Of the Creeks, the Baying Dogs by Harry Calhoun

I remember flyfishing with my father
on foggy mornings, on Pennsylvania creeks. And today,
my black Labs with much hound mixed in,
strut undomesticated from my wooded backlot

to claim the back deck with wildness. Yowling
that if I would understand, I might become werewolf —
and I wish in some part I could. As I wish I could stake
some misty claim beyond my father’s death

and angle again those foggy banks, to become the wild
and the dead and the deathless — the ineffable and feral,
beloved eternal and mortal.

My lover my wife beside me wished eternal and hoped forever.
My father, my parent wished eternal and gone forever.
Communication: dog, human, lycanthrope, struggle,

I howl and the moon rises … or does the moon rise and then
I howl? I do not know which comes first. I have this, my fierce love,
and the strange and wild poetry that rises in my breast.

One Response to “Of the Creeks, the Baying Dogs by Harry Calhoun”

  1. Hey Scot, thanks for posting … one of my stranger poems but I do like it, and I can’t always say that about my own stuff. When you get a chance, though, drop me a line — I don’t have a record of submitting this to Rusty Truck, and I’m usually really meticulous about keeping records of my subs on my Excel spreadsheet. I’ll go back and try to figure it out, but if you can shoot me a line at HarryC13@aol.com and let me know when I submitted it and what other poems I sent with it, I’d appreciate it.

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