Coyote at the Dog Show: And Other Stories and Poems

By Walter Max Poitzsch

Briefly, the book is a collection of poems and stories I wrote over a period of about twenty years. They are all fiction, although they are based on people I have known and events that I witnessed. I am trying to find good qualities in people even if their opinions are very different from mine. The 'coyote' in the title poem is someone rejected by most of society. Only when someone designated to be his enemy recognizes qualities that he can admire in the 'coyote' does the rest of society come to appreciate the 'coyote.' In later stories people like Leviticus Carp--who can be a very objectionable person--reveal their inner good qualities in time for them to be reconciled with the larger society from which they are alienated--often through their own preference. I am also trying to describe places and events that I have seen.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 29, 2012
• ISBN: 9781479765157

Walter Max Poitzsch

Walter spent most of his adult life living and working overseas (mostly in Africa) or teaching (from the secondary graduate school level). As a child his family traveled to Germany now and then to visit relatives. There he saw many restored castles and churches and heard many legends (and historical facts) about the history of Germany.

Book preview

COYOTE AT THE DOG SHOW

All the dogs made up for show;

That’s the reason people go:

To see the dachshund’s leather leash,

The poodle’s collar just released

From some expensive French boutique.

The German shepherd, proud and stern:

What honor will his mistress earn?

But wait! Another waits his turn.

By no master’s hand he’s lead—

Fleas in orbit ’round his head.

In the shadow there he lurks:

Snickering there in the murk.

What gall! the shepherd loud proclaims.

"How—small!" (This from the Greatest Dane.)

By god! the English setter snorts.

Be damned, the shadow grim retorts.

Coyote, I, and in he glides—

Beside the greyhound’s sylvan hide.

The spaniel and the Labrador

Are in a rage—and even more

The Russian wolfhound. "There he sits,

"As though by invitation. It

"Appears this uninvited oaf

Equates himself with Romanovs!

And Castlereagh, the Scottie huffs.

"His gaze is glazed, his coat is rough;

"His claws are chipped, his pads are tough.

No gentleman, coyote, he,

The foxhound murmurs thoughtfully.

"And yet…

"I’d swear I’ve seen him, not long past:

"When the moon her shadow cast

"And we, at twilight, heard his laugh;

"Our collars seemed too tight and chaffed.

"Then, leaving us in grim fatigue,

"He sat (the distance was a league)

"And laughed again: I think his scorn

"Was for our master’s hunting horn.

"Dear master’s horse was flecked with foam

"When—cursing—master made for home.

"The burr oak root a tangled claw

"At every foxhound’s blistered paw;

"Till from the haunted copse’s maw

"The expedition fin’lly crept.

"But even then, we hardly slept;

"For through the walls of master’s hall

"Again we heard his mocking call.

"So:

"If again we must compete,

"I’ll hedge my bet he won’t be beat

"By any here whose collared neck

Is stuck out for a master’s beck.

At last the foxhound silent fell,

Upon some memory to dwell.

The shepherd bowed his noble crown;

The bulldog wore a thoughtful frown.

The pug and poodle, wolfhound too,

From competition all withdrew

Till there he sat, alone and still,

Unbroken to a master’s will.

But—no more mocking in his glance—

At last coyote broke his trance.

"I must confess—it ne’er occurred—

"Until his lengthy speech I heard—

"That foxhounds thought of me this way.

"I, in turn, have this to say:

"On that frightful night I flew

"From spur and whip—and collars too.

"Not for one moment seemed they brave;

"But now I see Diana saved

"One misplaced paw. A useless slave

"Is horse or foxhound when he’s lamed.

"Coyote, I—the one who’s blamed

"For riot with the hens and sheep;

"My song disturbs your master’s sleep…

"Still, which is best? Your lot or mine?

Who is bravest: slave or thief?

And off he glided from the throng.

Of course, who’d claim that he belonged?

The shepherd murmured to the pug

(Which worried at his Persian rug)

At last the local dog show’s done.

(Of course, the Russian wolfhound won—

But everyone was quite surprised

At the sadness in his eyes

When his laurel girdled throat

Was leashed again for master’s mot.)

One by one each coach departs,

And to each horse a dog remarks:

"If he should cry ‘Coyote, I,’

Tonight, at least, you need not shy.

The horses in their harness nod;

The master wonders, "Very odd;

"That scoundrel from the shadow calls:

"Yet horse and hound heed not at all.

"Tomorrow at the market stall

"Some traps and poison I’ll procure—

My henhouse’s safety to ensure.

Coyote, I! the foxhounds hear;

Coyote, he! the foxhounds cheer.

The dogs are mad, the master snorts;

Coyote, he, the horse retorts.

