Dog Songs by Mary Oliver

HER GRAVE
    She would come back, dripping thick water, from the
    green bog.
    She would fall at my feet, she would draw the black skin
    from her gums, in a hideous and wonderful smile—
    and 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 rain
    slowly.
     
    Her wolfish, invitational half-pounce.
    Her great and lordly satisfaction at having chased something.
    My great and lordly satisfaction at her splash
    of happiness as she barged
    through the pitch pines swiping my face with her
    wild, 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 you’re lucky.
    Do the cranes crying out in the high clouds
    think it is all their own music?
    A dog comes to you and lives with you in your own house, but you
    do not therefore own her, as you do not own the rain, or the
    trees, or the laws which pertain to them.
    Does the bear wandering in the autumn up the side of the hill
    think all by herself she has imagined the refuge and the refreshment
    of her long slumber?
    A dog can never tell you what she knows from the
    smells of the world, but you know, watching her,
    that you know
    almost nothing.
    Does the water snake with his backbone of diamonds think
    the black tunnel on the bank of the pond is a palace
    of 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, and
    not 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 taste
    of 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 break
    over us.

BENJAMIN, WHO CAME FROM WHO KNOWS WHERE
    What shall I do?
    When I pick up the broom
    he leaves the room.
    When I fuss with kindling he
    runs for the yard.
    Then he’s back, and we
    hug for a long time.
    In his low-to-the-ground chest
    I can hear his heart slowing down.
    Then I rub his shoulders and
    kiss his feet
    and fondle his long hound ears.
    Benny, I say,
    don’t worry. I also know the way
    the old life haunts the new.



THE DOG HAS RUN OFF AGAIN (BENJAMIN)
    and I should start shouting his name
    and clapping my hands,
    but it has been raining all night
    and the narrow creek has risen
    is a tawny turbulence is rushing along
    over the mossy stones
    is surging forward
    with a sweet loopy music
    and therefore I don’t want to entangle it
    with my own voice
    calling summoning
    my little dog to hurry back
    look, the sunlight and the shadows are chasing each other
    listen how the wind swirls and leaps and dives up and down
    who am I to summon his hard and happy body
    his four white feet that love to wheel and pedal
    through the dark leaves
    to come back to walk by my side, obedient.

HOLDING ON TO BENJAMIN
    No use to tell him
    that he
    and the raccoon are brothers.
    You have your soft ideas about nature
    he has others,
    and they are full of his
    white teeth
    and lip that curls, sometimes,
    horribly.
    You love
    this earnest dog,
    but also you admire the raccoon
    and Lord help you in your place
    of hope and improbables.
    To the black-masked gray one:
    Run!
you say,
    and just as urgently, to the dog:
    Stay!
    and he won’t or he will,
    depending
    on more things than I could name.
    He’s sure he’s right
    and you, so tangled in your mind,
    are wrong,
    though patient and pacific.
    And you are downcast.
    And it’s his eyes, not yours,
    that are clear and bright.



THE POETRY TEACHER
    The university gave me a new, elegant
    classroom to teach in. Only one thing,
    they said. You can’t bring