Fate [Revision]

1.

‘No more cats!’ I vowed, when

Freya and Levi (numbers 6 and 7

brother and sister) finally, in turn

crossed the Rainbow Bridge, at 

a goodly age, only a year apart. 

‘It hurts too much,’ I said.

But my friend’s daughter, who 

bought Queenie off Gum Tree, 

had a sudden change of circumstance, 

couldn’t keep her. ‘Please!’ 

begged my friend. ‘She’s so lovely!’ 

(Her own landlord didn’t allow.)

‘Don’t let her go to the Pound!’ So I didn’t. 

I renamed her Selene (moon goddess)

rhyming with the name she knew.

She was elegant, mysterious, aloof

as the moon, or a goddess. And traumatised

by two so sudden changes of home.

It took months for us to get past detente.

But she went from wary to sleeping on me, 

purring. And I came to love her fiercely. 

She wasn’t young, and carried within her

seeds of an unknown illness. The vet said

to investigate further risked in itself killing her.

Three happy years, then a sudden decline.

I did what I had to, to save her further pain.

‘That’s really it!’ I said. ‘I can’t go past

that intense, unexpected love, that too-brief

fulfilment, that piercing grief. No more

cats, ever! This time I really mean it.’

2.

Only a few months later, friend-of-a-friend’s 

dearly-loved puss could not travel with them 

to their new home (long story). To be ‘put down,’

only because they couldn’t allow her to go 

to just anyone. I arranged a few visits to Poppi 

and her people, for us all to get acquainted. 

A dignified little personage, she liked me 

at once. When the time came, I didn’t fetch her; 

they brought her to me, with all her familiar stuff.

Her favourite person hugged her goodbye, imploring,

 ‘Take good care of her!’ – unshed tears

misting his eyes. ‘I promise!’ I said.

She settled in, explored the space. The third day

she went all over as if looking for something … 

someone? But then she turned wholeheartedly 

to me. Loved and pampered all her life, affection

and trust came easily to her. And she knew me,

knew that I came with her first family’s blessing.

She’s an old girl (like me) – ten when she moved in. 

Now, three and a bit years later, she’s my treasure, my 

constant joy, my greatest blessing, and yes, my dear love, 

the perfect cat for me in this present time – which seems

as if it will stretch a lot longer yet. Lightning strikes twice! 

Two major events: unforeseen, undesired. Miraculous!

[Revised 3 July '24. Earlier draft posted 8 April.]

Not 'Summertime' but Autumn's 'September Song' [Revision]

  

I was going to say something about how the parental promises

in ‘Summertime’ are lies; because living is never easy, not

for anyone. But then I remember the children in Gaza,

and I decide I can’t really complain. I thought to point out

that my days dwindle down, but then I recall I’ve had 84 years.

And I remember the children in Gaza, and in other places too,

who don’t get to live many days at all, and for whom that living

is brutal, shocking, agonised, insane. And I think that whatever

I’ve endured (and there have been some things) in the face

of all that, I have suffered nothing. Grief, pain, but no horrors.

There are truths which defeat even poetry. Which even song

can’t adequately reflect. Picasso’s Guernica might come

closer, but I’m a painter in words, and they fail me. Meanwhile

threats of both flooding and fire repeat daily around me.

I can’t even think it’s peaceful and safe here in my own country.

I lived, I perceive, through a sometime Summertime,

when the fish were sometimes jumping – right into the boat

from the lines we trailed. Where we grew no cotton, but 

the sun was often high, benignly. I see that my autumn days 

are dwindling peacefully and comfortably, precious enough.

The poem has nowhere else to go, yet I don’t want to end

on even a weak, qualified high note. To count my blessings

feels detached, isolated, selfish, wilfully blind. With no end

in sight (except the end of the planet), I let it peter out 

in a mess of confusion, incomplete, unresolved….

[Revised 3 July -24. Earlier draft posted 17 April.]

Deep Summer

It is necessary that we in the Southern Hemisphere hold summer’s memories closely to our hearts, or we risk their loss –

those holiday summers,

lazing on the grass

or the sand –

as winter thickens around us,

we crave to keep

that leisurely haze.

A liwuli for FridayWritings #133 at Poets and Storytellers United, inspired by the quote: 'Deep summer is when laziness finds respectability.' ~ Sam Keen. (I'm thinking I'll need to rewrite it at some point and take out the reference to Southern Hemisphere, which was just a response to getting a summer prompt in my winter – but what I say really applies whenever the seasons happen in one's own locality.)

Longing [Revision]

I’m haunted now by longing, as I age –

the remembered longings of youthful loves –

like an old book, where I turn to a page

back near the beginning, to see if it moves

my spirit now as then. Such treasure troves

of beauty and sorrow I hold within! 

Yet why, after so long, do they return

to haunt me? I’d resolved to relegate

all to burial chambers. But they burn,

those old flames, flaring ... as the hour grows late. 

                                                    

[Revised 25 June 20204. Earlier draft posted 19 April 2024.]

A dizain.

On Being Asked to Tell a Tall Tale and Make it Funny [Revision]

But I don’t feel like laughing, and I’ve no tales to tell 

tall enough to top the reality of our world right now. 

                          

Once upon a time a species on this planet grew too fast, 

too large. Dinosaurs? No, us: breeding and breeding.

You’ve seen it with other animals. Overcrowding 

leads to aggression, fights to the death. 

Sometimes earth creates plague, or famine, to interrupt

burgeoning numbers. Sometimes that’s not enough.

This species became so big it blotted out the sun. Or 

perhaps it was the opposite? Anyway, climate changed.

 

A sudden plague wiped out millions … 

still didn’t quite do the job. New wars began – 

though most of us knew this was not the way home 

to a safe place, living in balance with nature.

What price revolution, if it uses

the same old weapons? Yet –

what price change, if gentle means slow?

We fight for breath. The trap closes.

[Revised 24 June – 23 July 2024. Earlier draft posted 12 April 2024.]

Torment [Revision]

(Wuthering Heights remembered)

Little rich girl

forbidden passion

wild-hearted orphan boy

the savage moors.

Respectable marriage

dull but wealthy

life inside walls. 

Lover 

married for revenge

hating his wife.

Surly. Tyrannical.

How did Cathy die? 

How do I not

remember?

The story begins and ends 

with her ghost,

crying through the window 

to be let in.

Unheard 

by the man who lost her –

for all his fierce desire.

Alone, sobbing, 

begging her wandering spirit,

please come in 

come back to him.

(I understand 

that longing 

for one dead.)

[Revised 18-19 June 2024. Earlier draft posted 2 April 2024.]