feline friday “helps” work

As it is National Poetry Month, I figured I might as well share one of my favorite poems about cats, which describes Luna perfectly.

The cat’s song

BY MARGE PIERCY

Mine, says the cat, putting out his paw of darkness.
My lover, my friend, my slave, my toy, says
the cat making on your chest his gesture of drawing
milk from his mother’s forgotten breasts.

Let us walk in the woods, says the cat.
I’ll teach you to read the tabloid of scents,
to fade into shadow, wait like a trap, to hunt.
Now I lay this plump warm mouse on your mat.

You feed me, I try to feed you, we are friends,
says the cat, although I am more equal than you.
Can you leap twenty times the height of your body?
Can you run up and down trees? Jump between roofs?

Let us rub our bodies together and talk of touch.
My emotions are pure as salt crystals and as hard.
My lusts glow like my eyes. I sing to you in the mornings
walking round and round your bed and into your face.

Come I will teach you to dance as naturally
as falling asleep and waking and stretching long, long.
I speak greed with my paws and fear with my whiskers.
Envy lashes my tail. Love speaks me entire, a word

of fur. I will teach you to be still as an egg
and to slip like the ghost of wind through the grass.

Marge Piercy, “The cat’s song” from Mars & Her Children (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1992)

A week ago when I was doing some work from home, we had friends over. One of our friends brought their baby. Loki hid like normal, but Luna was very confused, and even looked panicked when I held him. Even though she was wary, though, she didn’t hiss or hunch of back or ruffle her fur. She just sat across the room, transfixed as I “cheated” on her.

A little while later, when I went down to my office to finish a transcription project, she followed me. Apparently, she was a little bit jealous that I was paying attention to someone other than her, so she got my attention the best way she knows how. By plopping herself right where I was working.

She spent the better part of the next hour rotating between sitting on my desk, crawling on my lap (on my wireless keyboard, and trying to throw various things OFF the desk and onto the floor. Including my computer mouse. Twice. But I love her. Just like any crazy cat lady, I love her.

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past life

It’s National Poetry Month which, in my life, used to be a huge deal. It was a morning just like this one – gray, somewhat warm, and raining – that Cat, Erin and I set out for a day in the city. After a 45 minute ride on the Long Island Rail Road, a few subway stops, and a handful of blocks, we walked into a lecture hall at Cooper Union to hear Robert Pinsky speak. It was 2000, just around the time that he Released Americans’ Favorite Poems as part of his tenure as Poet Laureate.

I can remember like yesterday how my coat and backpack were drenched, my hair sticking to my back, as we sat, mesmerized but his rich voice and subtle lisp. It was the kind of day that I loved. I was in awe of his craft, his knowledge.

I lived in the world of poetry in high school. The Dodge Poetry Festival and Mr. Van Zant’s poetry class and readings at the Barn and poetry club and the Literary Magazine and celebrating National Poetry month with posters and trips to the Poets House to sit among the stacks and photocopy page after page of poem that spoke to me. They all seem so far away. But if I close my eyes, I can take myself back to that room with Cat and Erin like it was yesterday. But life is so different now. As much as I long to find her, I have no idea where Cat is. And as much as I’d love to just sit down on the spur of the moment and grab coffee with Erin, she’s almost 100 miles away.

There’s a post-it note, faded, in one of the pages of my Pinsky anthology. I don’t know why I marked it or the meaning it had at the time, but it’s still there. Remnant.

 

In my craft or sullen art
Exercised in the still night
When only the moon rages
And the lovers lie abed
With all their griefs in their arms,
I labour by singing light
Not for ambition or bread
Or the strut and trade of charms
On the ivory stages
But for the common wages
Of their most secret heart.

Nor for the proud man apart
From the raging moon I write
On these spindrift pages
Not for the towering dead
With their nightingales and psalms
But for the lovers, their arms
Round the griefs of the ages,
Who pay no praise or wages
Nor heed my craft or art.

-Dylan Thomas

 

 

My writing life seems so far away now.