 |
| Types of domestic cat |
"A black cat crossing your path signifies that
 |
| Catskill Cats--near my hometown in Upstate New York |
Midweek Motif ~ Cats
I live with two beautiful black cats that were "rescue" cats--unwanted. I adopted them this year when they turned 5 years old.
According to Wikipedia:
"Mixed or Black cats have been found to have lower odds of adoption in American shelters compared to other colors except brown, although black animals in general take more time to find homes. . . . August 17 is Black Cat Appreciation Day."I concede that cats of any color might be as sweet and mythic as my black ones, and so offer this motif for cats no matter their color.
Your Challenge: Have fun with cats in your new poem. Post your link below so we can visit.
by Pablo Neruda
How neatly a cat sleeps,
sleeps with its paws and its posture,
sleeps with its wicked claws,
and with its unfeeling blood,
sleeps with all the rings-
a series of burnt circles-
which have formed the odd geology
of its sand-colored tail.
I should like to sleep like a cat,
with all the fur of time,
with a tongue rough as flint,
with the dry sex of fire;
and after speaking to no one,
stretch myself over the world,
over roofs and landscapes,
with a passionate desire
to hunt the rats in my dreams.
I have seen how the cat asleep
would undulate, how the night
flowed through it like dark water;
and at times, it was going to fall
or possibly plunge into
the bare deserted snowdrifts.
Sometimes it grew so much in sleep
like a tiger's great-grandfather,
and would leap in the darkness over
rooftops, clouds and volcanoes.
Sleep, sleep cat of the night,
with episcopal ceremony
and your stone-carved moustache.
Take care of all our dreams;
control the obscurity
of our slumbering prowess
with your relentless heart
and the great ruff of your tail.
(Translated by
Alastair Reid)
by Jorge Luis Borges
Mirrors are not more
silent
nor the creeping dawn
more secretive;
in the moonlight, you
are that panther
we catch sight of
from afar.
By the inexplicable
workings of a divine law,
we look for you in
vain;
More remote, even,
than the Ganges or the setting sun,
yours is the
solitude, yours the secret.
Your haunch allows
the lingering
caress of my hand.
You have accepted,
since that long
forgotten past,
the love of the
distrustful hand.
You belong to another
time.
You are lord
of a place bounded
like a dream.
by Emily Dickinson
(about 1862)
She sights a Bird - she chuckles -
She flattens - then she crawls -
She runs without the look of feet -
Her eyes increase to Balls -
Her Jaws stir - twitching - hungry -
Her Teeth can hardly stand -
She leaps, but Robin leaped the first -
Ah, Pussy, of the Sand,
The Hopes so juicy ripening -
You almost bathed your Tongue -
When Bliss disclosed a hundred Toes -
And fled with every
one
Please share your new poem using Mr. Linky below and visit others in the spirit of the community.
(Next week Sumana's Midweek Motif will be ~ Blessings)
