Two Poems
Martin Elster
Laika
c. 1954–November 3, 1957
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The more time passes, the more I’m sorry about it.
We did not learn enough from the mission to justify
the death of the dog.—Oleg Gazenko
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We pulled you off the windy streets,
crammed you in a windless room,
stuck electrodes to your skin,
then hurled you to your doom.
Black ears alert, brown eyes alarmed,
you fought against the fearsome thrust,
heart overheating, wildly beating,
hanging on to trust.
What was this floating-feather-lightness?
Where was the man whose gentle hand
had stroked you after every test?
When will this bubble land?
Our plan was, after a week in orbit
you’d polish off the poisoned kibble.
(Your air was running out, dear friend,
but you weren’t one to quibble.)
Because of you, men gained the moon,
touched a comet, launched the Hubble.
Yet building a craft that could have brought
you back was too much trouble.
There stands a statue of a rocket,
you atop it, proud and regal.
Small Moscow stray, could you have dreamed
you’d die a wingless eagle?
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First published in The New Verse News
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Note from A. D. Min: Do access the first publication of the poem here, as NVN has a rather nice pic of the Laika statue.​
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The Doggy Diner
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As Mrs. Arden beamed and steered
me toward her house across the garden
a dog—white, furry, huge—appeared,
eyeing me and Mrs. Arden.
As we walked in, the Great Pyrenees—
dirt stuck to fur, long strings of drool
dangling from lips—this carnivore
followed me in and ate the cheese
and rusks on the table straight away.
He then traipsed round in search of more
hors d’oeuvres but found dessert—the fool
(fruit and custard)—the soufflé
and the remainder of our meal;
then jumped up on an easy chair,
circled, settled, and closed his eyes.
“That dog’s got a wolfish appetite!”
I said. But all she did was glare.
Though I tried hard to be polite,
she never smiled. Her eyes were steel.
While the dog was sleeping like a lamb
we simply sat, had nothing to say.
As I dropped my napkin, about to rise,
she said, “Please, take your dog, okay?”
“Mine? I thought he was your dog, ma’am.”
And then she laughed, and all was fine—
until he went and drank the wine.
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First published in LIGHT
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Martin Elster, who never misses a beat, was for many years a percussionist with the Hartford Symphony Orchestra (now retired). Aside from playing and composing music, he finds contentment in long walks in the woods or the city and, most of all, writing poetry, often alluding to the creatures and plants he encounters. His career in music has influenced his fondness for writing metrical verse, which has appeared in numerous literary journals and anthologies in the US and abroad. His honors include Rhymezone’s poetry contest (2016) co-winner, the Thomas Gray Anniversary Poetry Competition (2014) winner, the 2022 Helen Schaible International Sonnet Contest winner, the Science Fiction Poetry Association’s poetry contest (2015) third place, a Best of the Net nomination, and five Pushcart nominations. His latest collection, From Pawprints to Flight Paths: Animal Lives in Verse, is out now, from Kelsay Books.
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