The Biggest Loser: Cat Edition

So, the last post that I mentioned having cats involved one of them dying. Well, I went to visit the other one today (he lives with my folks) and was pleased to discover that he lost 3.5 lbs. He used to be 19.5 lbs, so clearly he could afford to lose some. I finally found a way to get my pictures off of my phone, so I am going to try to run with technology here a bit and upload a picture of the new and improved Puck (though, even to my eye, he still looks fat...).

It's possible he could still afford to lose a few... Though, I did find out that Ragdoll cats, of which he is 1/4, tend to be larger than your garden variety house cat (and here was me thinking he had a mountain lion for a grandfather...). Okay, okay, I'll try to stop being a crazy cat lady for a while. On to poetry!

Well, thinking about cats and poetry of course brings to mind T.S. Eliot and The Naming of Cats. It also brings to mind the musical Cats!, but since I am not trying to frighten anyone away, I will leave off talking about that!

T.S. Eliot was a very fascinating individual. I believe I will have to post something else of his later to truly show what he was about, since The Naming of Cats is a much more trite subject matter than that with which he usually dealt. Although, for such an  influential and well-known poet, he really didn't publish that many works of poetry. He was born in the U.S., but later, he became a British citizen and renounced his U.S. citizenship saying, "My mind may be American, but my heart is British." He was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1948 for "his outstanding, pioneer contribution to present-day poetry." He also had 13 honorary doctorates from various universities including Oxford, Harvard, the Sorbonne, and Cambridge. It is interesting to note that when his poetry first began emerging into the printed world, it was criticized as not poetry at all. His style and use of language was so different from the works of the day that the critics did not consider his work poetry!


The Naming of Cats

The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter,
It isn't just one of your holiday games;
You may think at first I'm as mad as a hatter
When I tell you, a cat must have THREE DIFFERENT NAMES.
First of all, there's the name that the family use daily,
Such as Peter, Augustus, Alonzo or James,
Such as Victor or Jonathan, George or Bill Bailey--
All of them sensible everyday names.
There are fancier names if you think they sound sweeter,
Some for the gentlemen, some for the dames:
Such as Plato, Admetus, Electra, Demeter--
But all of them sensible everyday names.
But I tell you, a cat needs a name that's particular,
A name that's peculiar, and more dignified,
Else how can he keep up his tail perpendicular,
Or spread out his whiskers, or cherish his pride?
Of names of this kind, I can give you a quorum,
Such as Munkustrap, Quaxo, or Coricopat,
Such as Bombalurina, or else Jellylorum-
Names that never belong to more than one cat.
But above and beyond there's still one name left over,
And that is the name that you never will guess;
The name that no human research can discover--
But THE CAT HIMSELF KNOWS, and will never confess.
When you notice a cat in profound meditation,
The reason, I tell you, is always the same:
His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation
Of the thought, of the thought, of the thought of his name:
His ineffable effable
Effanineffable
Deep and inscrutable singular Name.

The wind may howl, but I am cozy and content

The wind is doing its best to pull this house down around my ears, but I'm not too worried. I got to sleep in today; I drank a delicious mug of tea; and I have a phone date tonight with a certain someone who makes me smile a lot. All is well in the world. I'm also being extraordinarily lazy, so I think I'm just going to post something of my own again.

I thought I'd do a little throwback to senior year Shakespeare class. We were all assigned the project of writing a Shakespearean sonnet. Well, I grumbled and moaned and procrastinated and complained and finally wrote something that I thought was semi-passable. I'm having difficulties with the third stanza (i.e. it's awful), but in the 5 years since I've written it, I still can't think of anything else. I think this pretty much sums up why I am not a published poet!

