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[personal profile] crivelli2014-06-21 01:34 pm

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.

Translated, from the Spanish, by Alfred Yankauer

Sara Facio-Pablo Neruda Chu Tuh

Pablo Neruda and Chu Tuh
Photo: Sara Facio.
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[personal profile] crivelli2014-06-21 01:31 pm
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Pablo Neruda

“Joyful, joyful, joyful - as only dogs know how to be happy with only the autonomy of their shameless spirit…” ― Pablo Neruda


photo: Sara Facio
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[personal profile] crivelli2013-01-22 10:34 am

Robert Louis Stevenson

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Robert Louis Stevenson and his father

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Stevenson (on far right), his wife Fanny, her son Lloyd Osbourne and their dog

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[personal profile] crivelli2013-01-20 12:46 pm
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Jerome K. Jerome

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George (Wingrave), Jerome's gardener, JKJ and Rowena Jerome in Jerome's garden at Wallingford
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[personal profile] crivelli2013-01-19 09:20 am
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Francoise Sagan

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(Arriving In Naples 1961)
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[personal profile] crivelli2013-01-18 11:54 am
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Nurit Zarchi

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Photo: Dan Porges
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[personal profile] crivelli2013-01-16 11:56 am
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Jerome K. Jerome

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He began the day badly. He took me out and lost me. It would be so much better, would he consent to the usual arrangement, and allow me to take him out. I am far the abler leader: I say it without conceit. I am older than he is, and I am less excitable. I do not stop and talk with every person I meet, and then forget where I am. I do less to distract myself: I rarely fight, I never feel I want to run after cats, I take but little pleasure in frightening children. I have nothing to think about but the walk, and the getting home again. If, as I say, he would give up taking me out, and let me take him out, there would be less trouble all round. But into this I have never been able to persuade him.

He had mislaid me once or twice, but in Sloane Square he lost me entirely. When he loses me, he stands and barks for me. If only he would remain where he first barked, I might find my way to him; but, before I can cross the road, he is barking half-way down the next street. I am not so young as I was and I sometimes think he exercises me more than is good for me. I could see him from where I was standing in the King's Road. Evidently he was most indignant. I was too far off to distinguish the barks, but I could guess what he was saying—

"Damn that man, he's off again."

He made inquiries of a passing dog—

"You haven't smelt my man about anywhere, have you?"

(A dog, of course, would never speak of SEEING anybody or anything, smell being his leading sense. Reaching the top of a hill, he would say to his companion—"Lovely smell from here, I always think; I could sit and sniff here all the afternoon." Or, proposing a walk, he would say—"I like the road by the canal, don't you? There's something interesting to catch your nose at every turn.")

"No, I haven't smelt any man in particular," answered the other dog. "What sort of a smelling man is yours?"

"Oh, an egg-and-bacony sort of a man, with a dash of soap about him."

"That's nothing to go by," retorted the other; "most men would answer to that description, this time of the morning. Where were you when you last noticed him?"

At this moment he caught sight of me, and came up, pleased to find me, but vexed with me for having got lost.

"Oh, here you are," he barked; "didn't you see me go round the corner? Do keep closer. Bothered if half my time isn't taken up, finding you and losing you again."
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[personal profile] crivelli2012-10-29 03:16 pm
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Dorothy Parker

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In April 1953 with Misty
by Roy Schatt

Verse For a Certain Dog

Such glorious faith as fills your limpid eyes,
Dear little friend of mine, I never knew.
All-innocent are you, and yet all-wise.
(For Heaven's sake, stop worrying that shoe!)
You look about, and all you see is fair;
This mighty globe was made for you alone.
Of all the thunderous ages, you're the heir.
(Get off the pillow with that dirty bone!)

A skeptic world you face with steady gaze;
High in young pride you hold your noble head,
Gayly you meet the rush of roaring days.
(Must you eat puppy biscuit on the bed?)
Lancelike your courage, gleaming swift and strong,
Yours the white rapture of a winged soul,
Yours is a spirit like a Mayday song.
(God help you, if you break the goldfish bowl!)

"Whatever is, is good" - your gracious creed.
You wear your joy of living like a crown.
Love lights your simplest act, your every deed.
(Drop it, I tell you- put that kitten down!)
You are God's kindliest gift of all - a friend.
Your shining loyalty unflecked by doubt,
You ask but leave to follow to the end.
(Couldn't you wait until I took you out?)
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[personal profile] crivelli2012-10-27 10:44 am
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George Meredith

You choose to give yourself to an obscure dog.
George Meredith

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Hard men have sometimes a warm affection for dogs.
George Meredith

Human nature to feel an interest in the dog that has bitten you.
George Meredith
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[personal profile] crivelli2012-07-13 02:19 pm
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Puppies see low.
No higher
Do their dreams go
Than the toes of trees,
Than the ankles of men,
Than the knees
Of nettles.
They aspire
To attune their tongues
To the taste of boots,
Their noses
To the smell of spiders,
Their lungs
To a kitchen breeze.
They know why
The worms coil.
They know when
The ants pause.
For them the cricket's prose is
A sonnet of fire.
For them the snails write
Sufficient laws
Across the seamed
And crumpled soil.
But they tire
Of their knowledge soon.
Their wisdom settles
At the world's roots.
Their eyes toil
Not up the rungs
Of light.
For them the hanging fruit's
Frail globe encloses
No jewelled spoil.
For them the late bird's tune
Is the song of a liar.
And of the flowery sky
The puppies know
Only the petals
Of fallen roses
That in the dung's
Foul quicksand lie—
Unseated riders
Of steeds undreamed,
Of winged steeds that fly
About the oblivious moon.
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[personal profile] crivelli2012-05-16 11:27 am
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Dorothy Parker

Dorothy Parker's Living room, her pet dog lies asleep on chair by Lofman