Gods of Other Species
John Claiborne Isbell
The insect god is very old.
He’s found in nooks and crannies and
sometimes in midair. I am told
his flock is numerous as sand.
The bird god pecks and tears at things
when she descends to earth from sky.
The currents tickle at her wings
as she looks down with watchful eye.
The god of fish lives in the deep,
where he’s not seen except by those
who know him well. And he can keep
a secret. Through the deep he goes.
The god of dogs is shaped like us.
He comes and goes about his day.
He brings food. He’s gregarious.
Around his feet the puppies play.
The cat god with her lidded eyes
observes the world or sleeps it off,
curled in a ball. She is cat-size.
I bow to worship her. I cough.
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Fliss: Greetings, John, and welcome back to Well Met again! This is your fourth appearance, for which we are all very grateful.
John: Greetings, Fliss! And you are most welcome. I enjoy popping in on occasion!
F: Well, we’re always happy to see you, John. And what a wonderful poem! Now, you wrote it just this morning, I recall. Was it inspired by anything at the time?
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J: That is very kind. I am glad you enjoyed the poem! I did write it just this morning, you are quite right. The title came to me and I decided I really needed to wrap a poem around it. The last two stanzas, on the cats and the dogs, are from an old joke. A dog says, “Here’s my master. He opens doors for me. He feeds me. He gives me water. He looks after me. He is probably a god.” And the cat says, “Here’s my master. He opens doors for me. He feeds me. He gives me water. He looks after me. I am probably a goddess.”
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F: That’s a great joke, John! I’ve never owned a cat or a dog, but I’ve known a few over the years. Guinea pigs, of course, are familiar territory where my family is concerned. Our Queenie is rather a guinea goddess, I suppose, certainly with a regal presence though apt to a lot of silliness as well. The title is excellent, and I like the flow of images all the way through the poem. It’s interesting to think of other species adopting divine beings. Might they have places of worship too?
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J: That is a fair question! I think many species have favorite spots, and those spots might easily become infused with a sort of mana, of divine presence. We don’t tend to think gods manifest in our temples, but I don’t see why not. And then, dream is always a great place to encounter a god. I’m glad you enjoyed the joke, which rings true to me as well. Queenie might indeed be a guinea goddess, one can never be quite sure of such things. The combination of regality and silliness may be a clue! It’s good to hear the title works, and the imagery sustains interest too.
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F: It does indeed. Now, on the subject of spots, another guinea pig, one Tats, used to enjoy sitting in his outdoor run with his little hands resting on a log; he, too, could appear very regal. I once had a dream that I was being addressed by a curtain-god, possibly because at the time I had in mind to attach my clip-on koalas on one side. Dreams have their own logic! Let’s take a look at the meter of the poem now, if we may. Tet this time, I think?
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J: Yes indeed, Fliss. Tetrameter! For some time now I’ve kept coming back to it. Light and tight, crisp and focused, without any of the pentameter’s ponderous portentousness: “The chief defect of Henry King / Was chewing little bits of string,” writes Hilaire Belloc, master of tet. I still do write a good deal of pent, don’t get me wrong, but there are times when only tet will do. I enjoy having the gods in tet, it seems like a contrast to any urge for pontification (like a pontiff). Hooray for Tats and the curtain-god! They might fit well in tet, too!
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F: How interesting, John! I’m glad you enjoyed my tales of Tats and the curtain-god. Tats in tet seems particularly fitting. Perhaps unusually, I think of meter in terms of musical speed, so pent is moderato and tet allegro. Belloc certainly favoured the latter! I recall some of your poems contain both speeds.
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J: Yes, I have pages that contain both meters. Generally, I think, those are ones where I’ve written stanzas at different times and fitted them together like a jigsaw puzzle, a practice I have used extensively in my MS Better Angels, for instance. I believe that when I’m first writing a piece, I tend to stick to one meter, as it has a certain self-contained air. Although I do write pent pieces that wander from pent and back again. Tet tends to stay tet. I like your musical notation! And it fits, your poems are almost always songlike to my ear. You are also quite right about Belloc! A lot of tet there.
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F: Well, I think we’ve pretty much covered everything, John. Thanks, as always, for the chat! Word-Bird has just turned up with teas, and is wondering whether you had any particular species in mind for your bird-god, please?
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J: Splendid! Thank you, W.-B.! And that’s an excellent question. This bird god seems to fly, so not a penguin, evidently, nor an ostrich. Nor a moa. Probably not a chicken. On the ground, it pecks and tears, which is how it came to me: I think few birds do both, so it seems to me an amalgam of a pigeon and a raptor, with traits of each.
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W.-B.: That is fun! I am a little wary of the raptor part of the bird-god, but I love the pigeon element. I wish you every success with this poem and Better Angels, John. Hopefully both will find a good home.​
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John Claiborne Isbell is a writer and now-retired professor currently living in Paris with his wife Margarita. Their son Aibek lives in California with his wife Stephanie. John’s first book of poetry was Allegro (2018); he also publishes literary criticism, for instance An Outline of Romanticism in the West (2022) and Women Writers in the Romantic Age (April 2025), both available free online. John spent 35 years playing Ultimate Frisbee and finds it difficult not to dive for catches any more!
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