Smudge

He was only a cat!... No, he was much more than that.
He was a friend, and a part of my life.
He was someone to talk to when things got too rough,
Or I'd fallen out with the wife.
-
We would stroll in the garden and look at the plants
I'd dig and he would look on.
I'll miss him a lot and things won't get done
Quite the same, now my friend has gone.
-
He was 14 years old his health was quite poor
He had been looked after by the best.
He had enjoyed a good life, stamped his paw-mark on the world
Now, it was time for him to rest. 
-

It was time to bring his life to its inevitable end
Before he suffered too much pain.
Time to say goodbye, with a tearful eye.
Good night pal! God bless!..... see you again.


Neil Anderson

Liz Miller

Armageddon

For man his war was over. But not the cats.
They ran through the killed fields,
The long grass dampening their fur with fallout.
They were the only ones immune from the slow death.

At first there were hundreds.
But as they ran over stale streams, through rotting orchards,
And braved the acid rain, others of their kind joined them.
And then there were millions.

All with one goal. All with one desire.
Their furry bodies moving as one as they travelled through the cold night.
Then they stopped, and stared into the far off glow.
The man made glow of Manchester.

As the dying city came to life.
As her dying occupants shuffled through the slain buildings.
The cats stirred and started the onslaught.

Walking at first, then trotting and finally running.
Like wolves attacking new lambs,
They were keen to kill as they swarmed over the unsuspecting city.

They ripped anything that moved to shreds.
Loving the warm stickiness on their tongues.
Enjoying the easy quarry,
Enjoying the humans' pitiful screams.

Doing what they were on earth to do.
By nightfall their deed was done.
And under a full moon, God’s disciples turned.
Turned towards London.
Armageddon spoken of so long ago in the Holy Bible had begun.

Roy Shepherd

The Hunger

Little mouse little mouse where have you been?
Down to the pantry - I see.

Little mouse little mouse what did you see?
Big fat humans I usually see.

Little mouse little mouse what did you find?
Bread crumbs and cheese - I see

Little mouse little mouse you are so brave,
for there are traps down there just waiting for you

Little mouse little mouse where are you now?
Hiding in your house - no doubt.

Little mouse little mouse will you come out
and share your good fortune with me.

Little mouse little mouse please forgive me,
for I'm just a hungry pussy cat,
that will eat you for my tea!

Roy Shepherd

The Cat

I wait and watch from my hideaway under the evergreen tree.
My fur damp with February,
my eyes never leaving the bird house.

They are unaware of my presence as they peck and chatter,
their heads bobbing ridiculously.

I become a coiled spring;
then I'm whistling through the cold air.

The happy chatter turns to warning squawks as my breakfast takes flight.

I crash to earth, nothing in my mouth or paws,
my face slides though the wet dead leaves.
My paws become hot with friction as I slide to a halt.

High above on a leafless tree my breakfast perches laughing and mocking me.

Roy Shepherd

The spirit of the cat - in verse

"He will kill mice, and he will be kind to babies when he is in the house, just as long as they do not pull his tail too hard. But when he has done that, and between times, and when the moon gets up and night comes, he is the Cat that walks by himself, and all places are alike to him. Then he goes out to the Wet Wild Woods or up the Wet Wild Trees or on the Wet Wild Roofs, waving his wild tail and walking by his wild lone."

From The Cat that Walked by Himself

by Rudyard Kipling

On a night of snow

Cat, if you go outdoors you must walk in the snow
You will come home with little white shoes on your feet
Little white slippers of snow that have heels of sleet
Stay by the fire my Cat. Lie still, do not go.
See how the flames are leaping and hissing low
I will bring you a saucer of milk like a marguerite
So white and so smooth, so sperical and so sweet
Stay with me, Cat. Outdoors the wild winds blow.

Outdoors the wild winds blow, mistress, and dark is the night
Strange voices cry in the trees intoning strange love;
And more than cats move, lit by our eyes' green light,
On silent feet where the meadow grasses hang hoar,
Mistress, there are portents abroad of magic and might,
And things that are yet to be done. Open the door.

Elizabeth Coatsworth

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

Night-life

The useful and domestic cat
adorning the familial mat,
now at the fall of purple dusk
suffers a change, he sheds the husk
of civilisation, and returns
to his primeval self. he burns
with atavistic nomadry
and yearns to be abroad and free,
nor longer loves the household lars,
but only seeks the cruel stars . . .
Now he is in the pallid gleam
his fur unsleeks, his features seem
to assume a diabolical leer,
his eyes expand, he cocks an ear:
and all the urbanity of day
turns to an ardent lust for prey . . .
but when come dawn, with slaked desire
he sits again before the fire.

A.S.J. Tessimond
 

Out of a dream

The doggy god Anubis
And the pussy goddess of Bubastis
Came out to play
On the banks of the river Nile.
Said the pussy goddess
I shall throw a pebble in
And you must go and fetch it.
But the doggy god
Picked up the pebble
He threw it far away.
It flew through the air
Until it reached
The bank of the river Rhine
While the pussy goddess
Felt rather sad
And whiled away her time
Playing with a blue lotus
On the bank of the river Nile.