When I alone in winsome winter sit
My thoughts awry within my captured brain
Myself versus myself again is pit
And triumph over me I'll never gain

Against the cages of my head I fight
A butterfly who struggles to the death
When will I ever let my soul ignite
What sorrow lies there clinging to each breath

Oh would that life were of a different tune
Without the pain that causes me to fall
Without facing my ever ill fortune
But in my mind there stirs the slightest call

     A voice that whispers sweetly in my ear
     "You'll never be  alone while I am here"

 

♪It's a beautiful day in the neighbourhood...♫

I don't really know why Mr. Rogers is on my mind today. Maybe because we are finally getting to sweater weather (though, I went out today in a short-sleeved shirt), and sweaters inevitably make me think of Mr. Rogers. We didn't have television at my house growing up (that's not to say we didn't have a TV, we just didn't watch television. We watched movies, though.), so when I went to Camp Grandma, I would watch Mr. Rogers and Lamb Chops. My favorite part was always when Mr. Rogers would pick out a sweater. I loved looking at all the colors in his closet! *Realizes that this is the world's most boring story and slowly peters off*

Poetry! I am in quite the mood today, in case you hadn't noticed already. However, I'm not really sure whose poetry to feature today. I have this piece by Pasternak that I want to use, but I am waiting for snow. Anyway, I haven't really posted many poems by female poets other than Dickinson (I don't really count myself!), so I thought something along that line would be appropriate. I don't honestly know that many different poems and their authors, but I enjoy finding out about them. I have always loved the poem "How Do I Love Thee?", and, consequently, it was written by a woman Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning was a brave, resourceful, and strong woman. She was the oldest of twelve children and the daughter of a Jamaican plantation owner. However, her father decided to raise his children in England, so that is where they lived. She was born in Coxhoe Hall, Durham, England, in 1806. She suffered greatly with a lung condition that came on in her youth and plagued her the rest of her life. Also, at age 15, she incurred a spinal injury. Despite all of this, she flourished in her studies. She taught herself Hebrew, so she could read the Old Testament, and later turned to Greek studies. She abhorred slavery and, naturally, had difficulties with her father's slave-run plantation and the fact that he sent her younger siblings off to Jamaica to help run things. In 1844, she came out with a collection of work simply titled Poems. This brought her to the attention of another poet Robert Browning. He wrote her a letter, which in turn became a series of correspondences numbering 574 in 20 months. Her father, who did not want any of his children to marry, bitterly opposed the romance. So, Elizabeth and Robert eloped and moved to Florence, Italy, in 1846. Her father never spoke to her again. Her later work focused greatly on political and social themes. She died in Florence on June 29, 1861.

How Do I Love Thee?

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with a passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, --- I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! --- and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

♪Hey soul sister, ain't that mister mister on the radio, stereo...♫

I love that song, but I have to admit that I have no idea what it means! Hmmm... well, let's string some random words together and make a really cheery, chipper song. Okay! I fell for it anyway ☺

I found this really cool aspect of blogger that I have been using rather incessantly. It's a tool that let's me see where the people are from who are looking at my blog. Mainly, I've got US followers, but I have also had several people pop by from Germany and other places (like Slovenia, the UK, Denmark, Canada, Japan, etc.). So I thought I would do a little shout-out and try to feature more poetry from other countries. I like to think that I have been fairly good at diversifying my selections, but I am the first to admit that I have a LOT to learn. Anyway, while doing a search for famous German poets and poetry, I came across a piece that I was actually already familiar with and quite enjoyed. It is Der Erlkönig (or, in English, The Erl-King) by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe. The first time I came across it was in one of my college music classes because it was set to music by Franz Shubert. It really is the most lovely piece!

