Mutt Metaphors
by Chris TerrioFrom the soon-to-be-published memoirs of Jessica, the Grolier Poetry Book Shop dog.
September 24 Lay in sun. New Pinsky book out today, The Want Bone. I think his best yet. Lay in sun. Barked.
September 26 Man with pit bull in, bought a copy of Iron John. Pit bull growled, and I was leashed. Hate Bly. Comping the Advocate.
September 29 Oh, weep for Adonais—he is dead! Dead dead dead dead dead dead. Ate; slept.
October 2 Woman in store reading Gerard Manley Hopkins; I sprung some pigeons. Wanted to chase birds but on leash.
October 7 Louise Glück visits, in town for reading. Kicked me.
October 8 Glück in again. Bit her.
October 10 Owner printed fliers for this year’s Grolier Young Poet’s Contest. Disqualified last year when they multiplied by seven. Still, told I have promise—a rare and startling voice.
October 11 Man entered today with red hat. I discovered I am not in fact color blind—everyone wears black. Ate dog food (black).
October 14 Tried to recite Sylvia Plath, ended up barking again. O Sylvia, I too stuck my head in an oven once. But I was seeking a loin of pork.
October 15 Made the first cut for the Advocate.
October 16 Seamus visits today. Wearing the coat that smells like the County Wicklow terrier. Said, “There’s a good lass.” Said, “Hey Jessie, Ho Jessie.” To which I barked. Lay on steps.
October 17 Perhaps when she said it she didn’t mean “scraggly” in the negative sense. Got brushed.
October 18 Graduate students looking for new Ginsberg. More relevant than ever, à mon avis. He’s lived on the margins of society. I live on the margins of the store. Birds again; on leash.
October 20 Oh, weep for Adonais—he is dead. Dead dead dead dead dead. Dead!
October 21, a.m. Owner played new tape of Maya Angelou reading. Napped. I know why the leashed dog barks.
October 21, p.m. What is this fascination with language poetry? Shar-pei at the store today while woman bought Bukowski’s Last Night on Earth. Shar-pei eating Snausages. Love Snausages.
October 24 Poetry reading at Adams tonight, dinner in the dining hall. Mistaken for a grunge-child.
October 25 Helen Vendler in for new copy of Eliot. Says his poems make her nerves quiver. My nerves quivered last year during flea epidemic. Scratched.
October 27 Rejected from Advocate poetry board. They said the dog-thing was getting cliché. Or maybe it was my essay: too technical. Ate. Slept. Wish I had Snausages.
(This excerpt first appeared November 15, 1996, Harvard Crimson—"15 minutes")
(Photograph of Louisa and Jessica taken on Grolier steps in April 1997 by JW for the Poetry Porch)
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