Five Dogs
By Mark Strand
1
I, the dog they call Spot, was about to sing. Autumn Had come, the walks were freckled with leaves, and a tarnished Moonlit emptiness crept over the valley floor. I wanted to climb the poets' hill before the winter settled in; I wanted to praise the soul. My neighbor told me Not to waste my time. Already the frost had deepened And the north wind, trailing the whip of its own scream, Pressed against the house. "A dog's sublimity is never news," He said, "what's another poet in the end?" And I stood in the midnight valley, watching the great starfields Flash and flower in the wished-for reaches of heaven. That's when I, the dog they call Spot, began to sing.
2
Now that the great dog I worshipped for years Has become none other than myself, I can look within And bark, and I can look at the mountains down the street And bark at them as well. I am an eye that sees itself Look back, a nose that tracks the scent of shadows As they fall, an ear that picks up sounds Before they're born. I am the last of the platinum Retrievers, the end of a gorgeous line. But there's no comfort being who I am. I roam around and ponder fate's abolishments Until my eyes are filled with tears and I say to myself, "Oh Rex, Forget. Forget. The stars are out. The marble moon slides by."
3
Most of my kind believe that Earth Is the only planet not covered with hair. So be it, I say, let tragedy strike, let the story of everything End today, then let it begin again tomorrow. I no longer care. I no longer wait in front of the blistered, antique mirror, Hoping a shape or a self will rise, and step From that misted surface and say: You there, Come with me into the world of light and be whole, For the love you thought had been dead a thousand years Is back in town and asking for you. Oh no. I say, I'm done with my kind. I live alone On Walnut Lane, and will until the day I die.
4
Before the tremendous dogs are unleashed, Let's get the little ones inside, let's drag The big bones onto the lawn and clean The Royal Dog Hotel. Gypsy, my love, the end of an age has come. Already, The howls of the great dogs practicing fills the air, And look at that man on all fours dancing under The moon's dumbfounded gaze, and look at that woman Doing the same. The wave of the future has gotten To them and they have responded with all they have: A little step forward, a little step back. And they sway, And their eyes are closed. O heavenly bodies. O bodies of time. O golden bodies of lasting fire.
5
All winter the weather came up with amazing results: The streets and walks had turned to glass. The sky Was a sheet of white. And here was a dog in a phone booth Calling home. But nothing would ease his tiny heart. For years the song of his body was all of his calling. Now It was nothing. Those hymns to desire, songs of bliss Would never return. The sky's copious indigo, The yellow dust of sunlight after rain, were gone. No one was home. The phone kept ringing. The curtains Of sleep were about to be drawn, and darkness would pass Into the world. And so, and so . . . goodbye all, goodbye dog.