I will attempt to brief in my mini-bio of von Goethe. An interesting fact I found was that von Goethe did not much appreciate Franz Schubert's achievements. I guess I am insulting the poet's sensibilities by forever linking the poet to that composer! Von Goethe's main work, which he spent most of his lifetime writing, was the two-part piece Faust. This piece apparently was what influenced many works ranging from The Picture of Dorian Grey (Oscar Wilde), The Devil to Pay (Dorothy L. Sayers), to Don Juan/Don Giovanni (the best known operatic version of this being by Lorenzo Ponte and Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart). Von Goethe himself seems to have been highly eclectic in his interests. He appeared to be involved in everything from law to alchemy to philosophy and plant life. Clearly, I need to spend more time researching since I know so very little. In an effort to maintain brevity in the lengths of my posts, I will stop flaunting my ignorance on von Goethe and simply publish the poem of his that first caught my interest: The Erl-King. P.S. I hope this translation is accurate, but not speaking any German, I have to rely on the power of search engines. That's a scary thought!

The Erl-King

WHO rides there so late through the night dark and drear?
The father it is, with his infant so dear;
He holdeth the boy tightly clasp'd in his arm,
He holdeth him safely, he keepeth him warm.

"My son, wherefore seek'st thou thy face thus to hide?"
"Look, father, the Erl-King is close by our side!
Dost see not the Erl-King, with crown and with train?"
"My son, 'tis the mist rising over the plain."

"Oh, come, thou dear infant! oh come thou with me!
Full many a game I will play there with thee;
On my strand, lovely flowers their blossoms unfold,
My mother shall grace thee with garments of gold."

"My father, my father, and dost thou not hear
The words that the Erl-King now breathes in mine ear?"
"Be calm, dearest child, 'tis thy fancy deceives;
'Tis the sad wind that sighs through the withering leaves."

"Wilt go, then, dear infant, wilt go with me there?
My daughters shall tend thee with sisterly care
My daughters by night their glad festival keep,
They'll dance thee, and rock thee, and sing thee to sleep."

"My father, my father, and dost thou not see,
How the Erl-King his daughters has brought here for me?"
"My darling, my darling, I see it aright,
'Tis the aged grey willows deceiving thy sight."

"I love thee, I'm charm'd by thy beauty, dear boy!
And if thou'rt unwilling, then force I'll employ."
"My father, my father, he seizes me fast,
Full sorely the Erl-King has hurt me at last."

The father now gallops, with terror half wild,
He grasps in his arms the poor shuddering child;
He reaches his courtyard with toil and with dread,--
The child in his arms finds he motionless, dead.

Absolutely no song lyrics today

Well, what started out as a peaceful, cheerful day today turned rather awful after work. I called my Papa, and he informs me that one of my cats had bovine (pretty sure he meant feline, but he does work a lot with cows) leukemia and had to be put down yesterday.  So, I decided to do what I always do when I am upset: write. I try not to bog down my few faithful followers with personal drama, but I figure you can always skip this if you don't care or want to know about details of my life.

We got our two cats when I was in high school. Pretty much immediately following, my dog died. I hate losing pets! I am still traumatized over the death of that dog. I will probably always feel that way, and now I have another death to deal with. You would think that being a farm girl I would be more accustomed to death. I think I am going soft in my old age. Well, I will admit to crying a bit when a couple of our calves died, but it is not that easy getting attached to cattle, so, all in all, I survived. I hurt when I think of Puck trying to go on without Rocky. They had only been apart three days in their entire lives.

Well, to continue on this perfectly morbid chain, I found a poem about losing someone. Originally, it was made for losing a human companion, but the site I found it on used it to describe pets. (It's amazing what you can find on Google.) The author is unknown, but hopefully it can help you if you are grieving someone or some animal.

I Only Wanted You

They say memories are golden

well maybe that is true.

I never wanted memories,

I only wanted you.


A million times I needed you,

a million times I cried.

If love alone could have saved you

you never would have died.


In life I loved you dearly,

In death I love you still.

In my heart you hold a place

no one could ever fill.


If tears could build a stairway

and heartache make a lane,

I'd walk the path to heaven

and bring you back again.


Our family chain is broken,

and nothing seems the same.

But as God calls us one by one,

                                                             the chain will link again.