A silver ghost upon the vale

The foxhounds saw—and wagged their tails.

TO RUDY

Wenn wir sehen uns nicht in dieser Welt,

Dann sehen wir uns in Bitterfeld.

Teutonic ballads and cucumber salad

And schnapps and Schinkenbrot;

Electric trains and Lili Marlene

Dumplings and strudel

And Rommel and Rudel

(They were real good-looking boys.)

Hup, two, three, four:

Gee, by golly, it’s the Afrika Korps:

Then we play Greensleaves, and the Eisenbahn leaves.

And when it storms or it snows

Or the sun cracks the veldt,

We’ll shuffle the deck in Bitterfeld.

Moritz und Max, Hase und Dachs,

There go Witwe Bolte’s hens

(Skorzene must be back in town.)

And the coal mine’s whistle shrieks again

But this time you won’t be going down:

The walker is parked, and the wheelchair is still;

What should we do with the syrup and pills?

I’ll do like you say and flush them away

And wait for you under the linden boughs.

And when it rains in Sahara,

And Siberia melts,

I’ll look for you

In Bitterfeld.

AFRICAN TRAVEL

Djougou, Djougou,

Ougadougou:

Come away and fly with me!

Said the chauve souris

In the mango tree.

Accra!

Accra, Accra, Accra, Suhum!

Said the trotro boy that day employed

To wipe the dust and scrape the rust

While Atewa waved goodbye—

And we said asante! And we said merci!

To the chauve souris

In the mango tree.

Then we made our way

For the rest of the day

Among the potholes and the diesel fumes

While the trotro boy leaned out the door

And he cleared his throat, and he said once more,

"Accra!

"Accra, Accra, Accra, Suhum!

"Djougou, Djougou, Ouagadougou:

"Denge, gongo, bongo, kudu;

"Apoteche, nyam’ ya mbuzi,

"Typhus, typhoid, quinine tree:

"Jacaranda, black acacia,

"Baobab, teak, plantain plantation,

"Coffee, sisal, maize, and tea;

"Rhodolite and gold and voodoo—

"Djougou, Djougou Ouagadougou:

Come and take a ride with me!

So we rode, and we ride—

From side to side:

From Usambara where the barabara

Rattled and battled our poor old car;

From Sumbawanga back to Tanga,

Then from Mombasa to Kinshasa

And north, to Timbuktu;

Now south once more,

To the Gold Coast shore

Where the harmattan dust like bloody rust

Turns red the leaves of the mango trees

Where the chauve souris

And the boomslang sang,

Djougou, Djougou,

Ouagadougou:

Come along and fly with me!

MKALAMO WARD, 1986

Roosters crowing, cattle lowing

Drummers drumming, trumpets blowing

Fluters fluting, children screaming;

Wide awake, and yet I’m dreaming:

Can this be my life I’m living,

Or is imagination giving

Life to mountains, rivers, sand?

Am I a god, am I a man?

Who can buy the Southern Cross

When no one seems to know the cost?

Crows are cawing, dogs are barking.

Larks are singing, singers larking

By the old cathedral door;

Still, the priest is sleeping, dreaming:

Is he mad, or is he screaming

At the cockroach on the floor?

All the wealth his church possesses

Can’t approach such steep redresses

And he nor I can spare the cost

Of Mkalamo’s Southern Cross.

WATERCOLOR

Locusts and termites, mosquitoes and gnats

Acacias and baobabs and elephant grass.

Zebra and zebu and green dragonflies:

Blue-painted mountains and stormy gray skies.

Tarpon and marlin, grouper and dace

Coral and mangroves the white sands encase.

Seagulls and hummingbirds, hornets and bats:

Blue-painted mountains and broad tidal flats.

Leopards and leopard-men, drumming and voodoo;

Gerenuk, oryx, impala, and kudu

Colobus monkeys and pink cockatoos

Blue-painted mountains and crocodile sloughs.

Salmon and king crabs and flounder and perch;

Sunshine at midnight when restless you search

The golden horizon and glowing auror’

For the blue-painted mountains of Kodiak’s shore.

Catfish and cottonmouths, herons and hogs;

Low ride the thunderheads over the bogs.

Flat the horizon of cotton and rice

Until the blue-painted bluffs of the Smokies arise.

Civets and duiker and pangolins coiled

On the fronds of the palms where the hornbills steal oil.

Tiger ants, adders, and green golden light:

Blue-painted mountains and firefly nights.

Creosote jungles, red-clay chaparral,

Sun-whitewashed missions, coyotes’ chorale;

Rattle snakes, roadrunners, lizards with horns:

Blue-painted mountains beyond the Sonora.

