POETRY



To a Dog
by St. John Welles Lucas

But in come canine Paradise
Your wraith, I know, rebukes the moon,
And quarters every plain and hill,
Seeking its master. . . . As for me
This prayer at least the gods fulfill
That when I pass the flood and see
Old Charon by Stygian coast
Take toll of all the shades who land,
Your little, faithful barking ghost
May leap to lick my phantom hand.



'Epitaph to a Dog'
by Lord Byron

Near this Spot
are deposited the Remains of one
who possessed Beauty without Vanity,
Strength without Insolence,
Courage without Ferocity,
and all the virtues of Man without his Vices.

This praise, which would be unmeaning Flattery
if inscribed over human Ashes,
is but a just tribute to the Memory of
Boatswain, a Dog
who was born in Newfoundland May 1803
and died at Newstead Nov. 18th, 1808

When some proud Son of Man returns to Earth,
Unknown to Glory, but upheld by Birth,
The sculptor’s art exhausts the pomp of woe,
And storied urns record who rests below.

When all is done, upon the Tomb is seen,
Not what he was, but what he should have been.
But the poor Dog, in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend,
Whose honest heart is still his Master’s own,
Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,
Unhonoured falls, unnoticed all his worth,
Denied in heaven the Soul he held on earth –
While man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven,
And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven.

Oh man! thou feeble tenant of an hour,
Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power –
Who knows thee well, must quit thee with disgust,
Degraded mass of animated dust!
Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat,
Thy tongue hypocrisy, thy heart deceit!
By nature vile, ennobled but by name,
Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame.
Ye, who behold perchance this simple urn,
Pass on – it honours none you wish to mourn.
To mark a friend’s remains these stones arise;
I never knew but one -- and here he lies.



Monument to a Dog

When some proud Son of Man returns to Earth,
Unknown by Glory, but upheld by Birth,
The sculptor’s art exhausts the pomp of woe,
And storied urns record who rests below.
When all is done, upon the Tomb is seen, Not what he was, but what he should have been.
But the poor Dog, in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend,
Whose honest heart is still his Master’s own,
Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,
Unhonoured falls, unnoticed all his worth,
Denied in heaven the Soul he held on earth –
While man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven,
And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven.

Oh man! thou feeble tenant of an hour,
Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power –
Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust,
Degraded mass of animated dust!
Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat,
Thy tongue hypocrisy, thy heart deceit!
By nature vile, ennobled but by name,
Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame.
Ye, who perchance behold this simple urn,
Pass on – it honors none you wish to mourn.
To mark a friend’s remains these stones arise;
I never knew but one – and here he lies.



'Tis sweet to hear the watch dog's honest bark Bay deep-mouthed welcome as we draw near home;
'tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark
Our coming and look brighter when we come.



Epitaph On A Lap-Dog Named Echo
by Robert Burns

In wood and wild, ye warbling throng,
Your heavy loss deplore;
Now, half extinct your powers of song,
Sweet Echo is no more.

Ye jarring, screeching things around,
Scream your discordant joys;
Now, half your din of tuneless sound
With Echo silent lies.



To Flush, my Dog
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Loving friend, the gift of one
Who her own true faith has run
Through thy lower nature,
Be my benediction said With my hand upon thy head,
Gentle fellow-creature!

Like a lady's ringlets brown,
Flow thy silken ears adown
Either side demurely
Of thy silver-suited breast
Shining out from all the rest
Of thy body purely.

Darkly brown thy body is,
Till the sunshine striking this
Alchemise its dullness,
When the sleek curls manifold
Flash all over into gold
With a burnished fulness.

Underneath my stroking hand,
Startled eyes of hazel bland
Kindling, growing larger,
Up thou leapest with a spring,
Full of prank and curveting,
Leaping like a charger.

Leap! thy broad tail waves a light,
Leap! thy slender feet are bright,
Canopied in fringes;
Leap! those tasselled ears of thine
Flicker strangely, fair and fine
Down their golden inches.

Yet, my pretty, sportive friend,
Little is't to such an end
That I praise thy rareness;
Other dogs may be thy peers
Haply in these drooping ears
And this glossy fairness.

But of thee it shall be said,
This dog watched beside a bed
Day and night unweary,
Watched within a curtained room
Where no sunbeam brake the gloom
Round the sick and dreary.

Roses, gathered for a vase,
In that chamber died apace,
Beam and breeze resigning;
This dog only, waited on,
Knowing that when light is gone
Love remains for shining.

Other dogs in thymy dew
Tracked the hares and followed through
Sunny moor or meadow; This dog only, crept and crept
Next a languid cheek that slept,
Sharing in the shadow.

Other dogs of loyal cheer
Bounded at the whistle clear,
Up the woodside hieing;
This dog only, watched in reach
Of a faintly uttered speech
Or a louder sighing.