♪One day more! Another day, another destiny♫

Well, I've been lazy again, gentle reader. I haven't researched any poet or poem again, so you are stuck with more of my ramblings. Every now and again I try a little free verse. I'm really not as comfortable with it, since, to me, it seems so unstructured. I like things in my life to be orderly, but, so often, they aren't.

I'm worried a lot about my grandfather. He has a bad heart and has had several surgeries, heart attacks, and hospitalizations. Now he says he does not want another surgery that could extend his life because he is ready to go. Well, I am not ready for him to go, but I realize that God takes people according to His timing and not mine.

I haven't been able to write any poetry lately, but I would like to share a poem I wrote about my aunt. I didn't really stop to think about her death much when she went, but some time after, I wrote this while thinking about her. It isn't great--it isn't even good, but it helps me to cope to think I will never fully lose her.

In the recesses of my mind
     I hear you
Softly and sweetly echoing there
"I am here! I am here!" over and over
But when I look, you are nowhere near

I have lost you now foerever
     I miss you
And I know I always will
You are there! You are there! I can find you
Indelibly etched in my memory

♪It's a little bit funny... this weather outside!♫

I do enjoy music and making lyrics say exactly what I am thinking! However, I am a trifle miffed at this glorious summer like weather because I have a wonderful winter poem that I would like to publish. However, even I can see the inappropriateness of writing about snow when we are all enjoying having  a little more summer. Well, maybe not all... I have never found hot weather to be my cup of tea and would much prefer if the temperature would just hang out around 65. I will just have to grin and bear it, I guess. ☺

So instead of a poem on snow and winter, I will publish a perfectly delightful Emily Dickinson poem on Indian summers. I think we should all be counting our blessings today as we are given a delightful respite before the cold, short days of winter truly come. That reminds me of another song, ♪"When I'm worried and I can't sleep, I count my blessings instead of sheep... and I fall asleep counting my blessings!"♫

What can I say about Emily Dickinson? There is so much to be said, but I don't have the lines to capture her essence. She was the original eccentric dressing mostly in white and, after 1860, became withdrawn from the social scene rarely leaving her home. Most of her friendships were kept up via letter. Unfortunately for us, she left instructions to her sister Lavinia to burn most of her letters upon her death. So much has been lost! But it is in keeping with her private nature. I will cease to say any more about her for fear of hindering instead of helping in understanding of who she was. So without further ado, "Indian Summer" by Emily Dickinson.

INDIAN SUMMER.
These are the days when birds come back,
A very few, a bird or two,
To take a backward look.

These are the days when skies put on
The old, old sophistries of June, --
A blue and gold mistake.

Oh, fraud that cannot cheat the bee,
Almost thy plausibility
Induces my belief,

Till ranks of seeds their witness bear,
And softly through the altered air
Hurries a timid leaf!

Oh, sacrament of summer days,
Oh, last communion in the haze,
Permit a child to join,

Thy sacred emblems to partake,
Thy consecrated bread to break,
Taste thine immortal wine!

♪Just like me they long to be close to ME♫

Well, it's been a few days, and I'm sure you're missing me as much as I am. Actually, the reason for the title of my post is not my narcissism (I actually don't think I have that!), but rather a compilation of some of today's (and yesterday's) hits turned into the Narcissistic Playlist of the Teens. A list turned out by M and I on a loooong road trip. Some of our other favorites on the list include:

I love me; you love me; we are one big family
I’m so beautiful to me; can’t you see, I’m everything I hoped for, I’m everything I need
I’m beautiful, I’m beautiful, it’s true
I wanna be where I am; I wanna see; wanna see me dancing -
I’m so vain, I probably think this song is about me -
Have I told me lately that I love me?
I get misty just holding my hand
Will I still love me when I’m sixty-four?
Come what may, I will love me until my dying day
Just the way I look tonight
Night and day, I am the one
No, no they can’t take me away from me
I’ll be my bridge o’er troubled waters
Eight days a week, I love me
I get a kick out of me
I love everything about me, yes I do
I have confidence in me! 

