A Dog Has Died

by Pablo Neruda


My dog has died.
I buried him in the garden
next to a rusted old machine.

Some day I'll join him right there,
but now he's gone with his shaggy coat,
his bad manners and his cold nose,
and I, the materialist, who never believed
in any promised heaven in the sky
for any human being,
I believe in a heaven I'll never enter.
Yes, I believe in a heaven for all dogdom
where my dog waits for my arrival
waving his fan-like tail in friendship.

Ai, I'll not speak of sadness here on earth,
of having lost a companion
who was never servile.
His friendship for me, like that of a porcupine
withholding its authority,
was the friendship of a star, aloof,
with no more intimacy than was called for,
with no exaggerations:
he never climbed all over my clothes
filling me full of his hair or his mange,
he never rubbed up against my knee
like other dogs obsessed with sex.

No, my dog used to gaze at me,
paying me the attention I need,
the attention required
to make a vain person like me understand
that, being a dog, he was wasting time,
but, with those eyes so much purer than mine,
he'd keep on gazing at me
with a look that reserved for me alone
all his sweet and shaggy life,
always near me, never troubling me,
and asking nothing.

Ai, how many times have I envied his tail
as we walked together on the shores of the sea
in the lonely winter of Isla Negra
where the wintering birds filled the sky
and my hairy dog was jumping about
full of the voltage of the sea's movement:
my wandering dog, sniffing away
with his golden tail held high,
face to face with the ocean's spray.

Joyful, joyful, joyful,
as only dogs know how to be happy
with only the autonomy
of their shameless spirit.

There are no good-byes for my dog who has died,
and we don't now and never did lie to each other.

So now he's gone and I buried him,
and that's all there is to it.
________________________________

For Zagu, my "Dog No.5" whom I rescued from the streets in January last year. He died 03 January 2012; birth date unknown.


Someday I'm gonna have another Basset hound. :-)

Bliss of summer

er.
And so my summer wasn't so cruel after all. Well, good things came one after the other: my five day-leave from work got approved, my subtitling gig for a-very-important-Filipino-film-which-should-have-been-in-Cannes paid me extra, my sick cousin in the hospital is hanging on to dear life, and my brother is back at work...

then I had the most awesome summer adventure in Magalawa Island, Palauig, Zambales:



...and while I was busy (lonely-ly) living by the beach, our bitch Tentay gave birth to three uber-healthy pups:



And although I missed another Palanca deadline (because having read the book Six Poetry Formats and the Transforming Image by Edith Tiempo while I was alone by the beach made me realise I hadn't been writing most of my poetry "properly"), and that, practically, I haven't done anything productive and creative in the last couple of weeks, and that now I'm good (or bad?) as broke (after having had to pay for four days in the white-sand-beach far far away)--(and finally, didn't I promise not to talk about heartbreak?)--summer definitely has been so kind to me.

The scorching sunny season is not yet over, and I have high hopes for more good things to come, to me and to everyone. Happy summer, guys!

How to spell 'Melancholy'

by E. Wong Martin
for Mitsiku

Our lesson for today is about happiness
and how one writes it with a capital letter,
perhaps bold, or do you prefer
           italics? The principal says
that it may be found among the piles
of unread books, or the mouldy sandwiches
from the canteen. Now we will give you
ten seconds
            and ten years to spell it correctly,
and when in doubt, you may consult
our school janitor—just please do not insult
him on how he always stinks of beer
because it is not alcohol you smell
            but the long years of sweeping,
and waiting, and weeping, and cleaning off
semen or dried tears on the floor.
            You are not required to turn
to your science books, as they don’t yet
have a theory on fireworks and sex,
or forgiveness
             and loss. But when you say
‘one,’ it means ‘two-halves’—simple
as that, really. Do not tell anybody,
but math is the secret spouse
of grammar. Probability (or is it
statistics?) has it:
               One day, someday,
you can write it again, perhaps faster,
perhaps with bigger letters, perhaps
in Bisaya or French, or even sign
language.
             Remember, left or right
hand, it doesn’t matter, for as long
as you have an eraser ready.
             Remember, wrong or right,
we do not deduct points for as long
as you do not cheat.
             Do not put any period, too—
now this is very important in all writing.
Most of all, when you do,
             close your eyes, but keep
that thing in your chest open…
now what’s that called again?

.

How I Met Dog No. 5

Hush, puppy!

