Mary Oliver - Dog Songs. Poems

SELECT TITLES ALSO BY MARY OLIVER

POETRY A Thousand Mornings American Primitive Dream Work New and Selected Poems, Volume One White Pine The Leaf and the Cloud What Do We Know Why I Wake Early New and Selected Poems, Volume Two Swan PROSE Blue Pastures Winter Hours A Poetry Handbook Dog Songs Thirty-five Dog Songs and One Essay

MARY OLIVER

THE PENGUIN PRESS NEW YORK 2013

THE PENGUIN PRESS

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Copyright Mary Oliver, 2013

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ISBN 978-1-101-63873-6

Illustrations by John Burgoyne

Book design by Claire Naylon Vaccaro

For Anne Taylor and Martin Michaelson

CONTENTS

HOW IT BEGINS

A puppy is a puppy is a puppy.Hes probably in a basket with a bunchof other puppies.Then hes a little older and hes nothingbut a bundle of longing.He doesnt even understand it.Then someone picks him up and says,I want this one.

HOW IT IS WITH US, AND HOW IT IS WITH THEM

We become religious,then we turn from it,then we are in need and maybe we turn back.We turn to making money,then we turn to the moral life,then we think about money again.We meet wonderful people, but lose themin our busyness.Were, as the saying goes, all over the place.Steadfastness, it seems,is more about dogs than about us.One of the reasons we love them so much.

IF YOU ARE HOLDING THIS BOOK

You may not agree, you may not care, butif you are holding this book you should knowthat of all the sights I love in this worldand there are plentyvery near the top ofthe list is this one: dogs without leashes.

EVERY DOGS STORY

I have a bed, my very own.Its just my size.And sometimes I like to sleep alonewith dreams inside my eyes.But sometimes dreams are dark and wild and creepyand I wake and am afraid, though I dont know why.But Im no longer sleepyand too slowly the hours go by.So I climb on the bed where the light of the moonis shining on your faceand I know it will be morning soon.Everybody needs a safe place.

THE STORM (BEAR)

Now through the white orchard my little dogromps, breaking the new snowwith wild feet.Running here running there, excited,hardly able to stop, he leaps, he spinsuntil the white snow is written uponin large, exuberant letters,a long sentence, expressingthe pleasures of the body in this world.Oh, I could not have said it bettermyself.

CONVERSATIONS

Said Bear, I know Im supposed to keep my eyeon you, but its difficult the way youlag behind and keep talking to people.Well, how can you be keeping your eye on mewhen youre half a mile ahead?True, said Bear. But Im thinking of youall the time.I had to go away for a few days so I calledthe kennel and made an appointment. I guessBear overheard the conversation.Love and company, said Bear, are the adornmentsthat change everything. I know theyll benice to me, but Ill be sad, sad, sad.And pitifully he wrung his paws.I cancelled the trip.

LUKES JUNKYARD SONG

I was born in a junkyard,not even on a bundle of ragsor the seat of an old wrecked carbut the dust below.But when my eyes openedI could crawl to the edge and seethe moving grass and the treesand this I began to dream on,though the worms were eating me.And at night through the twists of metalI could see a single starone, not even two.Its light was a thing of wonder,and I learned something preciousthat would also be good for you.Though the worms kept biting and pinchingI fell in love with this star.I stared at it every nightthat light so clear and far.Listen, a junkyard puppylearns quickly how to dream.Listen, whatever you see and lovethats where you are.

LUKE

I had a dogwho loved flowers.Briskly she wentthrough the fields,yet pausedfor the honeysuckleor the rose,her dark headand her wet nosetouchingthe faceof every onewith its petalsof silk,with its fragrancerisinginto the airwhere the bees,their bodiesheavy with pollen,hoveredand easilyshe adoredevery blossom,not in the serious,careful waythat we choosethis blossom or that blossomthe way we praise or dont praisethe way we loveor dont lovebut the waywe long to bethat happyin the heaven of earththat wild, that loving.

HER GRAVE

She would come back, dripping thick water, from thegreen bog.She would fall at my feet, she would draw the black skinfrom her gums, in a hideous and wonderful smileand I would rub my hands over her pricked ears and her cunning elbows,and I would hug the barrel of her body, amazed at the unassuming perfect arch of her neck.It took four of us to carry her into the woods.We did not think of music,but anyway, it began to rainslowly.Her wolfish, invitational half-pounce.Her great and lordly satisfaction at having chased something.My great and lordly satisfaction at her splashof happiness as she bargedthrough the pitch pines swiping my face with herwild, slightly mossy tongue.Does the hummingbird think he himself invented his crimson throat?He is wiser than that, I think.A dog lives fifteen years, if youre lucky.Do the cranes crying out in the high cloudsthink it is all their own music?A dog comes to you and lives with you in your own house, but youdo not therefore own her, as you do not own the rain, or thetrees, or the laws which pertain to them.Does the bear wandering in the autumn up the side of the hillthink all by herself she has imagined the refuge and the refreshmentof her long slumber?A dog can never tell you what she knows from thesmells of the world, but you know, watching her,that you knowalmost nothing.Does the water snake with his backbone of diamonds thinkthe black tunnel on the bank of the pond is a palaceof his own making?She roved ahead of me through the fields, yet would come back,or wait for me, or be somewhere.Now she is buried under the pines.Nor will I argue it, or pray for anything but modesty, andnot to be angry.Through the trees there is the sound of the wind, palavering.The smell of the pine needles, what is it but a tasteof the infallible energies?How strong was her dark body!How apt is her grave place.How beautiful is her unshakable sleep.Finally,the slick mountains of love breakover us.

BENJAMIN, WHO CAME FROM WHO KNOWS WHERE

What shall I do?When I pick up the broomhe leaves the room.When I fuss with kindling heruns for the yard.Then hes back, and wehug for a long time.In his low-to-the-ground chestI can hear his heart slowing down.Then I rub his shoulders andkiss his feetand fondle his long hound ears.Benny, I say,dont worry. I also know the waythe old life haunts the new.

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