Blue-painted mountains are home to the gods:

From Kodiak’s coast to the jungles abroad.

From the thunderheads forming in late afternoon

To the dawn to the dusk to the rise of the moon.

When you are weary of toil and care

And seek refuge from hunger and plague and despair

Look to the distance, to the glacier and scree

Where the blue-painted mountains await you (and me).

THIRD WORLD ROMANCE

You cannot understand me,

I don’t know what you said.

I’m a six-inch dictionary,

You’re like coal black stationary.

I’m a word you can’t pronounce,

You’re a page that can’t be read.

Third World Romance: I guess that’s all we are,

Are we really worth the danger, do we really have a chance?

Precious little chance there is to catch a falling star:

Everybody knows this is a deadly circumstance.

I can’t forget about you

All day long while I’m away;

You’re a constant, nagging chancre,

You’re a question with no answer.

Are we really worth the effort,

Of the scary games we play?

Third World Romance; does it always end so soon?

Trying hard for months to write each other every night.

Was it all misunderstanding; was it only just a dream?

Then why the airport taxi and the thirty-hour flight?

LEVITICUS CARP

Leviticus Carp was no one’s fool:

He sent his grandkids to private schools.

He didn’t vote at election time

For some butt-kissing politician:

Because he once caught a gander

At their gerrymander,

And Leviticus knew their position.

"These spineless punks already wrecked—

"Boy, don’t you interrupt me!

"With their plastically Political Correct—

From New Orleans to Kentucky.

Leviticus Carp was just a lad

When he rode shotgun for a Galahad

Known then as Sergeant Krieg.

Ah… then brave Private Carp

(With leaden heart)

Upon a canvass stretcher bore

Along the Mekong’s muddy shore

The bullet-riddled stalwart, Krieg

To where a chopper sullen perched

Like an evil buzzard to span the leagues

Between the field of contest and

Some air strip in South Vietnam.

Leviticus Carp, no more a youth,

Returned to battle—claw and tooth—

Longhaired radicals in leisure suits

With soft-shelled cars from Europe;

In the village square,

They tossed their hair,

And flashed their designer sunglasses—

Till, with angry shouts and fists employed,

Came Leviticus and his Good Old Boys:

To whip their liberal asses.

Leviticus Carp was a bitter man:

He didn’t care if Pakistan

Was reduced to rubble and ashes.

"Let them camel jockeys keep their rugs,

"Their oil and their goddamned drugs:

"I hope they get fever and rashes.

"I won’t shed a tear,

"If all Asia disappears—

"And Africa rots in hell;

"For I’ve paid all my taxes and revenues—

"With never one word of Well, Carp: thank you!

Bubba, I’d love to ring Washington’s bell!

Yet Leviticus Carp was a humble man:

A pillar of the church.

He’d change your tire in a thunderstorm,

And to hell with ice or mosquito swarms:

He’d never leave you in the lurch.

Once he told me, "Son, I like you,

"Y’all’re just a bit confused.

"Sometimes you spout off that junk

"About that public school where y’all’re employed

"To spread the news

"To a pack of ignorant punks.

"Let’s get this straight:

"Boy, I don’t hate

"No man that knows to keep his place;

"But don’t lecture me, son,

"About intelligent ones—

"When they ain’t none in that race.

"I heard all that junk

"Twenty years gone by—

"From them long-haired hippie fools

"’Bout Integration

"Segregation

"And southern procrastination.

"Boy, I seen what they done in Boston!

"I seen them minorities get riled at Republican ploys—

"Claimin’ they were the work of us, Good Old Boys:

Then they burned their own groceries down!

Leviticus Carp was a hell of a man:

He said Lucifer wrote the Marshall Plan.

But yet I recall

A night one fall

When the fire bell preempted our slumber;

Then we put on our boots and our fireman’s hats,

And uncoiled our hoses and stepped up to bat.

All the trailer park gathered

To watch us with our ladders

And Leviticus cussed us like thunder:

"The goddamn roof’s cavin’ in, and the propane tank’s caught!

"Where’n the hell’s that new jacket we bought?

Clear out of my way! Then asunder

The poor walls caved in and the propane tank sparked

And it took us six hours to resurrect Carp,

And we found them there, jowl-by-cheek:

He was burnt to a crisp,

But a child was wrapped

In the coat of asbestos we’d bought for such tasks.

If it weren’t for the propane, they’d’ve made it.

"Leviticus Carp! Let your spirit be received

By beautiful Jesus of Galilee!

(I heard this with my own ears.)

