Wild Fridays: Poems of the Week

Celebrating Susan and Sumana

– who have been our Midweek Motif hosts for so long. It's sad to see them step down from that role which they have filled so beautifully, with so much thought and so much heart. Changes in both their lives came coincidentally at about the same time, bringing a need to refocus their energies elsewhere. They generously decided to stay on until the end of the year, after Mary and Sherry's retirement, giving the new team more time to settle in. And they assure us that, although they won't be hosting any more, they will still be writing and posting.

How much I've always enjoyed the poems of each of these poets – equally thoughtful, spiritual and life-affirming, yet different in style. 

They also, of course, experience marked differences in geography and culture, yet have worked together as a team-within-a-team, preparing and hosting the Midweek Motif prompts with ongoing behind-the-scenes collaboration – another example of how Poets United (the staff and the wider community) has been able to create a harmonious common ground for us all.

Choosing one favourite poem from each of these poets would have been impossible, because there are so many I could include! I picked these first two (both posted to their blogs earlier this year) partly because, in showing their individual yet shared love of life, even in its smallest details, they also exemplify aspects of their different societies and lifestyles.

Here is Sumana longing for rain:

DANCE 

– Sumana Roy

I miss your visual splendour-

your kohl-eye, telling stories-

your swift pirouettes in the wind-

your enthralling foot-work-

did your ghungroos (anklet) have hundred bells

like the Kathak dancers?

Wasn’t I mesmerized hearing the dance steps

on glossy, green leaves; on metal shades?

the touch of those graceful hands

blossomed Kadam flowers-

your odhni (veil) of cloud

seemed infinite-

where are you my pretty, danseuse?

Have we killed you

like the colonial British trying to smother

the Kathak dance

calling its practitioners ‘nautch girls’; harlots

in contemptuous fun?

In our desert homes

we are missing you sorely-

Sumana added in a note:
[Whatever I try to write now it leads to the rain-less days we are living here. So my Kathak dancer is the monsoon here.]


Sumana, we here in Australia can very much relate to such a longing, as we have been suffering a serious drought for a number of years. I know other places around the world, including parts of America, are in a similar plight. I hope your plea may act as  a prayer!

Then we see Susan enjoying both friendship and solitude:

After an Evening with Friends  

– Susan Chast

After fudge and cream on brownies, after

the last delicious kiss goodnight,

after the train deposits you

a mere half mile away—

you walk. The door opens

and closes. Then, 

do you, too, sigh,

perk up, rally to spend

time with yourself at last,

to catch up on quiet and joy?

Home’s divine solitude settles

like gold dust, surrounds like Bach cello suites.

Susan, you take us straight into both feelings with marvellous economy of well-chosen words! I feel with you the pleasures of such an evening of good food with congenial friends, then the bliss of 'home's divine solitude'. Having lived alone for the past seven years, maintaining an active social life yet also relishing my periods of solitude, I can say a big 'Yes!' to both verses. 


Perhaps the overriding quality I receive from Sumana's poetry is gentleness; from Susan's integrity. For me these are their signature characteristics – but of course no-one can be categorised by just one quality; I don't mean to suggest the poems are not varied.

I see both, also, as women of great resilience.

Here is Susan coping with the 'writer's slump' we all experience from time to time, yet using it – with great wisdom – to reconnect with the source of inspiration, in faith that it is indeed so:

What a Writing Slump Is

A hole I slide into, below

the surface of consciousness, I say—

But my body protests:

It’s a hole you want to dig but can’t.

You’re slumping, and haven’t the strength

to wield a shovel to break through

the surface of consciousness.

The hard ground won’t receive the seed. 

No, I reply, trust me:

The seed is there with fledgling roots, 

but the hole is too deep for the stem to reach 

the edge where I could translate through arms, 

eyes and hands into the light.  Instead of floating 

over the hole, notebook and keyboard—I am

inside, as close to the seedling as possible. 

I slide into the hole, below

the surface of consciousness, I say—

and slump there for a long long time.

