Why I Like Living [Revision]

… although I think my cat does it better. Still,

as I can’t be her, I can at least enjoy her –

that sleek, soft fur, and the long low purr

she gives me when I stroke her after she’s 

just awoken, or at any time really. And then, 

I like the scent of roses – to stoop to them, 

low; breathe them in, deep and slow. 

What blessings are our noses! Without those 

versatile organs, we’d all be losers. 

But as one door closes, another opens: 

the seasonal flowers must die down 

now, in the slowing of autumn, before 

being reborn. Yet I can’t be forlorn 

when every new cloud thrills me with beauty,

or when the moon shines full, or I grab a mango

and taste my fill. 

My friend sends a video of her afternoon,

in her new home, peacefully gazing at rain

through her picture window; in the background

Tony Martin and k.d. lang singing – bringing

her own pleasure over the streets and houses to me, 

where I’m alone and now no longer alone. Though

the tone of the day might seem subdued, yet I feel

I could rise and dance a fandango, springing

from my chair to whirl in the air, flinging wide 

my hands; or segue to a tango, imagining arms

that I have known, fond arms, holding me, bold 

and tender, shouldering a kind share of my cares. And 

if all I can do now is call on memory, still how I like

to dream and remember.... Yes, I like my living,

I like my loving: all that I’ve done, and all that as long

as Fate weaves, I will.

[Earlier version posted 13 April '24.]

Sharing this with Poets United for Friday Writings #147, my own prompt: What soothes you? I didn't write this for the prompt, but it contains various things which soothe me and make me feel better whatever the circumstances: being out in nature, my beloved cat, music that I like, good friends, lovely memories ...

What Do I Hear?

 

He

The one I lost when young

sends songs into my head

I think he does

I want to think he does:

songs of love.

I weep softly.

Is he, as I near my own end,

calling to me?

*

Long Travels

Not miserable or broken

not destroyed by grief

listening 

to inner song 

I journey far

the long paths of adventure

even without you

(you, always with me). 

*

What?

What do you hear

cat of my heart

staring out at the dark

what do you see

beyond the glass?

Night after night 

it fascinates 

closed to me

without cat ears

cat eyes.

*

For words / phrases in first stanza of Long Travels, I acknowledge an account of one section of Maerad's journey in Alison Croggon's Pellinor series of fantasy novels – which, by the way, I highly recommend. Those books were also part of the inspiration for the whole of that piece.

Written for Friday Writings #129 What Do You Hear?

Learning From My Cat

We want the tactile. 

When I take my cat in my arms 

and cuddle her, she purrs. 

I purr too, on the inside,

squeeze her a little closer

and rock, as if to music. 

We both shut our eyes

and breathe in deep

as I sway and murmur.

I tell her she is the best

cat in the whole wide world.

She’s deaf, but she gets it.

In her mind she is the best

and only cat in the world 

and I am her person.

She lures me to come and lie down 

on the bed. Then she finds 

a place to snuggle. 

Today she settles on my thighs

which are nice and plump.

I’m happy to be her cushion.

She is happy I’ll now spend time  

here with her. This is how love

is made real. Touch. Togetherness.

Sharing with Friday Writings #18: Moments of Joy
at Poets and Storytellers United.

Cat Gogyoshi

HUMIDITY CAT

All day she sleeps –

collapsed, a limp rag.

She wakes only to eat.

In cool night she prowls

glaring out windows.

18/1/22

COVID CAT

In times of distance 

and staying home,

our warm cuddles

meet my need for touch –

and, her purrs tell me, hers.

27/1/22

CUDDLE CAT

After my long day out

she runs to greet me,

leaping for joy

straight into my arms,

nestling for hugs.

30/1/22

A Pause in the Long Goodbyes

  A Pause in the Long Goodbyes

My night cat prowls the house

deliberately, yowling low, 

glaring at things I can’t see – 

but I think I know.

I was told she hates other cats 

and will want to attack. 

This Samhain night,

I feel the others here.

Tonight is a pause

in the long goodbyes

made to each in turn –

my guardians, my dear familiars.

How strange it must be

for her, confronting 

their unknown, shadowy ghosts

in a place they know and claim.

 

Them, they‘d surely understand

she is the one who loves me now, 

whose presence keeps me happy, 

healthy, safe. My new protector.

But not from them,

I try to tell her. To them 

I indicate: this one has the right

to be here with me, now.

She calms as midnight 

comes and passes. 

Stroking her, I bless 

and remember them.

Poetic Asides prompt #30 for April 2021: A goodbye poem.

Written and photographed as it was happening.

Which Was the Love of Your Life?

 Which Was the Love of Your Life?

Must there be one answer? Only one?

Right now I’m learning to love

a neat brown girl with bold eyes,

who makes loud, insistent demands

yet gives affection wholeheartedly,

climbing into my arms to rest her head 

over my heart, purring. Who constantly

shows me she trusts me. And that she has

her own way of doing things, thanks.

This, perhaps, will be one of those 

easy, happy loves. I’ve had them before.

Indeed, I’d much rather do without 

suffering. (Though I think that’s

eventually, always the price of love –

and I’m willing to pay, when I must.)

My last love was very intense.

God, but she was beautiful! Black

with sleek white whiskers, elegant.

And smart! When other communications

failed, she spoke me mind-to-mind.

(Only my first was equally clever, but

in different ways. Well of course,

they’re all different, that’s my point.)

But she died, my last, while still

not really old. Already sick when she 

came into my life, though neither of us

knew it then. We got off to a bad start.

Mutual trust was gradual, slowly earned.

By the time she left me, we were utterly 

all in all to each other, no doubts,

nothing held back. Yes, it broke my heart.

So was she the dearest? One could well

think that. Only, there was my first.

Long gone, ever remembered.

We had many years together, knew

each other deeply. She was daughter,

sister, mother to me. She was friend,

ally, equal, closer than a lover. No-one

had a brighter brain, a wiser courage.

She chose my husband by signifying 

her approval, helped me care for my kids.

She was stalwart. She was devotion.

She even knew how to joke.

There were others. Several. Some

I recall with tears for early loss.

Others with swellings of admiration,

pleasure, undying affection (though 

they all died, late or early) and 

always gratitude. Who am I, 

that such love has entered my life

so often, so well? If I don’t list all,

it’s only because this is a poem,

not a full-length autobiography.

The small girl calls me now

with her low-pitched, insistent yell, 

summoning me for morning cuddles.

‘In MY room today,’ she tells me.

(All cats who’ve lived in this house

claim the spare bedroom as theirs.)

‘Of course, darling,’ I say.

I lean back on big cushions. She presses 

herself to my chest and purrs. I fondle 

her throat, stroke behind her ears. After 

a time, she washes her paws: leisurely,

deliberately, still sprawled across me.

I bury my head in her neck. ‘This,’

I declare, ‘is the present love of my life.’

Prompt 24 for April 2021 at Poetic Asides: A question poem.

Sharing on 3 October 2021 in Writers' Pantry #90 at Poets and Storytellers United.