And if one or two quick tears
Dropped upon his glossy ears
Or a sigh came double,
Up he sprang in eager haste,
Fawning, fondling, breathing fast,
In a tender trouble.

And this dog was satisfied
If a pale thin hand would glide
Down his dewlaps sloping, —
Which he pushed his nose within,
After, — platforming his chin
On the palm left open.

This dog, if a friendly voice
Call him now to blither choice
Than such chamber-keeping,
"Come out!" praying from the door, —
Presseth backward as before,
Up against me leaping.

Therefore to this dog will I,
Tenderly not scornfully,
Render praise and favor:
With my hand upon his head,
Is my benediction said
Therefore and for ever.

And because he loves me so,
Better than his kind will do
Often man or woman,
Give I back more love again
Than dogs often take of men,
Leaning from my Human.

Blessings on thee, dog of mine,
Pretty collars make thee fine,
Sugared milk make fat thee!
Pleasures wag on in thy tail,
Hands of gentle motion fail
Nevermore, to pat thee.

Downy pillow take thy head,
Silken coverlid bestead,
Sunshine help thy sleeping!
No fly's buzzing wake thee up,
No man break thy purple cup
Set for drinking deep in.

Whiskered cats arointed flee,
Sturdy stoppers keep from thee
Cologne distillations;
Nuts lie in thy path for stones,
And thy feast-day macaroons
Turn to daily rations!

Mock I thee, in wishing weal? —
Tears are in my eyes to feel
Thou art made so straitly,
Blessing needs must straiten too, —
Little canst thou joy or do,
Thou who lovest greatly.

Yet be blessed to the height
Of all good and all delight
Pervious to thy nature;
Only loved beyond that line,
With a love that answers thine,
Loving fellow-creature!



Thorns may hurt you, men desert you, sunlight turn to fog;

but you're never friendless ever, if you have a dog.

by Douglas Mallock



Homer's Seeing-Eye Dog
by William Matthews

Most of the time he worked, a sort of sleep
with a purpose, so far as I could tell.
How he got from the dark of sleep
to the dark of waking up I'll never know;
the lax sprawl sleep allowed him
began to set from the edges in,
like a custard, and then he was awake,
me too, of course, wriggling my ears
while he unlocked his bladder and stream
of dopey wake-up jokes. The one
about the wine-dark pee I hated instantly.
I stood at the ready, like a god
in an epic, but there was never much
to do. Oh now and then I'd make a sure
intervention, save a life, whatever.
But my exploits don't interest you
and of his life all I can say is that
when he'd poured out his work
the best of it was gone and then he died.
He was a great man and I loved him.
Not a whimper about his sex life --
how I detest your prurience --
but here's a farewell literary tip:
I myself am the model for Penelope.
Don't snicker, you hairless moron,
I know so well what faithful means
there's not even a word for it in Dog,
I just embody it. I think you bipeds
have a catchphrase for it: "To thine own self
be true, . . ." though like a blind man's shadow,
the second half is only there for those who know
it's missing. Merely a dog, I'll tell you
what it is: " . . . as if you had a choice."


The first famous canine story dates from the 8th century B.C. In Homer’s “Odyssey,” the king of Ithaca returns home disguised as a beggar after 20 years. Two of King Odysseus’ old friends recognize him, his aged nurse, Eurycleia, and Argos, the only dog to whom Homer gave a name, and as such the first named dog in recorded history. “As they talked, a dog that lay there lifted up his muzzle, pricked his ears … It was Argos, Odysseus’ long-enduring dog, he trained as a puppy… the moment he sensed Odysseus standing by he thumped his tail, muzzling low, and his ears dropped, though he had no strength to drag himself an inch toward his master. Odysseus glanced to the side and flicked away a tear.” And with that, on his dung heap, Argos dies.



Argos, Ulysses' faithful dog

Today like everyday you met me with feelings unrestrained
As if I were a long lost relative getting off a train
You welcomed me like I was your entire life
Just as an excited groom who has take a new wife.

So few words but we both new the score
As without hesitation on me love you did pour
Our love is madness, should we be certified?
A love had a voice, in you, that sound would be found

Tender contract as we sit together
We stroll in silence as we embrace all weathers
Sometimes I entrust my sorrows to you
You’re always a good listener and take no point of view

To be like you is living life’s’ simple miracle
As happily you’re content to live your life in a circle
Round and round treading over familiar ground
But never bored with the smells that you’ve once again found.

Do angels feel like you? I sometimes think
As into my awaiting arms you happily sink
My four legged friend, confidant, animal love
Never let it be said you’re not sent from heaven above.



'Un perro ha muerto'
by Pablo Neruda

Mi perro ha muerto.
Lo enterré en el jardín
junto a una vieja máquina oxidada.

