Pet Portraits - Animal Poetry

Rudyard Kipling

The Power of the Dog

There is sorrow enough in the natural way
From men and women to fill our day;
Why do we always arrange for more?
Brothers and sisters, I beg you beware
Of giving your heart to a dog to tear. 
Buy a pup and your money will buy
Love unflinching that cannot lie--
Perfect passion and worship fed
By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head.
Nevertheless it is hardly fair
To risk your heart to a dog to tear.

When the fourteen years which Nature permits
Are closing in asthma, or tumour or fits,
And the vet's unspoken prescription runs
To lethal chambers or loaded guns, 
Then you will find--it's your own affair--
But...you've given your heart to a dog to tear.

When the body that lived at your single will,
When its whimper of welcome, is stilled (how still!)
When the spirit that answered your every mood
Is gone--wherever it goes--for good,
You will discover how much you care,
And will give your heart to a dog to tear.

We've sorrow enough in the natural way,
When it comes to burying Christian clay.
Our loves not given, but only lent,
At compound interest of cent per cent.
Though it is not always the case, I believe, 
That the longer we've kept "em, the more do we grieve:
For, when debts are payable, right or wrong. 
A short-term loan is as bad as a long--
So why in--Heaven (before we are there)
Should we give our hearts to a dog to tear?

Frances Clark  1946 - Copyright

(All Rights Reserved) 

Shadows

When shadows of the evening fall,

Across the grass and down the wall,

Their soft and gentle mantles hide

Your resting place since you have died.

But sometimes, when the moon is high,

I feel your loving presence nigh.

A gentle touch, a click of claws,

Your shadow follows me indoors.

When memories flood over me,

I sense your head upon my knee,

And when my tears fall down apace,

I feel your breath upon my face.

For Death to part us seems so wrong,

But my life's journey won't be long,

Years have passed since the day you died,

Soon Death will lead me to your side.

We will meet again that happy day.

For this I hope.  For this I pray.

The Good Shepherd in Heaven above

Will reunite us in his love.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

To A Young Ass, Its mother being tethered near it

Poor little foal of an oppressed race"

I love the languid patience of thy face:

And oft with gentle hand I give thee bread,

And clap thy ragged coat, and pat thy head.

But what thy dulled spirits hath dismay'd,

That never thou dost sport along the glade:

And (most unlike the nature of things young)

That earthward still they moveless head is hung?

Do thy prophetic fears anticipate,

Meek Child of Misery! thy future fate?

The starving meal, and all the thousand aches

"Which patient Merit of the Unworthy takes"?

Or is thy sad heart thrill'd with filial pain

to see thy wretched mother's shorten'd chain?

And truly, very piteous is her lot -

Chain'd to a log within a narrow spot,

Where the close-eaten grass is scarcely seen,

While sweet around her waves the tempting green!

Poor Ass! thy master should have learnt to show

Pity - best taught by fellowship of Woe!

For much I fear me that He lives like thee,

Half famish'd in a land of luxury!

How askingly its footsteps hither bend?

It seems to say, "And have I then one friend?"

Innocent foal! thou poor despis'd forlorn!

I hail thee Brother - spite of the fool's scorn!

And fain would take thee with me, in the Dell

Of  Peace and mild Equality to dwell,

Where Toil shall call the charmer Health his bride,

And Laughter tickle Plenty's ribless side!

How thou  woulds't toss thy heels in gamesome play,

And frisk about, as lamb or kitten gay!

Yea! and more musically sweet to me

Thy dissonant harsh bray of joy would be,

Than warbled melodies that soothe to rest

The aching of pale Fashion's vacant breast.

William Blake   1757 - 1827

The Tyger

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright

In the forests of the night,

What immortal hand or eye

Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies

Burnt the fire of thine eyes?

On what wings dare he aspire?

What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, & what art,

Could twist the sinews of they heart?

And when they heart began to beat,

What dread hand? And what dread feet?

What the hammer? What the chain?

In what furnace was thy brain?

What the anvil?  What dread grasp

Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,

And water'd heaven with their tears,

Did he smile his work to see?

Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright

In the forests of the night,

What immortal hand or eye

Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

John Masefield 1878 - 1967

A Fellow Mortal

I found a fox, caught by the leg

In a toothed gin, torn from its peg,

And dragged, God knows how far, in pain.

Such torment could not plead in vain,

He looked at me, I looked at him.

With iron jaw-teeth in his limb.

"Come, little son," I said, "Let be.....

Don't bite me, while I set you free."

But much I feared that in the pang

Of helping, I should feel a fang

In hand or face .......

but must is must .........

And he had given me his trust.

So down I knelt there in the mud

And loosed those jaws all mud and blood.

And he, exhausted, crept, set free,

Into the shade, away from me;

The leg not broken ......

Then, beyond,

That gin went plonk into the pond.

Frances Clark  1946 - Copyright

(All Rights Reserved )

Always Near

A dog's small world is full of dreams,

Of full food bowls and scents unseen,

Of open fields and cosy chair,

And, most of all, you standing there.

And when the end is drawing near

And you are trying to stem your tears,

He licks your hand with happy sigh,

Content that you are standing by.

And when he reaches Heaven's Gate,

The Lord says, "Come." But he says, "Wait.

"I have a friend I love so dear

And I can feel her footsteps near."

Your lifetime's passed. You near God's throne.

One happy glance.  You're not alone.

Your loving pet, so patient waits,

To pass with you through Heaven's Gates.

Frances Clark - 1946 - All Rights Reserved 

New for Old

I remember once, my world was warm.

My mistress loved me so,

But she was old and in poor health,

And so I had to go.

I first went to a pound for strays,

In the hope I'd find a home,

But I too was getting on in years,

So I was left alone.

Young pups came and soon went out.

We old ones lingered there.

After a lifetime of being loved,

Is there nobody else who'll care?

And then, one day, one special day,

A couple smiled at me.

They came closer talking gently,

And my old eyes tried hard to see.

I sniffed their outstretched hands with care.

They gently stroked my head.

Yes, they smelt kind - I liked this pair

"We will take this one." They said.

Author Unknown by me at Present

Beneath the Chestnut Bough?

On your grave beneath the chestnut bough,

Today no fragrance falls, nor summer air,

Only a master's love who laid you there,

Perchance may warm the air 'neath which you drowse,

In dreams from which no meal-time calls may rouse,

Unwakable, though close the rat may dare,

Deaf, though the rabbit thump in playful scare,

Silent, though twenty foxes screech their vows.

And yet, mayhap, some night when shadows pass,

And from the fir the brown owl hoots on high,

That should one whistle 'neath a favouring star,

Your shade shall canter o'er the grass,

Questing for him you loved in days gone by,

Ere death, the dog thief, carried you afar.