mjh's blog

Billy

Happy Birthday, Billy Collins! Time to re-read On Turning Ten, Forgetfulness or The Country (bottom of that page). Collins is one of my favorite poets — perhaps he and Frost share #2 and there is no #1 for me (though I could hardly imagine poets more different than Frost and Collins).

Time to trot out my tribute to Collins (for Merri):

Billy

It doesn’t seem the least bit odd
that all the members of the orchestra
are dogs.
Some in tuxedos,
some in black gowns,
sitting, waiting — good dogs! –
for the conductor
to raise a long meaty bone.
Some clear their throats,
some drool,
none look away for a moment.

It doesn’t seem the least bit odd
that everyone in the audience
is in a tutu.
Men and women dressed for the
ballet, though this is a concert,
each holding a pen and pad
planning to pounce
to snatch some new idea.
As if Beethoven for Dogs
weren’t enough.

It doesn’t seem the least bit odd
in the end
when the conductor puts down his baton,
most of the meat shaken off
to the delight of the First Chair.
He turns and bows
and then I recognize him:
the poet laureate,
the old dog himself. _mjh

8/13/02

PS: Frost’s birthday is 3/26/1874.

Where Is She?

When I come in from the garage
the dog’s look asks,
“Where is she?”
Gone, I say, she’s gone.
He stands at the door
head tilted, he listens
for you.
I open the door
and he walks around the car
pausing to look up into the
windows on both sides.
“Where is she?”

All night he sits by the window
rising up at any sound
he looks and waits
for your return.

And I am there beside him
sharing his hope
for your return.
Where is she? _mjh

6/19/2004

Poetic Justice

1.
The burglars kicked in the sidedoor
and invaded our kitchen
stealing 22 years of safety
and a cheap TV.

2.
We painted that kitchen
in a project which
began with stripping ugly wallpaper and ended
with a pretty security door a week too late.

3.
Thieves ransacked the dresser
she bought from her landlady in Virginia,
the top strewn with a lifetime’s sentimental baubles
pawed through by worthless thugs.

4.
In the garage,
a thief spread the contents of the glovebox
over the seats,
as if taking inventory before a long trip.

5.
Back at their hideout,
the burglars exclaimed,
“Man, those people had nothin’ worth stealing.
We were robbed.”

9/16/2009

Birdsmith

The poet stands before a cage of birds,
contemplating his next words.
He snatches up a finch
and deftly dips its feet in ink,
stamping glyphs across the page.
All the while, the bird sings softly,
adding a common tone
to this pedestrian poem.
Returning the finch to its pen,
the poet mutters,
"I should have used a wren." _mjh

11/24/2009

surrounded

the alpha wolf dreams
she is on her greatest hunt.
the prey is worthy & strong

her twitches and yelps
awaken her pack
they stand around her
recognize the cues
this is a great hunt.
as one, they lay down
and close their eyes

and she is surrounded again
by her pack
moving endlessly towards the kill mjh

8/18/04

dry spell

It is so nice of you
to ask about my poetry.
“Anything new?”
Only seeds
on fallow ground
my personal drought,
I reply dryly
through cracked lips,
my laugh the crunch
of leaves & snap of twigs.

In my hands this paper
browns and curls,
the pen melts,
and in flame
I remember
some seeds need fire
some brush must burn
before we grow. mjh

11/2/2003

Finally

The day finally comes
when you have to lift your dog
down from the truck.
It doesn’t matter that for years
he has cleared that distance
in a bound.
Or that he hates for you
to pick him up.
He stands at the tailgate
eying the distance;
does he think his leg
may give in again?
He waits a long time
as if just surveying the scene —
not asking for help,
just enduring it.
With a dignity
That makes you cry. mjh

7/17/06

(Written 3 years before Lucky Dog died.)