And Sumana lifting herself up via the words of the famous Indian poet Tagore, whom she so loves and admires (some of whose work she has translated):

Tagore

Your words are the buzz-song

of a bee–

dripping sweetness unto

my tattered soul–

I have morphed into

a thousand honeycomb

holding your nectar–

the world isn't all honey–

when it stings I sing your forever song

to be lifted up, to fly

with my newly grown wings–


Susan replies:

Rosemary, thank you for choosing my poem “After an Evening with Friends” for this sweet feature with Sumana.  You, she, and Poets United have been with me many of these luscious evenings.  And then, “What a Writing Slump is”! I am not slumping now, but I know the hole, seeds and roots intimately. 

I love Poets United.  I loved working with the old team and look forward to changes the new team will bring.  Based on what you have already done, I know PU will continue to nourish poets and writers in exciting ways.  Poets United nourished me at a time when my confidence in blogging my poems was flagging.  Then you, Mary, and Sherry wholeheartedly invited me to join the team after Kim Nelson's year.  The new weekly Midweek Motif built on Kim's success.  And just when I was feeling overwhelmed, Mary suggested that I share Midweek Motif with Sumana Roy.  I soon became enchanted with her poetry and choices, and we became partners here.  I felt my life blessed ever since.  (Truly, Sumana. Poems like your Respect from 2017 live in my home. And I want to use your Tagore translations forever!) 

Now, I hope to put my creative time into writing. In addition, I've come out of retirement to substitute teach, and I am co-leading a spiritual nurture program through my Quaker meeting. I expect to join the poets who blog here quite often. Throughout the years, your poetry and commentary have been good company. 


And Sumana says:

I feel so honored to be featured with Susan in your Poems of the Week, here at Poets United, Rosemary. Thank you so much. Yes, it’s been a wonderful journey with you all. I enjoyed my every moment being here. Thematic prompts always motivate me to write my lines and it was so amazing to see all the insightful responses from the poets from all over the world to such prompts. And such a dream team of partners! I can’t thank Mary enough for offering me to be a part of the Midweek Motifs with Susan. Aah…those behind-the-scene chats with Susan for Midweek motifs! And who can ever forget all those sun-shine words from all of you during my cloudy days! I am ever so grateful to each of you for being with me during my hard hours.

Wish you all my best.

And thank you once again Rosemary for selecting the poem Dance. This poem is definitely a sigh of exasperation only an Indian summer and a forgetful Monsoon could bring about. 

I am so very obsessed with Tagore! And what a delight you’ve chosen this poem also for this feature. It’s a little tribute to my poet who has become a shelter to me specially after those stormy nights. At present I am reading a memoir of Tagore in Bengali. Name of the book is : Swarger Kachhakachhi by Maitreyee Devi. Meaning of the book title is ‘Close to Heaven’. No title could be more appropriate.

Though now most of my time is occupied with extreme traveling I still have managed some space for reading and diving once again into the translation of Tagore’s songs.

***********

I'm sure you'll all be glad (but not surprised) to know that these two exceptional poets, who have become our dear friends through their many months of hosting Midweek Motif, will still be very much engaged with poetry, and that we may continue to see them here sharing their wise and beautiful words.

Material shared in this post is presented for study and review. Poems, photos, and other writings and images remain the property of the copyright owners, usually the authors.

POEMS OF THE WEEK - POEMS OF PEACE

Our thoughts are on peace today, with beautiful poems written by Susan Chast, of Susan's Poetry, Sumana Roy, who blogs at Sumanar/Lekha, Gillena of Lunch Box, and Wendy Bourke, of Words and Words and Whatnot. Each poem talks about peace, what it is, and what it isn't. By the end of this feature, I hope all of our spirits are soothed and encouraged. Let's dive right in.

PEACE IS THE HORSE

Peace is the horse of my daydreams

with paces smooth as silk, and speed

enough to comb wind through my hair

while still allowing me to see

the panorama passing by.

