Pug Mayne
A Dog's Life

• mine.

December brought disappointment
and rain,
which continued until
two o'clock in the morning 
on the twenty-fourth day,
when i finally  heard the leaves quake
in the current of an indifferent wind.

Now, I am determined to scrape the moss off
and carve something
worth reading
on the north side of the trees.

Am I blissfully grateful that folkseses 'round these parts will actually bother to read things that I find thought provoking? Hell yeah...And it's good for me to try and think through comments that reveal why some one else found something I found thought provoking, thought provoking for an entirely different reason. Case in point, Rhiannon's response to the Mark Strand essay.

 From her comments- Strand's words led her down the path of examining a reader's initial response to something. I base this on her comment, "For me, this raises an old chicken-and-egg question. Certainly one's analysis of a poem is colored by initial response...Might not Strand have analyzed the poem differently if it had first viscerally hit him in a different way? Of course poetic analysis can never be objective...and shouldn't be."  And in thinking about the question she poses, I'd have to agree- of course, Strand might have analyzed Marvell's work differently if it had "viscerally" hit him in a different way. But for me, the key element of the essay remains, his ability to analyze and identify why it hit him differently. His initial response to the work was clarified over time with study, scholarship, and reflection. His ability to articulate why the poem moved him was also clarified and refined. And that refinement and clarity paralleled his own growth as a writer. His ability to recognize all the tools in the arsenal available to communicate how the poem effectively connected with him viscerally, enables him to bring those tools to his own work. In other words, being able to clearly articulate, identify, and support the response to someone else's stuff is ultimately not only going to help anyone become a better reader, but also a better writer. And for me, all of that is part of the reason to participate in a community like this one. ( Which I suppose means, I really should get off my ass and start commenting on people's poems...sigh)

or something like that....

that's my thoughts for today.

In the house of bone
the windows ache.
The gileded jars of saint'sfingers and shins 
are all labeled and neatly contained.
Temporal  fragments adorned and adored,
while hung in self conscious rows.
A room where you can scan the femur,  worship a thumb or wonder at a part of a rib.

Pieces of the saints, with scrimmed edges
scrolled mercilessly into a fine point.
one careless edge,
one slip,
and the bit gouges and fragments
bone into dust.

Time leaches the pale ribs
of all our frail cages.
Time mars the surface with lines,
and underneath fissures widen into craters.
We all wear poor frames that weaken under strain.

Still greedily we gather
amidst the past's shards.
We jar them and contain them
as if we could hold the greatness
with the dust.
And on, the single file line passes by
seeking redemption
in the house of bones.

Three thousand feet

and twenty nine degrees,
the rain turned to snow
and reflected in the beams
from intermittent street lamps.

The ruts in the road
widened over Indian John Hill
and the firs lining the way
grew menacing fingers.

One moment caught a scant glance
of carrion in the road.
Just a miserable pile left
in some other traveler's wake.
There is no stopping, this time,
on this road.

One glimpse in the rear view
and a moment of recognition
in that miserable pile of bone and hide;
the dusty pile of road-weary carcass
met some lonely end on this same road.
It might have been hours,
it might have been days ago.

No trail of ruby red
tail lights to follow
and no clear path,
just ruts in the road.