Sheila Bocks

Cat Poem

A soprano sings. The poem
limps on. the cat yawns. It feels
the air with the fine
wires on its nose. It yearns
to wear away the white
marble of milk it commands
morning and evening; while I
wander on my hands through the stars, burning
my fingers. The soprano sings.

A cold wind blows through the holes
in the poem. I shiver. The cat
moves a long curved dagger
and carefully pierces my skin.
distant red supernovas appear
amongst the negative spaces
of the poem; an island universe
dots an i, Henry's comet crosses
at. The cat sings, the soprano
yawns, I bleed. The poem limps
from the page, and drags
its weary way to the saucer
of milk, and drowns itself.

Henry Graham

(Illustration "Le chat a l'oreille coupee" by J Bourdillon)

Cat on the mat

The fat cat on the mat
may seem to dream
of nice mice that suffice
for him, or cream:
but he is 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 ruthless tooth
in gory jaw;
the pard dark-stained
fleet upon feet
that oft soft from aloft
leaps on his meat.
Where words loom in gloom
far now they be
fierce and free
and tamed is he;
but fat cat on the mat
kept as pet
he does not forget.

J.R.R. Tolkien

To old Possum

Macavity
Macavity
There's nobody like Macavity -
Mr Eliot said that.
He didn' t know my cat.
Mine is the most
Rumbustious rampagious
Law-breaking outrageous
Combustious comtumacious
Cat.
The most cacophanous caterwauling
Back-chatterous stone-walling
Preposterous out-bawling
Cat.
And her name is Sirikit, formally;
But we'll call her Pussy,
Or Octopussy
Or Cattypus
Or Ediepus, Or Sillykit, normally.
She's never to be found either
At the scene of what's been done.
But when we' ve seen
What's been done
We know
Who done it -
Oh yes -
That punctilious
Supercilious
Don't-touch-me-I' m-thinking
I'll-stare-you-out-unblinking
Elegant
Hellcat
That permanent termagant
Siamese Sirikit
That' s who
Did it.

Moira Rish

Cabal of cat and mouse

He has a way, the cat, who sits
on the short grass in lamplight.
Him you could appreciate and more -
how the musky night fits him,
like a glove; how he adapts down there,
below boughs, to his velvet arena.

His, for playing in. A shadow
plodding past his white paws
could be a swad of anything;
except that, as it bolts, he retrieves
and has tenderly couched it,
and must unroll alongside, loving

His paws dab and pat at it, his
austere head swivels at an angle
to the barrel neck. Prone, he eyes
its minutest move; his haunch relaxing
parades tolerance, for the pose entreats
double to play - it is energy.

involved if you like, in a tacit exchange
of selves, as the cat flares up again,
and has siezed what he siezes.
And acts proud, does a dance, for it is
his appetite puts all the mouse into a mouse;
the avid mouse, untameable,

bound by so being to concur
in his bones, with the procedure.
Even the end cannot cancel that.
The shift from play to kill, measured,
is not advertised. He has applied
a reserved gram of tooth power,

to raise this gibbering curt squeal
at last, and now glassily gazes down.
Plunged, barked as if punched,
and has axed his agitator. You heard
soon the headbones crunch; and you shrank,
the spine exploding like a tower in air.

Christopher Middleton

(Illustration "The king around here" by Ida Elisabeth Jorgensen)

Oh Grateful Colours, Bright Looks

The grass is green
The tulip is red
A ginger cat walks over
The pink almond petals on the flower bed.
Enough has been said to show
It is life we are talking about. Oh
Grateful colours, bright looks! Well to go
On. fabricated things too - front doors and gate
Bricks, slates, paving stones - are coloured
And it has been raining and is sunny now
They shine. Only that puddle
Which, reflecting the height of the sky
Quite gives one a feeling of vertigo, shows
No colour, is a negative. Men!
Seize colours quick, heap them up while you can.
But perhaps it is a false tale that says
The landscape of the dead
Is colourless.

Stevie Smith

Conviction (III)

The shadow was so black,
I thought it was a cat,
But once in to it
I knew it

No more black
Than a shadow's back.

Illusion is a freak
of mind;
The cat's to seek.

Stevie Smith

Can it be?

Can it be, can it be
That beasts are of various bravery,
Some brave by nature, some not at all,
Some trying to be against a fall?

I saw a cat. Beside a lily tank,
Paved level with the grass, she stood, this cat,
Considering her leap.
Three times she backed for jumping, gathered tight
(So tight thought landed her already over)
And did not jump. And then,
After a pause, as scolding humanly
"Not nervy eh? We'll see."
She jumped and what a jump that was!
Quite twice as along
And high
As it need be,
Now why
Did this cat jump at all, so force herself?
There was a path around the tank,
She could have walked.

Can it be, can it be
That beasts are of various bravery,
Some simply brave, some not, some taking thought
(Most curiously) to cast themselves aloft.

Stevie Smith