A Dog by the Ears
A man who meddles in a quarrel not his own
is like one who takes a passing dog by the ears
says the Scripture, and I have quarreled with life,
grumbling and griping, carping and complaining
(to grouse is human, to grouse more simply divine),
which raises a number of uncomfortable questions
about what may be my biblical level of stupidity
and consequent exposure to existential dog-bite,
among them how did this squabble get started
and am I right to suspect it's not actually mine.
"How could it not be?" you'll ask, suggesting
you grasp little of canines and less about life,
which is nothing if not an impersonal process,
an implacable track, a concrete thoroughfare
distinguished by its direction, by its speed traps
and tollbooths and eventual exit ramp, and if
our journey is commonplace and our arrival
a given, is it ours in any meaningful sense?
If stony indifference is what we are faced with,
is anything gained by our begging to differ?
This sounds flippant but isn't, no, it's the soul
of wisdom, a hard-won insight shared by several
major religions and well-regarded philosophers\
along with one or two poets once widely read,
and let's say those poets are right and our side
of the disagreement is the only side there is,
let's say our host of angry objections can find
no partner in peace, then it's useless to agonize
over competitive metaphysics and comparative
pieties, let that dog yap at somebody else.
Today is a gorgeous October day, the sunlight
bright and slant, the painterly trees just beginning
to scatter their ocher and umber, and after I write
this poem I plan to go for a walk in the woods.
There's a stand of red maple in a forest nearby,
protected if not primeval, and if I have time,
I'll watch fluttering leaves float gently to earth
out of a turquoise sky while I try for my own
detachment, seeking the unruffled content
of an empty mind, a State of Connecticut Zen.
I don't expect it will work. "Know thyself,"
said the impertinent Greeks, and what I know
regarding autumn's atmosphere is Olympian
serenity is not a string in my bow. Moreover,
a quarrel's more easily started than finished,
and this one bids fair to end ugly. I foresee
defensive maneuvers are likely to be required.
Bring me a cattle prod, bring me my can of mace.
I turned early from the narrow path and seized
the first mutt I met, and now I'm afraid to let go.
– George Bradley (pictured above). The poem appeared first in the September 2024 issue of The New Criterion.