Allí, no más abajo,
ni más arriba,
se juntará conmigo alguna vez.

Ahora él ya se fue con su pelaje,
su mala educación, su nariz fría.

Y yo, materialista que no cree
en el celeste cielo prometido
para ningún humano,
para este perro o para todo perro
creo en el cielo, sí, creo en un cielo
donde yo no entraré, pero él me espera
ondulando su cola de abanico
para que yo al llegar tenga amistades.


Ay no diré la tristeza en la tierra
de no tenerlo más por compañero
que para mí jamás fue un servidor.
Tuvo hacia mí la amistad de un erizo
que conservaba su soberanía,
la amistad de una estrella independiente
sin más intimidad que la precisa,
sin exageraciones:
no se trepaba sobre mi vestuario
llenándome de pelos o de sarna,
no se frotaba contra mi rodilla
como otros perros obsesos sexuales.

No, mi perro me miraba dándome la atención necesaria
la atención necesaria
para hacer comprender a un vanidoso
que siendo perro él,
con esos ojos, más puros que los míos,
perdía el tiempo, pero me miraba
con la mirada que me reservó
toda su dulce, su peluda vida,
su silenciosa vida,
cerca de mí, sin molestarme nunca,
y sin pedirme nada.

Ay cuántas veces quise tener cola
andando junto a él por las orillas del mar,
en el Invierno de Isla Negra,
en la gran soledad: arriba el aire
traspasando de pájaros glaciales
y mi perro brincando, hirsuto,
lleno de voltaje marino en movimiento:
mi perro vagabundo y olfatorio
enarbolando su cola dorada
frente a frente al Océano y su espuma.
alegre, alegre, alegre
como los perros saben ser felices,
sin nada más,
con el absolutismo de la naturaleza descarada.
No hay adiós a mi perro que se ha muerto.

Y no hay ni hubo mentira entre nosotros.
Ya se fue y lo enterré, y eso era todo.








My first Winter 2008 waiting a Friend
at the front Garden gate
in Siddhartha House



William Shakespeare
in 'Julius Caesar'

I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon,
Than such a Roman.



Advice to a Dog Painter
by Jonathan Swift

Happiest of the spaniel race,
Painter, with thy colors grace,
Draw his forehead large and high,
Draw his blue and humid eye;

Draw his neck, so smooth and round,
Little neck with ribands bound;
And the musely swelling breast
Where the Loves and Graces rest;

And the spreading, even back,
Soft, and sleek, and glossy black;
And the tail that gently twines,
Like the tendrils of the vines;

And the silky twisted hair,
Shadowing thick the velvet ear;
Velvet ears which, hanging low,
O'er the veiny temples flow.




by George Crabbe

With eye upraised his master's look to scan,
The joy, the solace, and the aid of man:
The rich man's guardian and the poor man's friend,
The only creature faithful to the end.



A Dog's Prayer
by Beth Norman Harris

Treat me kindly , my beloved master, for no heart in all the world is more grateful for kindness than the loving heart of me.

Do not break my spirit with a stick, for although I should lick your hand between blows, your patience and understanding will more quickly teach me the things you would have be do.

Speak to me often, for your voice is world’s sweetest music, as you must know by the fierce wagging of my tail when your footstep falls upon my waiting ear.

When it is cold and wet, please take me inside, for I am now a domesticated animal, no longer used to bitter elements. And I ask no greater glory than the privilege of sitting at your feet beside the hearth. Though had you no home, I would rather follow you through ice and snow than rest upon the softest pillow in the warmest home in the land, for you are my god and I am your devoted worshipper.

Keep my pan filled with fresh water, for although I should not reproach you were it dry, I cannot tell you when I suffer thirst. Feed me clean food so that I may stay well to romp and play and do your bidding, to walk by your side, and stand ready willing and able to protect you with my life should your life be in danger.

And beloved master, should the Great Master see fit to deprive me of my health or sight, do not turn me away from you. Rather, hold me gently in your arms as skilled hands grant me the merciful boon of eternal rest... and I will leave you knowing with the last breath I draw, my fate was every safest in your hands.



Argos & Ulysses



Four Feet
by Rudyard Kipling

I have done mostly what men do,
And pushed it out of my mind;
But I can't forget, if I wanted to,
Four-Feet trotting behind.

Day after day, the whole day through--
Wherever my road inclined--
Four-Feet said, 'I am coming with you!'
And trotted along behind.

Now I must go by some other round--
Which I shall never find--
Some where that does not carry the sound
Of Four-Feet trotting behind.

A Prayer for Animals
by Albert Schweitzer

Hear our humble prayer, O God, for our
friends the animals,
especially for animals who are suffering;
for any that are hunted or lost or
deserted or frightened or hungry;
for all that must be put to death.

