Cow EyesThu, September 13, 2007 - 7:46 PM
a farmer's compliment.
I'd act insulted
and he'd laugh
but we both liked it
felt the spirit of it
hearing this nickname
who know nothing of cows
their gentle nature
nurtured by the mother's milk of cows
yet ungrateful for it,
taking it for granted,
Cows are lovely,
slow to alarm,
quick to forgive,
wearing their heart in their eyes,
harming no one.
People who have never peered
into that deep dark wetness
experienced that soft accepting attentiveness
they don't know what they're missing.
soulful and all knowing
big and beautiful and brown and trusting
ancient and wise.
What a sweet nickname.
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Aww...how very sweet...I learned to milk a cow when I was only 3 yrs old...and my Pop taught me...he used to call me 'spitfire'...a name I cherish to this day...
Lovely memories...thank you...
very nicethat really moved me :-).
My grandparents had a farm in kansas and I lived there one summer. Every evening Grampa would go down and feed them grain, he would call them and they would all come up to eat. Such gentle creatures, not a mean bone in their bodies.
I love your cow eyes. :)
Don't ya wish you could have posted that photo from the fridge magnet? Such a gorgeous picture - I don't see how any of us could eat a cow after looking at that photo.....
This Wisconsinite should know...Cow eyes are deep pools of sensuality. I hear that they are tasty too.
Afternoon With Irish Cows. . .C -
Love your poem. . . as you know, one of my fav poets of the moment is Billy Collins. . . your's reminded me of one of his:
Afternoon with Irish Cows
By Billy Collins
There were a few dozen who occupied the field
across the road from where we lived,
stepping all day from tuft to tuft,
their big heads down in the soft grass,
though I would sometimes pass a window
and look out to see the field suddenly empty
as if they had taken wing, flown off to another country.
Then later, I would open the blue front door,
and again the field would be full of their munching
or they would be lying down
on the black-and-white maps of their sides,
facing in all directions, waiting for rain.
How mysterious, how patient and dumbfounded
they appear in the long quiet of the afternoon.
But every once in a while, one of them
would let out a sound so phenomenal
that I would put down the paper
or the knife I was cutting an apple with
and walk across the road to the stone wall
to see which one of them was being torched
or pierced through the side with a long spear.
Yes, it sounded like pain until I could see
the noisy one, anchored there on all fours,
her neck outstretched, her bellowing head
laboring upward as she gave voice
to the rising, full-bodied cry
that began in the darkness of her belly
and echoed up through her bowed ribs into her gaping mouth.
Then I knew that she was only announcing
the large, unadulterated cowness of herself,
pouring out the ancient apologia of her kind
to all the green fields and the gray clouds,
to the limestone hills and the inlet of the blue bay,
while she regarded my head and shoulders
above the wall with one wild, shocking eye.
Cowness. . .Yeah. . . how can you not love a poem, (or the poet who wrot it), with a line like:
"the large, unadulterated cowness of herself"