I was relieved to find a white cat
whose eyes have shown yellow, and lit
the way I should walk home at night
to my cold, cold cottage in town.
Whose eyes have shown yellow and lit
as much as the white cat in the alley?
To my cold, cold cottage in town
I depend on every sign and token of luck
as much as the white cat in the alley:
the coin in my boot, my cloak and swagger.
I depend on every sign and token of luck.
All these, plus a green moon, fool-proof as
the coin in my boot, my cloak and swagger.
One never knows what lurks in the shadows—
all these—plus a green moon, fool-proof as
a fool with DT’s, now a limp not a swagger.
One never knows what lurks in the shadows,
the way I should walk home at night.
A fool with DT’s now, a limp not a swagger,
I was relieved to find a white cat.
At night all cats are grey.
So proclaims a chapter heading
in Dumas’ Three Musketeers.
I distinctly remember reading
the words, thoughts glancing awry, astray.
Deep in the night, deep into fears,
do not all cats register black?
Black and soft and secret gears
mesh inside the arching back
as the slinking catly footpads
conjure visibly shaped silence
foaming a noiseless surf 'round islands
velveteen in pitch-black plaids.
This silence curvets into valleys,
caresses omens into alleys.
Or so I thought.
As many years past musketeer
as go to making iron masks,
I see the supple cats at night,
one of them marked black and white
who sweeping with plangent mews and swiftest whisks
brushes these alleys:
sweet but uncaught.
I see her most in plenilune moonlight
painful as mating
cat to cat, all silver plating.
May we say, lead light?
In such dread light, aren’t all cats painfully,
utterly white and utterly lonely,
coats steeped in ghost-milk, in glistening midnight,
souls bathed in loss rubbed to a high gloss?
—Kevin Jones, Elk Grove
Hannah would never
Deign to hang
In the alley, that
Was for her dirt-colored
Brothers, noisy, fractious
Band of barbarians
That they were.
She could never
Believe they
Were from the same
Litter. Surely
There was some
Mistake. No, she
Was regal. They
Were peasants.
She watched them
Quarrel from her
Perch on the book
Case, licked an
Imaginary spot
Of dust from
An immaculate
Paw, noticed her
Pillow needed
Fluffing. Someone
Would be by soon
To take care
Of that, she knew.
—Kobayashi Issa (1763-1827)
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—Medusa, with thanks to today's fine contributors, and a note to check out the diverse Tweetspeak Poetry at www.tweetspeakpoetry.com (cat poems at www.tweetspeakpoetry.com/category/cat-poems).