On a trip to Hawaii several years ago, I wrote a lot of haiku. Something about being closer to Japan in a land influenced by Japan, I guess. On the big island, there are bands of feral cats. I tried to make friends. Of course, I had no control over the situation at all.
Today I bring cheese
my little wild black cat, but
you will not be bought
The haiku masters often mentioned cats. Issa wrote some of my favorites.
Remembering our recently departed and beloved cat … and Mark Twain’s quote is hitting home: “A home without a cat — and a well-fed, well-petted and properly revered cat — may be a perfect home, perhaps, but how can it prove title.”
It seems that poets have kept cats and written about them throughout history. On a trip to Oregon a few years ago, I picked up a book called The Poetical Cat edited by Felicity Bast. It includes cat poems from all over the world … from the tombs of ancient Egypt … to the works of the Haiku masters … to Swinburne, Baudelaire, Yeats, and William Carlos Williams.
It is offering some comfort. Perhaps most apropos is Thomas Hardy’s Last Words to a Dumb Friend, which is an elegy for his beloved, departed pet. It goes on in his quaint, Victorian way that may sound stilted to our modern ears. But its final verse is beautiful and heartbreaking.
From Last Words to a Dumb Friend by Thomas Hardy
Housemate, I can think you still
Bounding to the window-sill,
Over which I vaguely see
Your small mound beneath the tree,
Showing in the autumn shade
That you moulder where you played.
Pretty sad, that verse.
If I tried to write an elegy I would probably blubber on and on longer than Hardy. So I won’t.
Instead, in honor of our dear and departed Quincy, I’ll offer a couple of cat haiku I’ve written over the years:
The old cat forgets
to groom his matted fur. But
there — on snow — feathers!
Little cat using
me for shade doesn’t care I’ve
nothing left to give
Waking with a stretch
the cat falls off the bed’s edge —
Things have not gone smoothly for the Ukrainians since they gained independence from the Soviet Union.
The recent troubles involving Russian separatists is just one chapter.
Over a decade ago, I remember being riveted by the news report of the strange illness that hit charismatic Ukrainian President Viktor Yushchenko during a campaign for reelection. One of the leading theories at the time implicated the Russians. The more things change …
It was one of the few times I’ve been tempted to play tennis with the net down.
THE UKRAINIAN CANDIDATE’S FACE
“Ukrainian Presidential Candidate Poisoned.” – September 10, 2004
The day the Ukrainian candidate’s face
Erupted with boils and turned ash-grey,
Nowhere to hide with the whole world watching,
His cosmopolitan good looks marred
Beyond the power of greasepaint and powder,
Did his young wife then love him any less,
As the life mate who made her heart beat fast
Transmogrified before her very eyes,
Some curse spoiling his original face?
She knew (wives know) that something was amiss
The night before, when giving him a kiss,
She tasted something strange upon his lips.
Did she curse his drinking and say harsh words?
Perhaps suspect him of unfaithfulness?
(There are diseases you can catch, you know,
From Russian whores, that will pock your skin, and
Ruin your health like Chernobyl ruined the land.)
Who’d blame her for a thought or two like that?
His already fallen foe cleverly
With toxins the potato soup did lace,
Beguiled the unsuspecting innocent
To taste the apple-of-the-earth puree.
What would we think if we could only see
Before-and-after pictures of ourselves?
What wormwood dioxin pox concoction
Would we say has over-swept our race
More like a glacier than the mushroom patch
That blossomed in Yushchenko’s garden face?
Robert Frost once famously said “writing free verse is like playing tennis with the net down.”
Although this has been the dominant form of poetry for — um — like a hundred years now, I’ve always been more inclined to playing with the net up.
Not trying to restart long-settled fights or open old wounds. I’m just saying I was introduced from a young age to poetry with meter and rhyme, so that’s what I’ve gravitated towards over the years.
So shoot me.
But I must say, Mary Karr may make a convert of me.
Mary Karr is best know for her memoirs, Liar’s Club, Cherry, and Lit. These are wonderful, funny and profound books. They are credited with — or depending on your point of view — blamed for sparking the current trend of confessional memoirs.
But she would consider herself a poet first, and she has a good point.
