(for Mocha)
Always dear but curving close to the door,
cats like this can peel the
light off a star--
Always dear but curving close to the door,
cats like this can peel the
light off a star--
slip it slyly under an eye, & still sleep
Calico cat dreams and moves
outdoors,
ears smartly smoothed flat to the head,
mouth the usual moist pastiche
of lips & razors
mouth the usual moist pastiche
of lips & razors
If she appears to be a bit too august now,
after a splendid backyard shunt,
and sits purring,
after a splendid backyard shunt,
and sits purring,
million to one she's got the dismembered
jowls, tails to prove it,
the grip relaxed--
jowls, tails to prove it,
the grip relaxed--
freeing by degrees the bloody jay beneath
A sated cat's a very odd thing, indeed
& lies in odd places:
on vents, in closets, over tawny pillows
And even as she lifts herself up
from my lap,
And even as she lifts herself up
from my lap,
it's to peer stonily in direction of the door--
sleepy, wild, free & every bit the
sleepy, wild, free & every bit the
equal of me
who am just too big to eat
6 comments:
Conrad:
Mocha, our little 14 year old Siamese, is dying presently of kidney disease.
Ii's a sad time for us, since we reject euthanasia via a needle, preferring to let our pets die at home, peacefully, among friends and familiar surroundings.
Since Schnooks died in the late 1970's, we've had indoor cats exclusively. Over the years, we've lost Java, then Vanilla, then Lottie, then Coco (last November), and now Mochie is going.
That leaves Su-mee, in his prime, a loving and healthy member of the household. But soon to be alone.
At some point after Mocha goes, we'll probably go out and get another female.
The memories of lost ones dam up behind life's relentless flow.
We just hate saying good-bye to these sweet friends.
A beautiful elegy, Curtis, to all the 'felicissima' in our lives, animal and human.
When Lulu died (as I've often said), a cat I'd had for about 22 years, I cried all day. And I was 37 at the time.
I work with someone whose pug literally helped her survive (as she puts it)from her husband's death. I worry for my dear colleague now that her Pugsy is experiencing organ failure and is close to the end.
I'll brain the next person who tells me animals don't have souls...
As a dog person, I have to say this is the first cat poem I've ever read that made me wonder if I oughtn't to invite a feline in. It's a fleeting notion, though. Cats turn my eyes to red, itchy puddles of rheum and my nose to a mucilage factory. Breath bristles in my throat. Because of this they love me—drying their whiskers on the legs of my jeans, padding around on my lap. perching on my shoulder. Loaded up on Benadryl I can survive for two or three hours. But I couldn't live that way day-to-day. I'll just have to enjoy them through wonderful poems like this one. will you take it as a compliment if I say the clarity and complex music of it reminds of Marianne Moore? I hope so. She is one of the Modernists who knew how to make layered, pleasurable poems, the best of them this kind of resonant meditation. Yet again, I find myself wishing I could do what you do—but I can't, and anyway why bother because you're already doing it so well. Thanks, Conrad!
Joseph,
the comparisons to Moore are grossly undeserved but I appreciate the kindness, nonetheless. I like "resonant meditation": perhaps what I was striving, albeit unconsciously, to do.
Cheers!
Just for grins, check out Morgan Meis's comments on cats in this article on a Goya exhibition:
http://thesmartset.com/article/article05211401.aspx
A beautiful poem, Conrad, and one of the few I've ever read about cats (or pets in general).
Mocha passed peacefully and we said good-bye to a dear friend of 14 years.
Thanks for the dedication.
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