We entreat for them all Thy mercy and pity,
and for those who deal with them we ask a
heart of compassion and gentle hands and
kindly words. Make us, ourselves, to be true
friends to animals and so to share the blessings
of the merciful.



'To my beloved Dash'
by HM Queen Victoria


"Here lies Dash, the favorite [Cavalier King Charles] spaniel of Her Majesty Queen Victoria, by whose command this memorial was erected. He died on the 20th December 1840 in his ninth year. His attachment was without selfishness, his playfulness without malice, his fidelity without deceit. Reader, if you would live beloved and die regretted, profit by the example of Dash.”



'A Dog'
by Egdgar A. Guest

Tis pity not to have a dog, for at the
long day's end, The man or boy will
know the joy, Of welcome from a friend.
And whether he be rich or poor, Or much
of little bring, The dog will mark his
step and bark, As if he were a King.
Though gossips whisper now and then,
Of faults they plainly see, And some
may sneer, from year to year, My dog
stays true to me. He's glad to follow
where I go, And though I win or fail,
His love for me he'll let me see, By
wahhing his tail. Now if I were to list
the friends Of mine in smiles and tears,
ho through and through are staunch and
and true, And constant down the years,
In spite of all my many faults,
Which critics catalog, Deserving blame,
I'd have to name My ever-faithful dog.
Tis pity not to have a dog, Whatever be
his breed, for Dogs possess a faithfulness,
Which humans sadly need. And whether
skys be blue or gray, Good luck or ill
Attend, Man's toil by day, a dog will stay,
His ever-constant friend.......



'Old faithful'
by unknown author

A Faithful Dog Will Play With You
And Laugh With You -Or Cry,
He'll Gladly Starve To Stay With You
Nor Ever Reason Why.

And When You're Feeling Out Of Sorts
Somehow He'll Understand,
He'll Watch You With His Shining Eyes
And Try To Lick Your Hand.

His Blind, Implicit Faith In You
Is Matched By His Great Love,
The Kind That All Of Us Should Have
In The Master Up Above.

When Everything Is Said And Done
I Guess This Isn't Odd,
For When You Spell "Dog" Backwards
You Get The Name Of God.



'The Creation'

When God had made the earth and sky the flowers and the trees,
He then made all the animals,
the fish, the birds and bees.

And when at last he'd finished
not one was quite the same.
He said, "I'll walk this world of mine
and give each one a name."

And so he travelled far and wide
and everywhere he went,
a little creature followed him
until it's strength was spent.

When all were named upon the earth
and in the sky and sea,
the little creature said, "Dear Lord,
there's not one left for me."

Kindly the Father said to him,
"I've left you to the end.
I've turned my own name back to front
and called you dog, my friend."



Saint Roch's Dog
by Patrick Early

They scattered churches across Europe in your name
from Rome to Warsaw, Montpellier to Dubrovnik,
Saint Roch, Rochus, Roque, Rocco, Rollox, Rock.

You are always depicted with your staff caminando,
a bewildered dog looking up into your face
as if to ask where you might be going next.

Garcia Lorca loved you, Rocky, or at least he loved
your familiar icon, with the brown tunic hitched
above the knee, slightly camp if one did not know

the saint is gesturing to a plague-wound
on his upper leg or to the swollen amper in his groin.
Your father was Governor of Montpellier,

but you were ascetic and devout like your mother
a great disappointment to your old man
so when he died, you turned your back

on his wealth and privilege and set out for Rome
but there you found a plague-ridden city.
Welcome to the Black Death!

You turned those soft white hands to
nursing those sick with the pestilence, not afraid
to touch their tumours, clean their sores,

hold their blackened gangrened hands
in yours, bring nepenthe to their agony.
It was you who laid them out when they died,

But in the end, you were a bit too engage,
caught the plague yourself, got yourself expelled
into the countryside and there in the greenwood,

a dog appeared who licked your wound
and brought you bread to eat. We are not told
how a stream of water sprung up so conveniently nearby.

Of course, you recovered and went on your saintly way,
forever locked in loving partnership
with a dog carrying a loaf in its mouth

Some clever-dick hagiographer says
you only exist as the doublet
of an obscure marabout of the early church .

Maybe. But then, one can’t so easily forget
how they named a dog hospital after you,
as well as a “golf”, an Argentine battle, and a Peruvian dessert.

Beloved of dog-lovers and the gravely sick,
there’s a town in Bolivia where they celebrate
the birthday of all dogs on your day.


[Painting by Bernardo Strozzi: 'St Roch & his Dog']



Hugo, Voltaire, Houellebecq... Le chien est le meilleur ami des écrivains



'A Dog's Tale' by Mark Twain


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