The African Methodist-Baptist pews

Were filled with a sad regret for you

And that little old trailer-trash girl you cloaked

Unheedfull of the fire and smoke

Must bring tears to the angels’ eyes

When her childish voice recalls that night.

For your sergeant, Krieg, and you, like him,

Are the ones that do what they must

When the sirens blow and the levees bust.

They give their britches a hitch,

And say, Son of a bitch!

And they square up their shoulders

And double their fists:

And to hell with the odds—whatever the risk.

And on warm summer nights,

When the crickets fall still,

Leviticus Carp and his phantom coon hounds

Prick their ears for waning sounds

While they make their vigilant rounds.

You can call me a liar, but I swear it’s no joke:

You’ll hear cursing and barking

Before you smell smoke.

WACHOWI

At the deserts fringe the sirocco winds

Whip the baobab twigs and the strangler figs

And the oasis echoes howls from the north.

And when the twilight comes

With the witches’ drums

The leopard men steal forth.

At the deserts edge by the Great Rifts’ ledge

Where eucalyptus and acacia sprout

And candelabra trees shade the Atlas’ knees:

Man and beast to their lairs retreat

When the drums commence their frightful sound

And the bravest heart begins to pound.

At the deserts’ border is a great disorder

Of bush and tarn and poor small farms

And villages of ancient tales;

And Islam and Christianity

Wage a war with this insanity:

The shadows of Sahel.

At the deserts’ wall where the jackals call,

Where the locusts and the termites claim their due,

And salt bush thrives in times of dry

The electric world conceded

Because the modern is impeded

In the twilight by a shrill and savage cry.

You may think this tale a joke,

The ignorance of simple folk.

But the kapok trees know better, I maintain:

For the silk wood sprites

Seek their lovers in the night

With hungry whispers through the bedroom windowpanes.

I know no desert kraal that lacks a wall

Of bougainvillea toward the witches off;

And the roosters’ cries are a lullaby

For the red and purple flowers

And the roosters’ waking hours

Make the vampires shy.

Remember these words, and take careful care

If it falls your lot to sojourn there:

Never speak to strangers in those parts.

Keep to roads and keep the company

Of motor cars and electricity

And never answer questions after dark.

At the deserts’ long perimeter

The ancient still holds court.

And the wadis dry and vast

From Morocco to Medina

Are the playgrounds of hyenas

And the other unclean castes.

When the mosque call’s sung the harmattan

Settles lurid red-dust layers on our lives,

And the missionaries pray for the monsoon.

But the Christian or Islamic

Know of no religious tonic

For the fear the natives have of the full moon.

The vultures and the kites and the owls too by night,

Know a story they would tell if they could talk.

But like cobras and like adders

They have seen the cauldrons steam

And heard the frantic victims scream—

And so they’re mum about the matter.

But the lunatics and pilgrims that seek refuge in the wastes

Have eyewitness recollections

Of swift and deadly shadows and

Three-bladed knifes that on the ground

By leopard tracks they claim they found,

At bloodstained campfires on the sand.

At the deserts’ fringe the sirocco winds

Whip the last savanna grasses with a sigh.

In the twilight I hear chanting from the world:

And the kapok and acacia twigs

Tremble leafless while the strangler figs

Choke what moisture they have not yet stole.

Now the moon above us rises, and the virgin sacrifices

And the cannibal debaucheries begin.

And mission and the mosque, the oasis and the kraal

Throw more fuel on the fires in their sleep

While wachowi all about us creep—

Stealing hungrily outside our bedroom walls.

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I COULD NEVER LET YOU GO

I ’m in love with another teacher from Jubilee County public high school. Her name is Janet Davis. She’s a local product, a Delta lady—tall, elegant, and graceful. She talks milk chocolate with none of the dialect mocked by television comediennes from Los Angeles or New York. She has the dignified appeal of a cemetery I once saw—that splendid collision of Catholicism and voodoo outside of Guadalajara where the Mexicans paint the tombstones lime green and blaze orange and baby blue where angry little black bees pollinate the wild flowers that grow among the resting. I teach science; Janet Davis teaches computer applications. I am thirty years old, and I’ve been around the world half a dozen times. I have enough initials after my name to start my own alphabet. I am the guy every other guy wants to be. I am one of two white teachers in an all-black district, and against all odds, we are the county’s mascots. I am an assistant football coach for the first winning team in ten years. The good old boys take me hog hunting and frog jigging. We drive around the Delta drinking Budweiser, rescuing broken-down motorists, putting out fires, and shining cottonmouths. The worst thugs in the school love me. I am on the volunteer fire department. I am a volunteer deputy sheriff. I’m a great guy; I have it all. I have it all.

We have a faculty meeting just before homecoming. Our principal is a nervous little man for whom I