Anyway, who would have thought that writing three or four hundred words a week in a blog would be so difficult after only a few weeks? Not me, that is who. I have to say that it is not my top priority at the moment. Besides my real job, where we have a Higher Learning Commission team visiting tomorrow and where I had 49 writing assignments to grade over the weekend, I have been doing the first edit of my novel The Doll. Let me tell you editing a 249-page (so far) story is not like editing a poem. I actually enjoy editing and revising a poem because I can see the results right there in front of me. As I was editing in Chapter 33 of the book last night, I called a hound dog by one gender or the other, and I thought, “Did I call that hound dog 'he' or 'she' back a couple of chapters ago?” I had to look because I could not remember and it is not on the same page or even the previous page. Editing a long narrative is boring and trying—and then I also have to realize that I may have to do it again three or four times.
So, speaking about hound dogs, here is Part III of a poem from the new book of poetry Atheists and Empty Spaces. The poem is called The Buzz Revisited Again. Part III is entitled The Sermon of the Hound. It is modeled after Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount, Buddha’s Fire Sermon, and T. S. Eliot’s The Fire Sermon section in his seminal poem The Wasteland. I guess that information is in the footnote from the book. I didn’t know it would copy and paste with the text. Hmm…Enjoy.
Part III. The Sermon of the Hound [i]
(We are the dogs that feed on the crumbs.)
Blessed be the trickle of the stream o’er rocks
And the many lusty scents ‘round the pool.
Blessed be the running sheets of morning fog
In the breezes above the squirming trees.
Blessed be the silent one holding his bay
At the senseless chatter of clownish squirrels.
Blessed be the hunt.
The hound does not come before the Master,
Yet he sends me ahead to see what’s there.
When I say, “Come! It’s here!” sometimes he does,
But he often whistles me back to him.
He knows that I would chase the faintest scent
To hell ‘cause I keep my nose to the ground.
I do not worry for my meals.
I hunt, and the master feeds me.
If I do not hunt, the master feeds me.
I carry his commands close to my heart:
1. Come.
2. Stay.
3. Go.
4. No.
5. Sit.
6. Hush.
7. Get in.
8. Get out.
9. Fetch.
10. Give.
But greater than all commands is “Listen.”
The master’s gentle hand upon my head
Is better than a cool drink of water.
The master’s pleased voice in my happy ears
Is better than a warm, lumpy gravy.
The safe and playful shouts of his children
Are better than a meaty shoulder bone.
To run and hear his firm footsteps follow
Is better than a day of sunny sleep.
The coyotes sing of masters long gone.
My master is the glory of my song
And shall not be forgotten while I breathe.
I sing:
Blessed be the one who does his master’s will.
Blessed be the hunt.
Blessed be the essence of our worthy prey.
Blessed be the running buzz of quick spirits,
The wind in my face, the sun on my back.
Blessed be the master first and, then, his hound.
[i] Calling to mind The Fire Sermon from Eliot’s The Wasteland and the Fire Sermon of Buddha, my “sermon” imitates Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount from Matthew Chapter 5. The picture is of our puppy Luna, a mountain cur, who looks about as excited as I am about continuing the editing of the novel. Of course, lying on the couch is pretty much how she likes to spend her days even though she looks bored. Kellie took this picture.
The picture is of our puppy Luna, a mountain cur, who looks about as excited as I am about continuing the editing of the novel. Of course, lying on the couch is pretty much how she likes to spend her days even though she looks bored. Kellie took this picture.
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