^{'Washing the Cow's Tail' (1937) by Clare Leighton.
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Cows and Poems

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Growing up I was very friendly with cows and you might say I was pro-cow. I liked the way at 4 am in the dark out in the back field cows were large shadowy lumps lying down. I liked how when you took the border collie out to bring them in, they got up slowly, front feet first, as if they were being tolerant, and very patient with you. Cows are large and rather kindly beings. How they slowly headed for the gate between the back pasture and the front pasture. How they traversed the front pasture and through the front gate and into the milking barn. There were about sixty cows and each would go into her correct stanchion. I am a poet because I like the word stanchion. I am a poet because I like the sound of stanchions clanking shut. Then you fed each cow a scoop of grain and helped your father wash the udders and put on the milkers. The cows stood there patiently waiting to be milked, eating their grain, swishing their tails against the flies.

Cows are very regular the way a poem is very regular. The lines of poetry march across the page like a row of cows heading for the barn. That is pretty much true of every poem.

There is this way that poetry is private even when it is loud and public. It is a doorway to inner truths as well as historical truths and scientific truths, the opposite of advertising or a Donald Trump rant. There is so much trash in the world, especially now, the lying government, the lying tyrant that has gained the presidency, his lying servants and suck-ups.

Poetry is not exclusive, but it is private like your own bones. Bones are private but essential. Without bones we would be a blob on the floor. Without poems I would be a blob on the floor.

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