Peace is the horse everyone rides

workdays, Sabbaths and holidays,

holding the reins loose and kind

as if their moods and tempers were

the same, horse and rider as one.

Peace is the horse that takes us home

when our day ends and dark sets in.

We let them lead us to surprise

that well-known lands look bright and new

in the twilight as our day ends.

                                 
                                                                            source

Sherry: How I love this poem! Especially "Peace is the horse that takes us home." Where did this poem come from, my friend?

Susan: Where my poem came from:  I thought "How I wish for peace!"  And then I remembered the little rocking rhyme "If wishes were horses, beggars would ride."  If peace were a horse and everyone could ride, so much would be possible.  I've been told horses pick up the tiniest mood changes, and that opening up to horses and not fighting them is key to having good rides.  I put that in the poem, too, with the mutual relationship between horse and rider what makes the world anew. Wouldn't that be lovely?  And, of course, you can substitute in any animal or the earth itself or even God--because acknowledging presence, having conversations, and building mutually beneficial relationships make peace possible.

Sherry: My Grandma used to quote that saying all the time. I would love to see us all riding the horse of peace. Thank you, my friend, for this beautiful poem, and image. Sumana's poem shows us the other side of peace, lurking in the shadows of man's tendency to war.

PEACE

Peace lives

as the shadow of war -

where gunmen smell darkness

in every flower -

when this heart morphs

into a desert

peace comes out

as succulent

with spine -

peace is the mirage

of the green shadow,

walking with a lute in hand -

yet you are deaf -

source

Sherry: Peace walking with a lute in its hand, yet we are deaf. True.

Sumana: Thank you so much Sherry for selecting my Peace poem for your Monday feature. Feeling greatly honoured to be teamed with all my favourite poets.

"Peace" was written as a response to one of Susan’s Midweek Motifs.

I tried to use subtle, tender, vulnerable and resilient imagery to describe ‘peace’ in the poem. Peace is a concept beyond the reach of the belligerent and gross humans; so it will remain ever elusive to them. Tennyson wrote almost 150 years ago:

Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Yet we are seeing thousand wars and no trace of peace. Sad, isn’t it?

Sherry: Yes, it is very sad, that in all these centuries, humankind has not found a better way to live together. Sigh.

Gillena's poem points us in the direction of hope. Let's read.

OF PEACE

The wings of the butterfly are not still

They are white, flapping in the breeze

The colour of the sky is not overcast

It is the azure of a bright sunny day

The absence of birdsong is not disturbing

It is fleeting and transient

They will be there again maybe in a second

Maybe in an hour, who knows

The quality of peace is not turmoil

It is the assembling and arranging

Of everything into  channel of hope

Of gratefulness and of satisfaction

                                   
                                                                         source 

Sherry: I love the idea that "peace is the assembling of everything into a channel of hope and gratitude". So well said, Gillena.

Gillena: ‘OF PEACE'  is one of those poems i wrote in response to a prompt. Though my approach was haiku-like in its birthing, I wrote from observation and contemplation, not knowing where my muse would take me. The poem starts with the carefree nature of a butterfly, the trust, the providence and the gift of the creator. There is a continuity of trust in verse two, even though there is a shift to design and the completed task of Creation.

We live in a world where peace is on the wish agenda of so many; yet, we are faced with war, strife, and change, disturbing us and forcing us to question our very existence and creed. So that Verse three dives in pulling out the remaining gift in the Box of Pandora, hope. Hope is really all that is left to us to claim as ours, in everything, as we strive for peace on our beautiful blue planet.

So there we have it, poem -  OF PEACE.

Sherry: I so feel those words, Gillena, that hope is all we have left. As well as activism, I suppose,  refusing to allow our leaders to destroy the world for the sake of money and power. Sigh.

Wendy recently wrote a poem that reflects such a beautiful, soulful peacefulness, I wanted to share it here as a poem of peace. Let's bask in its beautiful lines and soothe our souls a little.

