As a cat, I can be pretty curious about things. And the other day I caught my person laughing about a new book, "Poetry for Cats."
The book is a small but entertaining tome containing the works of the feline owners of William Shakespeare, Chaucer, John Donne, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Lord Byron, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Edgar Allan Poe, Walt Whitman, T.S. Elliott, e.e. cummings, Allen Ginsberg and other people poets."Mom," she was saying, as she read the book aloud to her mother, "these are great. The takeoff on Poe's `The Raven' just kills me."
She recited a couple of verses: "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."
She went on at length about the clever verses, the facile grace with which this Henry Beard person assumed the styles and rhythms of famous people-poets down through the ages.
Every time she got to a hairball in a poem, she cracked up. Beats me why she thinks that's so funny. Personally, I find it rather painful. It's the price a cat pays, however, for getting over a bad-hair day.I guess we just have different taste in poetry. The cat that owned Poe does all right, but compared with the cat that owned Rudyard Kipling, he's a hack.
Witness the poem "If." "If you can disappear when all about you, Are madly searching for you everywhere, And then just when they start to leave without you, Turn up as if you always were right there; If you can shed your hair in any season, And cough up half of all that you devour, And rush from room to room without a reason, Then sit and stare at nothing for an hour. . . ."
My person refers to the cat poetry as "enchanting."
I have long admired the poetical works of my pointy-eared ancestors, so I couldn't quite see what the fuss is all about. I presume my person would become positively rapturous were she able to see my aunt do ballet or hear my grandfather sing.
I know my person thinks it's amazing when cats paint pictures.
Silly human.
And while I agree with her that the poetry is rather wonderful - witty and charming and vibrant with meaning - I take issue with her assumption that the poems are takeoffs on people poetry.
I have it on good authority that Chaucer plagiarized the poetry of the cat that owned him.
My father said so. And cats may lie around, but they certainly don't lie.