Saturday, December 15, 2012

New Moon

You, love, you, all
countenanced in the white circumference,
and within
the earthshine
between the horns, the lemmas of Dis:
you, I love you still, you know. You,
who you said would remember, are forgetting:
I, whom you said would forget, remember. So it is,
So it goes on, like a net dragging the dewy hillside:
memory is neither clean nor dry. Only in poems
do you get to say “I told you so.”

Silk ears swivel and twitch,
muzzles lift, eyes widen,
lips lift and show the needle fangs.
Love is still alive and feral,
it still roams under the new moon,
trotting on ancient cinder paths:
and kindness, still there, whines
like a young dog longing for a walk.

I told you so. I know a bit about love:
I've served in this house a long time,
taking abuse and kindness as it comes.
The crescent silvers the scars,
The new blood holds the old blood in its arms,
and the thump of a dish on the kitchen floor
gets even an old dog to his feet.


Dick said...

I'm a sucker for a moon poem and this one is deeply satisfying!

Dale said...

Thanks, Dick! This one surprised me, I set out to write a very different poem.

Lucy said...

This is gorgeous, brought tears. The opening catches straight away, and those warm, wild, sad beasts that walk through it, and the lines

'Memory is neither clean nor dry'


'I've served in this house a long time'

I hesitate to say one of your best, but still...

Dale said...

Thank you so much, Lucy!

am said...

For quite some time, I've been reading along quietly. Just had to say how much I like this poem that surprised you.

Dale said...

Oh, thank you, Am!

Cathy said...

I like this poem very much. Old dogs are beautiful souls.

Dale said...

Thanks very much, Cathy! And welcome!