Monday, September 2, 2013

The Carrion-Stinking Dog, Who Is Calf and Human and Wolf, Is Chasing and Eating Little Blood Things the Humans Scatter, and All Me Run Away, Over Smells, Toward the Sky


Les Murray

All me are standing on feed. The sky is shining.

All me have just been milked. Teats all tingling still   
from that dry toothless sucking by the chilly mouths   
that gasp loudly in in in, and never breathe out.

All me standing on feed, move the feed inside me.
One me smells of needing the bull, that heavy urgent me,   
the back-climber, who leaves me humped, straining, but light   
and peaceful again, with crystalline moving inside me.

Standing on wet rock, being milked, assuages the calf-sorrow in me.
Now the me who needs mounts on me, hopping, to signal the bull.

The tractor comes trotting in its grumble; the heifer human   
bounces on top of it, and cud comes with the tractor,   
big rolls of tight dry feed: lucerne, clovers, buttercup, grass,   
that’s been bitten but never swallowed, yet is cud.
She walks up over the tractor and down it comes, roll on roll   
and all me following, eating it, and dropping the good pats.

The heifer human smells of needing the bull human   
and is angry. All me look nervously at her
as she chases the dog me dream of horning dead: our enemy   
of the light loose tongue. Me’d jam him in his squeals.

Me, facing every way, spreading out over feed.

One me is still in the yard, the place skinned of feed.   
Me, old and sore-boned, little milk in that me now,   
licks at the wood. The oldest bull human is coming.

Me in the peed yard. A stick goes out from the human   
and cracks, like the whip. Me shivers and falls down
with the terrible, the blood of me, coming out behind an ear.   
Me, that other me, down and dreaming in the bare yard.

All me come running. It’s like the Hot Part of the sky   
that’s hard to look at, this that now happens behind wood   
in the raw yard. A shining leaf, like off the bitter gum tree   
is with the human. It works in the neck of me
and the terrible floods out, swamped and frothy. All me make the Roar,
some leaping stiff-kneed, trying to horn that worst horror.
The wolf-at-the-calves is the bull human. Horn the bull human!

But the dog and the heifer human drive away all me.

Looking back, the glistening leaf is still moving.
All of dry old me is crumpled, like the hills of feed,   
and a slick me like a huge calf is coming out of me.

The carrion-stinking dog, who is calf of human and wolf,   
is chasing and eating little blood things the humans scatter,   

and all me run away, over smells, toward the sky. 


  1. Very pleasurable poem-a wonderful read, quite the mouthful and a delight to the ear! The Coover, however, was turgid scat, perfect for The New Yorker.

    1. Yeah, it's not great. I'm thinking of reading the *Origin of the Brunists* (which I loved when I read it decades ago) in anticipation of his new Brunist novel though it reminds me how disappointed I was w/Thomas Berger's follow-up to *Little Big Man* written years after the first. But *John's Wife* and *Geralds Party* I loved, though his recent work not nearly as much.

  2. i happened to read this poem about cows this morning, and then this evening saw the dvd 'vegucated' (which i had checked out from MCPL several days ago)