So my sister and I were on our way to the palengke to buy fish and rice and dog food when from up the dog heavens appeared my Dog No. 5. And he’s no ordinary dog. My newest child is a cute, adorable foundling with very long ears who was eating grass and scouring the garbage for anything that could be eaten. I didn’t want to get him at first since it would have been a form of stealing and that he might bite. Ergo my sister and I walked on, but some divine power tugged at my dog-loving heart, and so apart from the dog food which I intended to buy for my three hungry dogs at home, I also bought a leash so that I could go back to the barren grassland where we spotted the “stray” dog and rescue him.

By the time we returned to the lot, the dog wasn’t there anymore. I felt deep in my bones, though, that he couldn’t have gone too far. So we walked on further and there he was, down the street across the Zagu Pearl Shake store, still digging for food, mud and twigs stuck to his ears and body. I quickly took a handful of Beef Pro Puppy pellets and tossed it to the ground. When I sensed that he’s no biter, I took some more dog food and let him feed off my hand. He was hungry as hell, he must have been out on the streets at least two days. So I slowly tied the leash around his neck and then hailed a tricycle. A part of me felt like I was a kidnapper, but the better, stronger, handsomer part of me dictated that I am saving someone who could die of starvation or disease or end up with drunk people who like eating exotic dishes.

It was when we reached home when I finally remembered the word I’ve been looking for: Dachschund. My uncle said 'hush puppies,' but I corrected him: Dachschund, in my best attempt to sound German. And so my little sister got to learn another spelling bee word. So I fed him more and gave him water, and then came out the soundliest gulps from the Animal Kingdom we’ve ever heard. He was really, awfully starved and thirsty. We could also see and feel his spine and rib bones through his black fur. My mom pitied him so much, especially that it rained so hard last night, where in the world did he stay out?

My three dogs weren’t very welcoming towards him, as expected; there was a long series of smelling and barking and more smelling of each other's snouts and asses. But I know my one-year-old, white Dog No. 3, Tan-tan, will get along fine with him. They’re almost the same size, and I could already foresee a riotous dog play around the house. My Dog No. 4, Tentay, and the only bitch, kept yelping in her soprano voice, but I know pretty soon they’ll be civil housemates. We are yet to introduce him to our big brown Dog No. 1, Bogart, whom we had to keep in our big dog/cat house (what used to be our sari-sari store) lest a barako fight might erupt. We're too familiar about this alpha male complex, and we had to plan their “introduction” well.

Instantly my whole family fell in love with this cute dachshund who is no longer a puppy but has the size of one. I figure he's about two years old, judging from his teeth and his developed man-nipples, but just the same, to us he is a new puppy. We couldn’t carry him yet and hug him because he smells terrible, he had the odour of someone who hasn't bathed for two weeks. But he’s very gentle and lets anyone touch him, unlike most dachshunds who are rather standoffish to strangers. He doesn’t mind our other dogs, too, but there’s just one problem: he keeps barking at our cats!

Everytime I bring home a new dog, my mom would always get nostalgic about Dog No. 2, Princess, our beautiful puppy (mix of Spaniel-Spitz-Beagle) who died of parvo two years ago. Perhaps she was the divine spirit who urged me to rescue this poor long-eared vagabond in search of a home and in need of love. And so there goes the story of how I met Dog No. 5.

So, what name did I give him? Well, after much thought: Zagu.



-----
ERRATUM: My new dog is not Dachshund, after all. Thanks to Anne V for clarifying it: Zagu is a Basset hound. :-)

Dog Day

by Ewong Martines
for Kat

                           moonlight
                                                                         fell
              a little too early on the back of my hand
                    because
           once more I forgot       to light up  
 the esperma                                           but now mother
                                  is on the verge
of waking
                    and so I must love her again
                    much like she loved me when   
sleeping              our dog speaks
                                                                  in a language that has
                       no word for madness
                                                                or magic
                                                                                   always
                                                                                               I wonder
                                                 how mother
had taught me how to read
                                                                                     letters and words
                                    but not between the lines formed
   by the tip
         of cheap candle
                                   I rubbed last night
on the dark                                      plywood wall
                   of our nipa shack
                                                                                  facing the escayola
of a balding saint with a sheep that looks   
                                                                            like our dog
                              outside
    now howling                                                like a dog 
                                                  I am
    still trying                  to decipher  
                                                                         my own
     handwriting:
the wick                       is between          my teeth
                       the flame                   is on
                                   the gray hair
     of a witch

artwork: "Hot Summer Day" by Gerry Baptist