Rejoice in the Dog

He knows love and is not twisted up
by its selfishness. He is not kicked
but kissed by my postman. He likes to sleep
beside me, or on my feet,
and when I sleep with another he is
sandwiched between us. When he stretches,
the arch of awareness turns wider
and friendlier, like a smile.
Like me, he approaches people with hope
and goodwill and nothing in common.
Once he was chained up, unable to lie,
delicately avoiding his fæces which no
amount of withholding withheld.
He is of the Tribe of the Guardian
of the Wisdom of Death, unknowingly
- and is, unknowingly, sweeter than
most humans who have ever lived.
He loves to nudge and puncture
large balls and to worry and carry
and toss long-bristled yard-brushes,
but manages only to bark
at the hedgehogs in the woods.
He rolls in ripe Camembert.

He is a most wonderfully-unwitting
saviour who loves to gallop
on greensward slopes. His lips
are not lips of desire.
Though neither of us is keen
on his own species, he loves all
other dogs and all humans
except my wife-beating landlord,
and he is snarled at by some dogs
and the most loveless of humans.
He has had boyfriends and girlfriends.
He once had a neutered admirer
who was a sweet shaggy rug on four legs.
When he curls up like his croissant-tail
he is the meekest of people
such as have no wish to inherit the earth.
He loves caviare d’aubergines & hummous
& olives & pears, globe artichokes, radishes,
mangoes & spinach & gooseberries. His favourite
rug is Iranian – depicting a peacock
perched on the Tree of Life.
When the rain is severe he gnaws bones on it.
If, tomorrow, I should lose
everything but him, I would stride
out with him on the road to our fate
(with a lead for his safety) until one of us dies.

His love is greater and humbler
than any human’s or the love of any god
devised by mere human. Thus he is
one of the millions of speechless
Perfecti of Heaven which is my lost awareness.

He is the terror of lawnmowers.
He is quiet in libraries. He is happy in cars.
He can cope splendidly with our
constantly-puzzling world, while we
hardly even deign to consider
the possibility of entering his.
He requires no explanations. Beethoven
described my feelings for him in the Archduke Trio.
He seems not greater than I in his power,
yet though I am his keeper as I am
my car’s, he is greater than I
through his trustingness.

He is my only reason for living,
though perhaps not sufficient, due
to the heart-clutching unreservedness
of his acceptance of life. Now the Lord
of Truth, my vassal, comes in his smiling
and lordly humility to tell me how much
and how quickly
he has enjoyed his dinner.

OSCAR'S POEM

Gnawing my bone: a poem
of life about death
about time and continuation -
a connection far beyond words
in its fine satisfaction.

There is only an O

between poet and pet.
I am just a spineless
kind of dog.

My dog-choice is to sniff
the arse of every
truth and mystery.

AS IF

In the prison of our power
the deep philosophy of dogs
is to behave as if
we are going to be half-decent to them,
as if we were worth knowing -
indeed, even as if we were worth serving.

Every one of them who spend
most of their lives waiting for us to
do something beautiful
is holier than Jesus
or St. Francis of Assisi.

CANID CAMERA

When dogs become olfactory photographers
they will surely capture
carcasses and each other’s genitals.

A POEM ABOUT NOTHING

Before acceptance -
illusion

After acceptance -
burial

Oscar and I
are awake
together,
both
dreaming
of
bones.

DOG HAIKU

"And the subtle animals sense surely
that we aren’t at all at home
in our description of the world."
- Rainer-Maria Rilke.

The dog chained up
amongst his shit: his freeing
less a kidnap than an elopement.

Birds nesting.
Oscar and I are together
all the hours of the day.

Morning erections:
Were my dog and I dreaming
of each other ?

Now my foreskin-cheese
sought out by Oscar
no longer goes to waste.

Windy day;
a croissant-tail droops
as I read haiku to my dog.

Quiet rain. Dogs express
so much silently – why must
we make so much noise ?

Our lives intertwined
Oscar and I check up on
each other’s fæces.

Inseeing: a dog
becomes a window through which
I view my blindness.

Community of luxury:
I drink the wine
while Oscar chews the cork.

Sun behind mist.
Oscar howls piteously:
his ball is stuck in a bush.

Woods in May:
The glory of a dog,
The shadow that is man.

Ruined houses:
our only creation as beautiful as dogs.

My dog rolling:
None of the menace of men
enjoying themselves.

Oscar: the liberty to tell him
of my love twenty times a day.

Remaining perfect,
my dog failed to see
two butterflies on his bone.

Canine and capitalism:
the best in my life costs the least.

Failing to find the divine
in any human or pseudo-
superhuman, I found it in my dog.

Oscar and I gaze
at each other - each recognising
a god.

Jewish Spring Shekinah :
I celebrate the moulting God.

The only God
is Dog and there
are wonderfully many.

Reassuring dog music:
Oscar is in touch with
his mobile bone.

For a saint or dog
what is not mystery
is revelation.

Oscar and I
asleep together
each dreaming of bones.

Better than sex ?
Sniffing Oscar's
never-washed fur.


Wet nose on my pillow:
holy matrimony
suits me and my dog .

Rolling in another dog's shit -
Oscar is doubly divine.

In the world we've turned to pain
his beauty is almost
unbearable.