Full disclosure: I went to school with Mary back in the 70s. And by “going to school with” I mean I was at the same college at the same time for a year or so.
She actually dated — or hung out with .. or whatever we called it back then — one of my roommates back at an off-campus house near Macalester College in St. Paul.
It was a pretty arty scene. We had musicians and songwriters and artists and aspirants all living in close quarters and striving to find their voices.
This roommate of mine was a freeloading squatter who lived in our attic. But he was a talented musician, so we gave him a free pass. He appears on the early pages of Lit, the “Missouri cowboy,” who never seemed to lack female attention.
My primary impression of Mary back in those days: “This girl is trouble.”
I was most certainly right. And she would probably agree.
Later she would date David Foster Wallace, and reportedly inspire him to write Infinite Jest. Or at least, make it good.
But enough with the name dropping.
Mary is one heck of a poet. Exhibit A: a poem called “Suicide’s Note: An Annual.” Pretty universally regarded as being about Wallace after he killed himself.
It’s almost enough to make me consider taking down the net.
Reading T.S. Eliot has had at least one effect. I’ve taken a break from writing about love.
Eliot wrote about the big things. Faith. Despair. The sweep of history. The spirit of the age. Weaving in references to the best expressions of Western civilization … and beyond. Whatever you think of him, he was a serious fellow.
Not claiming this little poem is like Eliot, or in the same league. But it does come out of a heart and mind that has been reading him. It’s not a “silly love song.” It’s a stab at being serious.
A worm works through the apple of us all,
A mold grows slowly over all our work,
Our vaunted gleaming towers all will fall
As delegates palaver jackals lurk.
Anesthetized within our paneled homes,
Believing what has been will always be,
With weariness we author countless tomes
That give not wisdom nor help us to see.
A dust has settled over all the land,
Our wise men jabber loudly on the wall.
As good is named for evil, good is banned,
In silent shadows meanwhile serpents crawl.
This proud and stiff-necked people shall not stand.
The tribes of earth shall marvel at its fall
I’m really trying to like T.S. Eliot. But mostly because I think I should.
People I respect swear by him. I’ve always found him fussy, obscure and generally not worth the effort.
Now, on the occasion of the 50th anniversary of his death, Eliot seems to be everywhere. He’s got me surrounded!
Then I read where one of my favorite living writers, Mary Karr, calls Eliot her “Secret Boyfriend,” and I think I need to do more to overcome my benighted condition and check this guy out.
This is the same Mary Karr who wrote her famous essay, “Against Decoration.” As is says on the back of her book of verse, “The Devil’s Tour,” she calls her own poems “‘humanist poems,’ written for everyday readers rather than an exclusive audience — poems that do not require an academic explication to be understood.”
Amen to that, Mary! But how am I to square that with your literary crush on Eliot? He’s the guy who added seven pages of explanatory notes a the end of “The Wasteland.” Notes that really only help if you’ve recently brushed up on your Latin, Italian, French and German!
I realize there are gaps in my education big enough to drive a tanker through. So the problem must be with me, not Eliot. So I dip my toe in, gingerly.
Which, sends me scurrying for a dictionary. And by “scurrying for a dictionary,” I mean I Google the word. Apparently it means “extremely prolific,” which does not help me much in apprehending the meaning of Mr. Eliot’s poem.
And then there’s his aggravating habit of introducing a poem with a quote from another author. In French. Or Latin. Or Greek.
To the casual observer, it would appear that Mr. Eliot was trying to reduce his audience down to the smallest number possible. Today, that number must be even smaller, made up of just the handful of professors who to have miraculously managed to get a classical education before our institutions of higher learning went all soft in the head.
I do not want to sound like one of those Know-Nothings who mistrust anyone with book-learnin.’ But I know from my day job that if you want to get your stuff read and understood, you must write clearly and remove the friction for the reader.
Can it be possible to write profound poetry and have people understand it at the same time?
I think I’ll start with “The Hollow Men” and see how it goes. It’s short and written exclusively in English. I think I’ve got a fair shot as extracting some meaning from it. My goal is to gain a little momentum, move on the “The Wasteland,” and then be strong enough for “Ash-Wednesday” by the time we get to week of Easter this year.