Posted tagged ‘“The Body is not your good dog’

“Here, Body” (Your Body Is Not Even Your Good Lab)

July 29, 2012

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Here, Body

The body is not your good dog.
It may sit, lie down, roll over,
but there’s a limit to its Rover
aspect. No spank
will keep it from
accident; no leash
train it to the right; no yank
make it heel
feelings.

You tell it what to want, but
it will vaunt
its fleshly, furry ways,
sneaking food when already fed;
taking up all the room on the bed;
whiffing what should not be sniffed;
its passion aimed at but a toy–
here, girl; here, boy–
that can never love it back.

It will decay
though you say stay. Still,
you will love it,
this not-good dog;
for even as you scold and cajole,
call,
and despair
of calling,
you will find yourself
cradling it;
you will find yourself
in its arms.

This is an older poem I am reposting for MagPie Tales, a writing blog hosted by Tess Kincaid. Tess posts a picture prompt each week; Tess’s prompt, an image by Zelko Nedic.  I am also posting for Open Link Night of Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, a great poetry blog.  My rather silly picture, prompted by Leonardo, is above.

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Children’s counting book 1 Mississippi -for lovers of rivers, light and pachyderms. Or, if you in the mood for something older, check out Going on Somewhere, poetry, or Nose Dive, a very fun novel for those who are somewhat discontent with their appearance but love musicals, cheese and downtown NYC.

“Here, Body” (The Body Is Not Your Good Dog.)

October 25, 2011

20111025-121306.jpg

I’m sorry.  There is an incurable goofiness about some of my drawings.   I did this one (based on Leonardo) for the recently revised poem below.  It is quite a serious poem and not really much about dogs, so forgive me for being misleading.

The poem is being posted for dVerse Poets Pub Open Link Night (Tuesdays) hosted by the wonderfully generous (and thankfully, humorous) Brian Miller.

Here, Body

The body is not your good dog.
It may sit, lie down, roll over,
but there’s a limit to its Rover
aspect.  No spank
will keep it from
accident; no leash
train it to the right; no yank
make it heel
feelings.

You tell it what to want, but
it will vaunt
its fleshly, furry ways,
sneaking food when already fed;
taking up all the room on the bed;
whiffing what should not be sniffed;
its passion aimed at but a toy–
here, girl; here, boy–
that can never love it back.

It will decay
though you say stay. Still,
you will love it,
this not-good dog;
for even as you scold and cajole,
call,
and despair
of calling,
you will find yourself
cradling it;
you will find yourself
in its arms.