cupped at his sunned brow, making you out.
Poor white parenthesis, is everything inessential? should everything
come between? Someone cheer the sidereal.
But no one has outsprinted our coverlet to star in warmth on rock. I
imagine it new, another tournament beginning, an open, and invitational.
I wrote this one day before yesterday for the poem-a-day workshop at the Blueline Forum.
float a check....
float an idea....
down the river
we call our time,
through the shallows
and the deep,
through slow and lazy
and through rapids,
on either side,
cold on our faces,
warm in our eyes
the river goes
the true condition
no matter how
we fight it
up a creek
Irish poet Paul Duncan published his first book of poems in 1967. Since then he has published fifteen more, including Greetings to Our Friends in Brazil, from which this poem is taken.
Ten days ago in Fortaleza,
Evandro - a young
Brazilian Presbyterian -
Drove me to the sea.
In a country with a population
Of Two hundred million
There was no one
To be seen at the sea.
I sat on the dune
Under a coconut tree;
Diving in and out
of the South Atlantic;
At fifty years of age
A nipper in excelsis.
Driving back into Fortaleza
I put the question to Evandro:
How would you - a young
Brazilian Presbyterian -
Driving on in silence,
Caressing the steering wheel
Of his Space Wagon,
The Brazilian Presbyterian
Began to think aloud:
"Heaven.....is a place....
That....woud surprise you."
In our life today, we keep running so much it's hard to keep a connection to where we've been. Despite being generally careless with "things," there a few items that I keep close to me as a reminder of where I came from, my father's pocketknife and watch, my grandfather's ring and fancy clothes brush, and this old bed I sleep on.
this old bed
on the bed
where my father
one hundred years ago
second child of Celeste
amid the rocky hills
and pecan and flowing streams
in the little
Texas-German town of
on the bed
that has slept my family
through two world wars
and multiple wars of lesser scope,
through eighteen presidents
of the United States,
to the needs of their time
from ragtime to
and the era of bathtub beer,
the gilded age
the jazz age
in the suburbs
and getting sober
through six presidential
on the launching pad
in near earth orbit,
to a man on the moon,
the cries of the dead
of the ruling class
of the ruling class,
through Bull Connor
and his police dogs,
and his dreams
and his death on a
through the triumph
and the reemergence
the cycle played out
over and over again
in the days of yellow
Murrow and Cronkite
and Brinkley and Huntley
on radio and tv
and now new messengers
on the web
and Wikipedia fancy,
on a tumbling pedestal,
lies flying in the wind,
through it all,
all the times of
has calmed the nights
through three generations
and midnight dreams,
for the final sleep
of this generation
and the lying
down to rest
of the next
Setting aside any and all highbrow pretension, I must admit that this poem written by American movie icon Jimmy Stewart and read by him to Johnny Carson on the old Tonight Show is among the most moving thing I ever saw on television.
Reading it now, I can see that you had to have there for the full effect, just proving, once again, the power of a really good reader.
He never came to me when I would call
Unless I had a tennis ball,
Or he felt like it,
But mostly he didn't come at all.
When he was young
He never learned to heel
Or sit or stay,
He did things his way.
Discipline was not his bag
But when you were with him things sure didn't drag.
He'd dig up a rosebush just to spite me,
And when I'd grab him, he'd turn and bite me.
He bit lots of folks from day to day,
The delivery boy was his favorite prey.
The gas man wouldn't read our meter,
He said we owned a real man-eater.
He set the house on fire
But the story's long to tell.
Suffice it to say that he survived
And the house survived as well.
On the evening walks, and Gloria took him,
He was always first out the door.
The Old One and I brought up the rear
Because our bones were sore.
He would charge up the street with Mom hanging on,
What a beautiful pair they were!
And if it was still light and the tourists were out,
They created a bit of a stir.
But every once in a while, he would stop in his tracks
And with a frown on his face look around.
It was just make sure that the Old One was there
And would follow him where he was bound.
We are early-to-bedders at our house -
I guess I'm the first to retire.
And as I'd leave the room he'd look at me
And get up from his place by the fire.
He knew where the tennis balls were upstairs,
And I'd give him one for a while.
He would push it under the bed with his nose
And I'd fish it out with a smile.
And before very long
He'd tire of the ball
And be asleep in his corner
In no time at all.
And there were nights when I'd feel him
Climb upon our bed
And lie between us,
And I'd pat his head.
And there were nights when I'd feel this stare
Ad I'd wake up and he'd be sitting there
And I'd reach out my hand and stroke his hair.
And sometimes I'd feel him sigh
and I think I know the reason why.
He would wake up at night
And he would know this fear
Of the dark, of life, of lots of things,
And he'd be glad to have me near.
And now he's dead.
And there are nights when I think I feel him
Climb upon our bed and lie between us,
And I pat his head.
And there are night when I think
I feel that stare
And I reach out my hand to stroke his hair
And he's not there.
Oh, how I wish that wasn't so,
I'll always love a dog named Beau.>
Well that's it for this time. See you again next week.