I suppose I should get down to something serious now. I always find myself more hilarious when I wake up earlier. Not that I am, mind you; I just feel that way! Also, in light of the fact that I took up a lot of space posting song references that you may not even pick up on, I thought a haiku would be appropriate for today's poem of choice.

Matsuo Basho (forgive the lack of appropriate accent marks; I only know simple accent codes on the computer.) was a highly renowned haiku writer of the 17th century. Probably his most remember haiku was
An ancient pond/ a frog jumps in/ the splash of water
That is just one of many different interpretations of the original. I even found a spin-off that a gangster had pinned on the lapel of his victim before drowning him. 

However, probably my favorite of Basho's haiku s that I have found so far goes
Even a horse/ arrests my eyes--on this/  snowy morrow
which he wrote during one of his four major travels. It was the turning point of his poetry from more introspective to more observant of the world around him.

My not-so-secret secret obsession

Ever since I was a little girl, I have known that the really cool people in life are all... Minnesota Twins fans. My Aunt-a Dede, my grandma, everybody who mattered most (with the exception of my immediate family and pretty  much all my friends...) were Twins fans. I had this dream that I was going to be the first woman player on the Twins team. I would head out to the backyard with my baseball bat and ball and knock it around some. All the while imagining Aunt-a Dede watching the game and being so shocked when the announcer called out my name. Well, I kind of let that dream die after Dede did, and I realized near-sighted, tiny women with no experience in the game aren't exactly in demand in an MLB player's capacity. *sigh* I still root, root, root for my home team even though I'm not in Minnesota anymore. Well, in honor of that obsession, I was going to post a baseball poem. It seems appropriate this time of year heading into the post season. Then I discovered, I really don't like any of the poems that are out there about baseball. Maybe someday I will write my own. I probably wouldn't like it anyway. ☺ So because I have no plan to fall back on, I will simply post something else that I wrote. Sorry for the let down, gentle reader. Better luck next time!

I wish I were a stitch in the quilt of your life
With colors both brilliant and blue
I would wile all my days dreaming of night
Where I'd wrap my arms around you

I'd be wet with your tears, but bright with your smiles
All through the winter and fall
Then you'd pack me away and the saddest of things
is that you wouldn't miss me at all

♪I am a rock. I am an island♫ or not

I can never think of that song by Simon and Garfunkle without also thinking of John Donne. It always gets me to thinking, "Well, ma'am, which are you? Solitary and isolated or part of a whole?" I think that  all mankind is interconnected. What affects one of us has a ripple effect toward others. However, that does not mean we are not individuals. As Boris Pasternak says in Dr. Zhivago, "There are no nations; there are only individuals." I wish we as a culture could treat each other in such a way more: sensitive to the needs of the individual yet working together as a whole. Well, I may be a bit of a dreamer, it's true, but I can't help thinking of a world where we are rich in the servitude of others over ourselves and that we work together to accomplish goals instead of trying to function entirely on our own.(Note: Please don't take anything political out of what I say. I detest talking about politics. I have always said talking politics is the quickest way to turn a friend into an acquaintance and an acquaintance into an enemy.)

John Donne was a very eclectic poet. He wrote anything from satire to sonnets to religious poems. He wrote some very sensual poetry that I choose not to read being a bit of a prude. He was born into a Catholic family in England during a time when that faith was illegal. Later in his life, he became an Anglican clergy member. It is not clear when exactly he converted, but he began to question his faith after his brother was tortured into revealing where he (the brother) had harbored a Catholic priest. His brother later died in prison. "No Man Is an Island" is probably his best known poem. It is the source for the title of Hemingway's famous work For Whom the Bell Tolls and also Thomas Merton's No Man Is an Island (which I have never read, yet the author is very interesting). It is as follows:

No man is an island, entire of itself
every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main
if a clod be washed away by the sea, 
Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, 
as well as if a manor of thy friends or of thine own were
any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind
and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls
it tolls for thee.