But this day was not this dog's!
Workers from the Municipal Corporation of Delhi capture a stray dog near the Indira Gandhi Stadium, one of the venues for the Commonwealth Games
"...the idea of alienation. And loss. I believe that that's the beginning of poetry. Poetry begins with alienation, and poetry speaks against our vanishing. The lyric poem in particular seems to me to have the burden and the splendor of preserving the human image in words, as the most intense form of discourse. Poetry speaks about and against loss in its root function. I see the writing of a poem as a desent. The descent is psychological. That which is darkest in human experience. It can be in yourself, it can be in others, it can be in the death of someone you love. It's a descent into the unconscious. You try to unearth something. You try to bring something to the light."
My Grandmother's Bed by Edward Hirsch
How she pulled it out of the wallTo my amazement. How it rattled andCreaked, how it sagged in the middleAnd smelled like a used-clothing store.I was ecstatic to be sleeping on wheels!
It rolled when I moved; it trembledwhen she climbed under the coversin her flannel nightgown, kissing meSoftly on the head, turning her back.Soon I could hear her snoring next to me-
Her clogged breath roaring in my ears,Filling her tiny apartment like the oceanUntil I, too, finally, swayed and sleptWhile a radiator hissed in the cornerAnd traffic droned on Lawrence Avenue...
I woke up to the color of light pouringThrough the windows, the odor of soupSimmering in the kitchen, my grandmother'sFace. It felt good to be ashore againAfter sleeping on rocky, unfamiliar waves.
I loved to help her straighten the sheetsAnd lift the Murphy back into the wall.It was like putting the night awayWhen we closed the wooden doors againAnd her disappeared without a trace.
"The real trouble with me is my relations with illusion & reality. Illusion is poetry, art, love, belief, confidence, and is what you are enthusiastic about. Reality is daily work, illness, death, money, sex, one's actions independent of one's beliefs or fancies, and is impossible to be enthusiastic about."
And so it stays just on the edge of vision,A small unfocused blur, a standing chillThat slows each impulse down to indecision.Most things may never happen: this one will,And realisation of it rages outIn furnace-fear when we are caught withoutPeople or drink. Courage is no good:It means not scaring others. Being braveLets no one off the grave.Death is no different whined at than withstood.
Today, a poem by Anaïs Duplan, from the Bennington Review. [AT THE SCHOOL DANCES WHITE AND BLACK GIRLS SHOOK ON THE FLOOR.] ...