Cats -- A S J Tessimond

Guest poem submitted twice in quick succession, by Gerry Roweand Leoni Burke :

(Poem #1010) Cats Cats no less liquid than their shadows Offer no angles to the wind. They slip, diminished, neat through loopholes Less than themselves; will not be pinned To rules or routes for journeys; counter Attack with non-resistance; twist Enticing through the curving fingers And leave an angered empty fist. They wait obsequious as darkness Quick to retire, quick to return; Admit no aim or ethics; flatter With reservations; will not learn To answer to their names; are seldom Truly owned till shot or skinned. Cats no less liquid than their shadows Offer no angles to the wind. -- A S J Tessimond

[Leoni's comments]

I learnt this poem when I was a child for my elocution class.  You should
really read it aloud as the words slither and twist just like a cat in
motion. It's one of the best descriptive poems about cats that I've ever
read.

[Gerry's comments]

The couplet with which this poem opens and closes contains a pair of images
beautifully contrived to convey the morally, emotionally and physically
elusive feline nature. The lines that fall between the opening and closing
are slightly more down-to-earth but have two great virtues: firstly they
scan and rhyme very pleasingly; secondly they consist of a list of terse
descriptive statements of such evident or near-as-dammit truth that you read
each one off with growing admiration for the poet's powers of observation
and expression.

This is my favourite cat poem because, apart from being beautifully written,
it is unsentimental and relatively free of the anthropomorphic tendency,
just full of shrewd respect for an animal that appears incapable of losing
its dignity and right to self determination in any relationship with a human
even, perhaps especially, with a person claiming to be its 'owner'.

I'm afraid I know nothing of A.S.J. Tessimond. I came across another of his
or her cat poems that wasn't as good but for me this one stands alone above
all others on the theme.

Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night (Delia LIV) -- Samuel Daniel

Guest poem submitted by David Nothnagle:
This is my favourite poem by my favourite poet, who is sadly
under-represented on your site:

(Poem #1009) Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night (Delia LIV) Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night, Brother to death, in silent darkness born: Relieve my languish, and restore the light, With dark forgetting of my cares' return And let the day be time enough to mourn, The shipwrack of my ill-adventur'd youth: Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn, Without the torment of the night's untruth. Cease Dreams, th'imagery of our day desires, To model forth the passions of the morrow: Never let the rising Sun approve you liars, To add more grief to aggravate my sorrow. Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain; And never wake, to feel the day's disdain. -- Samuel Daniel

I have always really loved short poems--poems of which it is possible to
experience every word, every line, with more intensity than is really
possible (for me anyway) in a longer poem.  Of course, this means that every
word, every line, is really important, and makes a short poem very difficult
to write well.  However, a good short poem will always have a certain
special intensity.  This sonnet by Samuel Daniel approaches perfection of
form.

It is, of course, a sonnet, of the English variety; made up of three
quatrains and a couplet, in iambic pentameter.  A good sonnet will build up
feeling in the quatrains, each delving a little deeper, and reachng a climax
and resolution, a summing-up, or sometimes an ironic "turn," in the final
couplet.  In this particular sonnet, the "turn" reveals that the true,
subconscious desire of the poet is for the oblivion of death.  Sonnet form
is a particularly good medium for delving ever deeper into feelings, and it
is no fluke that it remained a form of choice, in its various varieties,
throughout England and Western Europe, for hundreds of years.

In the last couple of centuries, however, this kind of strictness of meter
and rhyme has slowly fallen out of favour, as the Romantic hatred of
classical forms, and wild lust for "originality" has become ever more
extreme.  Mark Twain famously ridiculed poems in which the only image evoked
is a dried-up little man sitting in a dusty chamber, counting off on his
fingers as he writes.  However, there is a certain special kind of
originality, which is only possible within constraints and conventions.  For
me, and I suspect for many, it is easier to have a more focused grasp of a
poem, and appreciation its unique virtues, if it is written in a form we
understand, rather than something which is altogether alien to us.

As for this poem itself, I have nothing to add to it, and don't know what to
say.  Anyone who has ever felt depressed for any reason, will understand it.
Most of the sonnets in Delia are about the Lady's cruelty to her unrequited
lover; and this sonnet can be read with that in mind, but I think it
achieves a kind of universality which transcends this context.  Never has
depression--the sort of depression that causes you to lie in bed late into
the day, calling in sick to work, dreading the inevitable time when you must
leave your bedroom and face whatever it is that has caused you such
anguish--never has depression been more perfectly captured in poetic form.

I should add that there is a great musical setting of this poem in the
twentieth-century composer Dominick Argento's song-cycle, "Six Elizabethan
Songs."

Dave Nothnagle.

Cat -- J R R Tolkien

Guest poem submitted by Suresh Ramasubramanian:

(Poem #1008) Cat The fat cat on the mat may seem to dream of nice mice that suffice for him, or cream; but he free, maybe, walks in thought unbowed, proud, where loud roared and fought his kin, lean and slim, or deep in den in the East feasted on beasts and tender men. The giant lion with iron claw in paw, and huge ruthless tooth in gory jaw; the pard dark-starred, fleet upon feet, that oft soft from aloft leaps upon his meat where woods loom in gloom -- far now they be, fierce and free, and tamed is he; but fat cat on the mat kept as a pet he does not forget. -- J R R Tolkien

A beautiful poem that's a bit more than it seems.  The Red Book has several
verses, some of which figure in the Lord of the Rings, or in the attached
stories / preludes / interludes and such.  Others are just scrawled in the
margins, for possible inclusion. JRR had scribbled "SG" in the margin when
he wrote the poem, suggesting that he meant to attribute it to Sam Gamgee.
The poem is also fairly traditional hobbit poetry (which deals a lot with
birds and beasts): rhythmic, with frequent alliteration and assonance,
making for an excellent nursery-rhyme sort of singalong song.

