Many Times Removed
Nov 19 2013
Sound carries, at night.
When the wind dies.
When the air is dense,
like a cool room
with a hard reflective surface.
Especially now,
when leafless tress, crusted snow
close distance;
as if just beyond
the circle of light.
The wolves are howling again.
They strike a minor note,
shivering down my spine
clenching my gut.
They join in chorus, one by one,
as in the hunt
where escape is hopeless.
They ululate, bray, and yelp
but do not bark.
Only wolf-pups bark;
as do our dogs
whom we keep
infantalized, and dependent.
Direction is hard to tell.
But I feel encircled, weak,
and understand why people have always feared
the dark,
demonized
these noble creatures.
Night, when the world is possessed,
our kind
unwelcome intruders.
I call in the dog,
who was busy barking
until the last few minutes.
In the sickening pause
before she appears
— tail wagging, bounding into my arms —
I consider the wolves
and my loyal companion
many times removed,
a common ancestor
who also ruled.
My dog is as soft as me, I think
retreating into thick-walled silence
the brightly-lit house.
When she begins to growl,
tuned in to some frequency
far beyond my hearing,
where she and her brethren
still co-exist.
And where I am at best, incidental,
at worst, easy prey.
This is another of those poems I can say I've already written. I long ago stopped worrying about repeating myself. I actually quite enjoy revisiting the same subject. There is the challenge of saying something new, or in a different way. But more than that, there is the challenge of coming up with a better poem, of testing myself. And what better gauge of progress than playing around with the identical theme? Because there is no point in continuing to work at this if my writing isn't improving, if I've just gotten stuck. So I would hope that I'm not really repeating myself after all.
As I recall, in the original poem, it was a cold winter night, and I was out walking the dog, and I observed how oblivious she remained to the wolves howling in the distance. I didn't set out to repeat myself, but it appears I've ploughed pretty much the identical furrow. Although then, I think I was disappointed at how far my domesticated version had strayed from her wild ancestors; while now, there is a sense of respect tinged with alienation, a recognition of the atavistic urges that persist beneath her civilized exterior. I'll have to revisit, hoping the new poem somehow works better, and seeing if I can figure out what I've done to accomplish that. (I just had the chance to look it up. Easy Prey is the title. And it was summer, not winter! Now that I've had a chance to read it, I think I like it better. ...Which doesn't say much for my progress, does it?!!)
Perhaps I re-traced my steps because in this case the poem is autobiographical. In fact, she is up barking right now at some imperceptible sound. just as I was proof-reading the final stanza. Easy prey, indeed. I think I'll keep her in!
Sound carries, at night.
When the wind dies.
When the air is dense,
like a cool room
with a hard reflective surface.
Especially now,
when leafless tress, crusted snow
close distance;
as if just beyond
the circle of light.
The wolves are howling again.
They strike a minor note,
shivering down my spine
clenching my gut.
They join in chorus, one by one,
as in the hunt
where escape is hopeless.
They ululate, bray, and yelp
but do not bark.
Only wolf-pups bark;
as do our dogs
whom we keep
infantalized, and dependent.
Direction is hard to tell.
But I feel encircled, weak,
and understand why people have always feared
the dark,
demonized
these noble creatures.
Night, when the world is possessed,
our kind
unwelcome intruders.
I call in the dog,
who was busy barking
until the last few minutes.
In the sickening pause
before she appears
— tail wagging, bounding into my arms —
I consider the wolves
and my loyal companion
many times removed,
a common ancestor
who also ruled.
My dog is as soft as me, I think
retreating into thick-walled silence
the brightly-lit house.
When she begins to growl,
tuned in to some frequency
far beyond my hearing,
where she and her brethren
still co-exist.
And where I am at best, incidental,
at worst, easy prey.
This is another of those poems I can say I've already written. I long ago stopped worrying about repeating myself. I actually quite enjoy revisiting the same subject. There is the challenge of saying something new, or in a different way. But more than that, there is the challenge of coming up with a better poem, of testing myself. And what better gauge of progress than playing around with the identical theme? Because there is no point in continuing to work at this if my writing isn't improving, if I've just gotten stuck. So I would hope that I'm not really repeating myself after all.
As I recall, in the original poem, it was a cold winter night, and I was out walking the dog, and I observed how oblivious she remained to the wolves howling in the distance. I didn't set out to repeat myself, but it appears I've ploughed pretty much the identical furrow. Although then, I think I was disappointed at how far my domesticated version had strayed from her wild ancestors; while now, there is a sense of respect tinged with alienation, a recognition of the atavistic urges that persist beneath her civilized exterior. I'll have to revisit, hoping the new poem somehow works better, and seeing if I can figure out what I've done to accomplish that. (I just had the chance to look it up. Easy Prey is the title. And it was summer, not winter! Now that I've had a chance to read it, I think I like it better. ...Which doesn't say much for my progress, does it?!!)
Perhaps I re-traced my steps because in this case the poem is autobiographical. In fact, she is up barking right now at some imperceptible sound. just as I was proof-reading the final stanza. Easy prey, indeed. I think I'll keep her in!
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