Wendy Bourke photo

The Lavender Hour

lavender is the colour …

of the hour ... of peace ...

somewhere …

in all the moments

of day ... or night ...

or dusk ... or dawn ...

there is a flowered confluence …

hidden amongst the heavy fronds of living …

a portal to a space ...

far ... far away ...

from the revving fatigue ...

time rests ... there ... in that place

above the pale

intents and purposes ...

the sorrow and the pain

... and floats … 
as simple as a leaf
upon a lavender sea

... and drifts ... and drifts ...

eyes closed …

it whispers from the deep

nebulous of being

… let it be ...

note: this is a poem I wrote using a method laid out by Elizabeth (in an interview she had with Sherry) in the Monday, May 27 Blog of the Week Feature, entitled: How to Write a Poem When You're Blocked. Check it out, if you haven't already. I found it very helpful.

source

Wendy: My poem 'the lavender hour' is one of several pieces I have written lately that harken back to – or spring from – childhood reminiscences.  So much of living – in my case, living in a very big city – seems to be getting more and more tumultuous.  Whatever the reason (or combination of reasons), I do feel a growing harmonious connection to those things from my childhood that have an indelible and tender place in memory ... be they: sight, sound, fragrance, taste or feel.  Revisiting those things (when it is possible to do so) is pleasant, calming and peaceful.  Of course, it is often not possible to physically recreate that which speaks so compellingly to us.

As I mentioned in my short story 'in the stream of consciousness', lilacs were a big feature of spring in the town where I grew up and, thus, many fond memories, centered around lilacs, return to me, particularly at this time of year.  Alas, I have not seen, or smelled, lilacs, in decades.  Lavender, on the other hand, is far more commercially available ... at least the scent of lavender, which is known for its calming properties. I very much like lavender, as well – though it is not quite as redolent as lilac. But, like everything in life, we must work with what we have.  Thankfully we have stream-of-consciousness to get us where reality won't take us ~ smiles ~

Though I no longer meditate, I do find that simply resting in a tranquil setting, several times a day, is very restorative to the spirit. Often I play light classical music or soft nature sounds in the background.  Sometimes I light incense or scented oils. Sometimes I put a fan on low to stir the air, a bit. And then I simply relax and float away to whatever envisioning I drift upon.  I find these little idylls beneficial in several ways.  They promote creativity.  Indeed, many a poem has sprung from one of these rests (as was the case with 'the lavender hour').  They foster a sense of being able to take control, at least on some level – and that, by extension, I think, contributes to a pleasanter head space (as opposed to one's state of mind, zooming pell-mell through the hours).

While we do live in very distressing times, we can at least carve out a little peace for ourselves.  It's a good place to begin finding it.  One cannot help but think of all the wonderful possibilities for our planet, if more people paused occasionally, throughout their day, in peaceful reflection. 

Sherry: Yes. I am thinking of the million children in China meditating for peace recently. Hopefully some of those vibrations wafted across the sea to North America, in all its present angst. Your poem is lovely, Wendy. We needed it!

Well, my friends? We hope you take away some hope and some peace from the sharing of these poems. Do come back and see who we talk to next. Who knows? It might be you!

Poems of the Week: Furry Feline Friends We Have Known and Loved

This week, we are looking at the furry felines we have known and loved, since last week was devoted to dogs. We hope you find these poems by Toni Spencer of  Kanzen Sakura, Susan Chast of Susan’s Poetry and Rosemary Nissen-Wade, of Enheduanna’s  Daughter as much as we do. Get ready to meet some beautiful creatures, so lovingly remembered by the people they adored.

