Random 2 - Melvin

I'm sure you've all heard some version or another of what we'll call the traveler's song -- the tune telling of the lonely miles, the unfamiliar faces, and the days upon endless days where conversation with yourself is actually stimulating. Thus, no need to expound on this timeless ballad, but suffice it to say that over the past few years I’ve had my share of lonely days (not to be confused with days "alone," a necessity!). Peppered amongst the loneliest of my lonely days, however, were spicy personalities that seasoned my life at just the right moment. And, it's these spices of life that I end up counting on years later, when the lonely days reappear. During one of these reappearances last year, when everything was off and I was sad and ached for something familiar, I wrote to one of the more poetic seasonings in my spice rack. The response from this friend was too good not to share. Perhaps when others are having a rough day they can read this poem, appropriately titled "Happiness," and smile. I have included some of the text from the email.


“i also was thinking of you, perhaps it was yesterday, or the day before, but more than once, and oh yes because i'm reading a jared diamond book about collapsed societies (you see what kind of mood i'm in) and i was simply respecting the fact of studying something solid, like dung beetles, not these floaty words. but that you would turn to me for words i'm thankful as well.

so for us both a poem, or part of one, because the epigraph (which i cut) was totally unnecessary, and really the whole second half (which I cut) was extraneous commentary on the first, which, i think you'll agree, reaches a brilliant apogee. i hope it makes you smile:

Happiness

Melvin,

the large collie

who lives in the red house

at the end of my daily run

is happy,

happy to see me

even now,

in February--

a month of low skies

and slowly melting snow.

His yard

has turned almost

entirely to mud--

but so what?

Today,

as if to please me,

he has torn apart

and scattered

everywhere

a yellow plastic bucket

the color of forsythia

or daffodils . . .

And now

in a transport

of cross-eyed

muddy ecstasy,

he has placed

his filthy two front paws

together

on the top pipe

of his sagging cyclone fence—

drooling a little,

his tail

wagging furiously,

until finally,

as if I were God's angel himself—

fulgent,

blinding,

aflame

with news of the Resurrection,

I give him a biscuit

instead.

--Michael Van Walleghen

If you were here I'd give you a biscuit too.

KBB”