Still, it makes you think. Contrast a cute cat sleeping in front of a fire
with a wild, roaring and dangerous lion - and then have Tolkien solemnly
inform you in the last line that the cat hasn't forgotten her wild
ancestry...

Suresh.

[thomas adds]

Just a word on prosody: "Cat" may seem on first reading to be merely a
'hobbit nursery-rhyme', but the technical mastery it displays is nothing
short of staggering. The even-numbered lines rhyme with each other and also
internally; the odd-numbered ones have internal _triple_ rhymes. And all
this is done in lines of two and three feet respectively, leaving barely any
room for error; every single word (other than the placeholders -
prepositions conjunctions and auxiliaries) seems to be part of the rhyme
scheme. Incredible.

[Minstrels Links]

John Ronald Reuel Tolkien:
Poem #4, The Road Goes Ever On
Poem #46, Lament for Boromir
Poem #93, Eärendil was a mariner
Poem #142, He chanted a song of wizardry
Poem #220, Lament for Eorl the Young
Poem #257, Three Rings for the Elven Kings
Poem #318, Tall ships and tall kings
Poem #370, Troll sat alone on his seat of stone
Poem #440, Bregalad's Lament
Poem #643, The Man in the Moon Came Down Too Soon
Poem #736, The world was young, the mountains green

Cats, practical and otherwise:
Poem #165, The Owl and the Pussy-Cat  -- Edward Lear
Poem #167, Pangur Ban  -- Anon. (Irish, 8th century)
Poem #258, Macavity: The Mystery Cat -- T. S. Eliot
Poem #273, How a Cat Was Annoyed and a Poet Was Booted  -- Guy Wetmore
Carryl
Poem #282, Fog  -- Carl Sandburg
Poem #401, To a Cat  -- Jorge Luis Borges
Poem #572, Mort aux Chats -- Peter Porter
Poem #574, Growltiger's Last Stand -- T. S. Eliot
Poem #575, To Mrs Reynolds' Cat -- John Keats
Poem #577, The Cat and the Moon -- William Butler Yeats
Poem #659, Poem -- William Carlos Williams
Poem #660, On a Night of Snow -- Elizabeth Coatsworth
Poem #661, Jubilate Agno -- Christopher Smart
Poem #662, Cat -- Jibanananda Das
Poem #663, A Child's Nightmare -- Robert Graves
Poem #674, Aunt Jennifer's Tigers -- Adrienne Rich
Poem #727, Milk for the Cat -- Harold Monro
Poem #955, Gus: The Theatre Cat -- T. S. Eliot

Abide with me -- Henry F Lyte

Guest poem submitted by Ira Cooper:

(Poem #1007) Abide with me Abide with me; fast falls the eventide; The darkness deepens; Lord with me abide. When other helpers fail and comforts flee, Help of the helpless, O abide with me. Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day; Earth's joys grow dim; its glories pass away; Change and decay in all around I see; O Thou who changest not, abide with me. Not a brief glance I beg, a passing word; But as Thou dwell'st with Thy disciples, Lord, Familiar, condescending, patient, free. Come not to sojourn, but abide with me. Come not in terrors, as the King of kings, But kind and good, with healing in Thy wings, Tears for all woes, a heart for every plea- Come, Friend of sinners, and thus bide with me. Thou on my head in early youth didst smile; And, though rebellious and perverse meanwhile, Thou hast not left me, oft as I left Thee, On to the close, O Lord, abide with me. I need Thy presence every passing hour. What but Thy grace can foil the tempter's power? Who, like Thyself, my guide and stay can be? Through cloud and sunshine, Lord, abide with me. I fear no foe, with Thee at hand to bless; Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness. Where is death's sting? Where, grave, thy victory? I triumph still, if Thou abide with me. Hold Thou Thy cross before my closing eyes; Shine through the gloom and point me to the skies. Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's vain shadows flee; In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me. -- Henry F Lyte

1847.

Since adolescence, this poem always has been a comfort to me. Years later,
it is especially so in these traumatic times.

Ira.

[Background]

Lyte was inspired to write this hymn as he was dying of tu­ber­cu­lo­sis; he
fin­ished it the Sun­day he gave his fare­well ser­mon in the par­ish he
served so ma­ny years. The next day, he left for Italy to re­gain his
health. He didn't make it, though -- he died in Nice, France, three weeks
af­ter writ­ing these words. For more than a century, the bells of his
church at All Saints in in Lower Brix­ham, Devon­shire, have rung out "Abide
with Me" daily. The hymn was sung at the wed­ding of King George VI of
Britain, and at the wed­ding of his daugh­ter, the fu­ture Queen Elizabeth
II.

 -- http://www.cyberhymnal.org/htm/a/b/abidewme.htm

Dream Deferred -- Langston Hughes

Guest poem submitted by Garret M. Lee:

(Poem #1006) Dream Deferred What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun? Or fester like a sore-- And then run? Does it stink like rotten meat? Or crust and sugar over-- like a syrupy sweet? Maybe it just sags like a heavy load. Or does it explode? -- Langston Hughes

Not sure what exactly to say about this poem. It's great, sad, and it seems
to give me goose bumps every time I read it. It makes me ask "What is the
American Dream, exactly?" and has it changed since the 1950's when this poem
was written?

Some of you may notice that the play "Raisin in the Sun" got its title from
this poem and the two themes go hand in hand as well. I would suggest that
anyone who hasn't read or seen the play do so, it really is great.

Garret.

[Minstrels Links]

Langston Hughes:
Poem #410, The Negro Speaks of Rivers
Poem #990, Sea Calm
Poem #1006, Dream Deferred