Pugsley under the crepe myrtle

Haibun: That which saves us

Twenty years ago, I was living in the Fan in a small two room apartment. It was a hard winter and snow was on the ground. I stepped out my door to fill the birdfeeders when I noticed a skeletal ginger cat gobbling up popcorn that had been thrown out for the birds. It looked at me. I called softly, Kitty? It made a step towards me. I ran in the house and quickly opened a can of tuna which I put out. I backed away and the cat began to eat as if starved. The cat was there the next day and I put out some leftover chicken. This time I walked towards the cat and it hunkered down. I rubbed its head and it stretched beneath my hand, grateful for the attention. I picked it up and it snuggled in my arms purring. I told the cat, not on my watch are you going to starve. It took it in the house and noticed it had on a rhinestone collar which had grown into its skin. You are somebody’s pet, I told him. I had determined the cat had been spayed. I put up notices around the neighborhood and three streets over, an old lady answered the ad and told me it had been her neighbor’s cat that had been tossed out when her neighbor died. I kept the cat. I renamed him Pugsley. He was quiet, well behaved and affectionate. My fiance’ was not happy but knew I was determined. When we married and moved into our home, Pugsley went with us.

A few years later, my PAP smear came back negative. I had cancer. I felt like I had been gut punched. I cried for several days and Pugsley never left my side. He walked around after me in the house and got in my lap when I sat down. A biopsy was done and the results were malignant. I started a round of chemo and finally surgery. When I went for the chemo, Pugsley rode with me and sat with me whenever it was possible. Often I was sick and exhausted. I did not complain or tell people what was going on with me.  But I told Pugsley and he reminded me that he loved me and listened.  He’d lick my face when I cried. I came home after the surgery during which I almost died due to reaction to the sedatives and painkillers. When I finally went home, my husband told me Pugsley had not eaten and meowed constantly. The first thing when I lay down, he jumped on the bed and lay by my side, purring softly. During the weeks of recovery he made me laugh and snuggled. I talked to him and he laughed at my lame jokes and loved me. My husband had the perfect baby sitter in Puglsey.

About five years ago, Pugsley stopped eating and didn’t want to be held. I took him to the vet who determined he had a huge tumor growing in his stomach. My heart broke. I talked to the doctor and then talked to Pugsley. He lay in my arms while the vet put him down. This cat who had been so loving and faithful, I could not save this last time. I had him cremated and when I inserted my mother’s ashes in her mother’s grave, I inserted Pugsley as well. He was the best boi in the world. I cry still at his loss. I take him flowers when I take flowers to my mother.

snow falls quietly –
a starving cat won my heart –
flowers bloom on his grave

source

Sherry: This poem went straight to my heart, Toni. Pugsley saved you indeed. I am so glad he was there during such a hard time. What a beautiful being!

Toni: That which we save truly does save us.  A few years ago I noticed, around the apartment complex at which I was living, a skinny orange and white cat scrounging for food. I saw him eating popcorn off the snow and I determined to bring him in. I had another cat at the time but they adjusted to each other. A couple of years after that I was diagnosed with cancer and my older cat died suddenly. Pugsley stayed by my side constantly as I mourned my Sam, while undergoing chemo and after my surgery. He showed me so much love. He truly did save me.

Sherry: He did. Beyond doubt. Thank you for this poem, Toni. It runs as deep as your love for him.

Let's meet Susan's Miracle kitty next.

Miracle at the table

Ancient Kitty I

My ancient kitty sits tall and still as a sphinx

gazing at me with her clear celadon eyes—

measuring me, memorizing me, saying to

me “Hey there.  I love you” with a spiritual

softness that is new. 

                            She has turned a corner

in her life—sleeping more than she’s awake, alert

to meal and playtimes out of habit rather than

need, looking for dark quiet places to curl up

and dream of pleasures.

                                                I show her my gratitude

for the latest of her gifts—feline fortitude—

by gazing back, combing her itchy places and

giving her more time and touch without lifting her—

Oh my darling cat!  You don’t complain at each new

disability—

                                                you simply go on and on

as is your job and mine: live life to the fullest!

I did not anticipate learning this from you,

my dear.  Have I given you enough love and food?

Have you felt my affection through your fur and my

skin, touching, being?

Miracle

Sherry: What a beauty she was! Her eyes are so clear, her gaze so wise.

