In which cat poetry is better than mine

My fifth grade teacher taught us how to write all manner of poetry: sonnet, haiku, cinquain, free verse, ballads…

Ballads! Oh dear, I feel a memory coming on: I am 11. I already have very bad handwriting, which is not allowed in my school and so it takes me ages to copy out My Ballad in acceptable form. And of course it is long (it seems that even then I was already wordy. Already riffing. Well, at least you know it’s not some lit’rary affection I picked up along the way…). And I don’t know if this is funny or sad, but I actually remember the beginning verses…

‘Twas in the gallant days of old
When chivalry did reign
That Gowain did ride to Waterside
His fortune for to gain.

Gowain was an honest lad and bold
The son of Duke LaRoot.
He did aspire to be a squire
To some knight of repute.

So through the forest he did go
A-riding down the lane,
When by and by he heard a cry
As of someone in pain.

And so he rode into a glade
And saw a maiden fair
Who in distress lay motionless
And blood was in her hair….

And that, fortunately for you, Gentle Reader, is all that remains of my very first/very last ballad. I suspect I would not have made my fortune in bardic times, you know? But I’ll always be grateful to Virginia Richardson for being the first to teach me about poetry.

And I’m grateful to Henry Beard for his lovely book Poetry for Cats, which has always delighted me. Today I’m particularly fond of this one — I find it clever and cat-like and utterly delightful. Perhaps you’ll like it too.

Happy Monday.

—–
(from Poetry for Cats by Henry Beard)

The End of the Raven
by Edgar Allen Poe’s Cat

On a night quite unenchanting, when the rain was downward slanting,
I awakened to the ranting of the man I catch mice for.
Tipsy and a bit unshaven, in a tone I found quite craven,
Poe was talking to a Raven perched above the chamber door.
“Raven’s very tasty,” thought I, as I tiptoed o’er the floor,
     “There is nothing I like more.”

Soft upon the rug I treaded, calm and careful as I headed
Toward his roost atop that dreaded bust of Pallas I deplore.
While the bard and birdie chattered, I made sure that nothing clattered,
Creaked, or snapped, or fell, or shattered, as I crossed the corridor;
For his house is crammed with trinkets, curios and weird decor —
     Bric-a-brac and junk galore.

Still the Raven never fluttered, standing stock-still as he uttered,
In a voice that shrieked and sputtered, his two cents’ worth — “Nevermore.”
While this dirge the birdbrain kept up, oh, so silently I crept up,
Then I crouched and quickly leapt up, pouncing on the feathered bore.
Soon he was a heap of plumage, and a little blood and gore —
     Only this and not much more.

“Oooo!” my pickled poet cried out, “Pussycat, it’s time I dried out!
Never sat I in my hideout talking to a bird before;
How I’ve wallowed in self-pity, while my gallant, valiant kitty
Put an end to that damned ditty” — then I heard him start to snore.
Back atop the door I clambered, eyed that statue I abhor,
     Jumped — and smashed it on the floor.

The trees of life

I must share with you again something from Henry Beard’s Poetry for Cats: The Definitive Anthology of Distinguished Feline Verse.

I love the prodigious imagination at work in this little book: the exuberant love of both poetry and cats, and the way that Beard is able to evoke the original poem while making it something utterly… well, cat-like.

It’s a cool thing about people. We just love to put things together in new and interesting ways. We like to create resonances between things we love, whether it’s parties with friends or pop culture references in books. We like to look at the clouds and say, I see a bunny. We like to dance with strangers at rock concerts. And some of us like to read hommages written ostensibly by poets’ cats.

Don’t ask me to explain it. It’s a cat-lovin’ poetry-readin’ human Saturday kind of thing, and that’s all there it to it.

Treed
by Joyce Kilmer’s Cat
 
I think that I shall never see
A poem nifty as a tree.
 
A tree whose rugged trunk seems meant
To speed a happy cat’s ascent;
 
A tree that laughs at dogs all day
And serves up baby birds for prey;
 
A tree whose limbs are in the sky
Where clandestinely I can spy;
 
Until it does upon me dawn
It is a mile down to the lawn.
 
Poems are made by cats like me,
But only you can get me off this goddam stupid tree.
 
— from Poetry For Cats by Henry Beard.

And you know what else I like about people? That we’ll help each other down from the goddam stupid tree every once in a while. It’s one of the great human things.