Susan: A picture of my dear Miracle Kitty is in the side bar of my poetry blog.  She died in 2015 at the age of 21, but I keep her alive as a character in a novel I may never finish writing.  Except for blood relatives, my relationship with her was the longest I've ever had.

Sherry: Pup was my longest, other than nuclear family relationships. These loving creatures are the source of perhaps the only unconditional love we receive on this earth. This must be why it is so hard to lose them. Thank you, Susan. Miracle was a beautiful being.

I have been moved by Rosemary's poems written to the beloveds who have passed during these years we have been sharing poetry: her dear husband, Andrew, and her beloved cats Levi and Freya. In the following poems she remembers them, singly and together.

Levi

They Leave Themselves Behind

Walking down the hall, I see
through one door, Andrew
at his desk by the window
(where the second bed is now)
pantherish Levi snuggled at his feet;
or glimpse Freya through glass
reclining outside in sunshine –
cats and man, all gone,
always remaining.

  

Summer Evening

The heat cools to comfortably mild.

I look out the front door

and see, on the top step,

my dear man taking the air

in his chair on the landing.

Our pantherish old black cat, Levi,

sprawls near him on the mat.

Tortoiseshell Freya is curled up neatly 

close by on the second step.

And there's me. I am sitting  

on the top step, leaning back

against the rails: positioned to see,

talk to and touch all three....

             *********

It's five years ago and more. 

All of them are dead now.

Even on such a pleasant evening

I never sit, these days, on 

the front steps, enjoying the air.

              *********

Sherry: Oh, I feel this! Impossible to sit out there without them. Yet how lovely, that you get glimpses of your beloveds, from time to time. Sigh.

Rosemary: Levi and Freya came to be with Andrew and me when they were only seven months old.  We were renting a house on a horse stud at the time; plenty of room inside and out. A friend needed to leave a violent relationship in a hurry, phoned and asked if she could come NOW and of course we said yes. She arrived with her 7-year-old daughter, one puppy and the two young cats. Another friend offered the puppy a home, so he wasn't with us very long. We were happy to have the rest of the family, but as we were renting we couldn't make it indefinite. After seven weeks our guest found a flat for herself and her daughter but wasn't allowed pets. 

Meanwhile, these delightful kitties had been in our home for seven weeks and won our hearts.  I said to Andrew, 'I've been catless too long.'  He looked at them playing together and said, 'You couldn't possibly separate them. We'll have to have both.' Our landlords were fine with it, and so they became ours. By that time they were used to us and our home, so they weren't anxious when their previous humans left them with us. 

Levi had been more the mother's cat: the runt of the litter when she got him, on whom she'd had to spend a lot of time and care to make him healthy. Freya, consequently, had been more the little girl's cat, and ever afterwards young girls were Freya's favourite kind of people. When any visited us, she was enraptured, and made a huge fuss of them.

It wasn't long before we were referring to our new pets as 'the children'. We still did as they grew to be mature and then elderly. Andrew and I met and married late in life, when all our real children were adults. Our fur children became the family we had with each other – to the extent that Andrew sometimes absent-mindedly addressed Levi by the name of his first-born son.

People who rent are liable to move around. Landlords, sooner or later, for whatever reasons, tend to decide they want their homes back. Over the years we moved five times, and the cats with us, before finally settling in the home I'm in now. Some places suited them and us better than others, but cats are very adaptable – and they had each other, plus they had us. We were always lucky enough to have good friends who were able to come and look after them in their own home whenever we went away – as we did a few times, with all our children living interstate.

We loved both of them and they loved both of us, but Levi became a little more Andrew's cat and Freya a little more mine. Freya was my familiar, adding her energy at crucial times. If I was hosting a meditation group, she would claim a chair and join the circle. If I was doing a healing or a psychic reading for someone, she would place herself nearby for the duration. Levi was more the guardian, warning us when strangers were approaching, needing only a fierce glare and a bit of a yowl to keep any bully-boy cats in the neighbourhood from terrorising his sister. They both slept on our bed in later years, Levi at the foot where he could also guard the door, and Freya curled up between us, purring long and loud.

Freya was a soft, gentle girl – except, unfortunately, for being a mighty hunter. I was pleased when she eradicated mice from under our house, not so glad about her other prey. I never let my cats out at night,  discouraged birds from our yard as best I could, and even saved a few from the jaws of death, but sometimes she caught them. She learned to clamp on to them with an iron grip of her teeth so my rescue efforts didn't work. It didn't matter how I scolded her, she never reformed. Bells on her collar didn't seem to do much good. She would bring her catch inside through the cat door and into the kitchen, I would try to take it from her and she'd clamp on hard, I'd yell at her to take it outside and open the front door, and she'd dash down the steps to demolish it elsewhere.

Eventually she taught Levi how to hunt too. He would make himself sick eating nasty things like spiders, which I'd see as he sicked them up. One time he regurgitated the remains of a small-eyed snake – venomous! – but the vet reassured me it couldn't have poisoned him from the inside; his digestive juices would have taken care of that.

Like me, and unlike most domestic pets, they adored thunderstorms. Instead of cowering and running for cover, they would sit with me just inside the open front door, thrilling to the flashes of lightning and cracks of thunder. In hot weather, even though they were allowed inside the house whenever they pleased, they loved to curl up in their own personal leafy spots under the hedge, almost invisible. In winter they preferred the spare bed in the northernmost room, to get the winter sun.

Neither of them was a lap-cat, but they did love snuggles. Freya was usually the spokesperson if either or both of them needed anything. In the way of felines, from lions down, he was lordly while she was the doer. No cat likes going to the vet, but Freya was well-behaved there. Levi, on the other hand, changed from being a great big pussy-cat (sic) whom I could do anything with to a fierce hissing devil, all fangs and claws – not to me but to the vets and nurses. They managed him somehow, but I think they dreaded his visits. I always used to think of him as my panther-cat; on those occasions he lived up to the name in more than looks. The rest of the time, he loved people.

Andrew died in September 2012 at the age of 83. The cats were old too by then. They missed him badly. Levi in particular grieved visibly for many months. Freya still slept with me, but it was a long time before she began purring again. Gradually we adapted to our new lifestyle with just the three of us. It was a great comfort to me to have them in those first years of widowhood, and gave me a reason to go on functioning. Then Freya developed breast cancer. It took a while; she went into remission for nearly a year, then downhill fast. She died two years, almost to the day, after Andrew. She was 16.

Levi stayed another 11 months after that, during which time we two survivors became even closer. On both sides, our relationship became intense and possessive. He would groom me, nibbling gently at my fingers as if to clean them. I would gently butt his forehead with mine, knowing that is cat language for 'I claim you'. He slept on the pillow beside my head on what had been Andrew's side of the bed. Without Freya to speak for him, he finally became very vocal.Then he suddenly started dying before my eyes, losing weight fast and in obvious discomfort. The kidney disease which we had kept at bay with medication for years finally claimed him. An adventurous lad in his younger days, who survived various injuries, he must have used up all of his other nine lives by then. I didn't think I would ever get another cat.

As it happens, I have never actually gone out and sought to get a cat. They all come to me as gifts from the Universe (via some human agency) and so it was with Selene, who came to live with me six months after Levi died – already mature, not a fur child so much as a Significant Other. She is both familiar and guardian. I love her dearly, but she is not a replacement. She is loved in her own right, while I still love and mourn her predecessors, those beautiful beings who were part of my life so long.

Sherry: I love how exactly the right cats have come to you, Rosemary. Lucky cats, to find such a loving home! I have enjoyed watching Selene settling in and learning to trust.

Selene

Thank you, my friends, for sharing your wonderful fur companions with us. It has been so moving, reading of the journeys you have made together. I think of the phrase "what we save, saves us"; I think this is exemplified especially in our rescuing of and giving loving homes to these beautiful beings.

Do come back and see who we talk to next. Who knows? It might be you!