Some Poems I've recently encountered

I seldom sit down and read a  book of poetry straight through over a period of days.  I usually pick one up and read a few poems and then put it down.  The next time I'm moved to read poetry, I may go back to that volume or I may pick up another one instead.   Why and how I got into this habit, I don't know, but I did somehow and so I do now.  These are some poems from two volumes that I've looked into most recently: Art and Nature: An Illustrated Anthology of Nature Poetry and A Little Treasury of Haiku.



The Best

What's the best thing in the world?
June-rose, by May-dew impearl'd;
Sweet south-wind, that means no rain;
Truth, not cruel to a friend;
Pleasure, not in haste to end;
Beauty, not self-deck'd and curl'd
Till its pride is over-plain;
Light, that never makes you wink;
Memory, the gives no pain;
Love, when, so, you're loved avian;
What's the best thing in the world?
--Something out of it, I think.

                  -- Elizabeth Barrett Browning --
                       from Art and Nature

What's the best?  She answers her question but then lists a weakness:  truths that do not hurt friends or pleasures that do not end quickly or memories that do not hurt.  Sadly she concludes by thinking that whatever is the best isn't something found in this world.  All the best things have pain attached to them, even as roses have thorns.. 


-  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -
 . 

 Casida of the Rose


       The rose
was not searching for the sunrise:
almost eternal on its branch,
it was searching for something else.

      The rose
was not searching for darkness or science:
borderland of flesh and dream,
it was searching for something else.

      The rose
was not searching for the rose.
Motionless in the sky
it was searching for something else.
          -- Federico Garcia Lorca --
                 from Art and Nature

Its brevity adds to its mystery.  What is the rose searching for?   Something spiritual, perhaps? 
What is the rose?  Something that is almost immortal, a borderland, and motionless in the sky?
-  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -

The Act            

There were the roses, in the rain.
Don't cut them, I pleaded.
         They won't last, she said.
But they're so beautiful
       where they are.
Agh, we were all beautiful once, she
       said,
and cut them and gave them to me
       in my hand.
                -- William Carlos Williams --
                     from Art and Nature.  

Two worlds colliding here?
Those who want to leave things the way they are for that is best.
Those who insist that beauty is fleeting, so we should take what we want before it's too late.




Here are several haiku that play with variations on that theme:

      Don't touch my plumtree!
Said my friend and saying so .  .  .
     Broke the branch for me
                       -- Taigi --


        My good father raged
When I snapped the peony .  .  .
           Precious memory!
                -- Tairo --


          I raised my knife to it:
Then walked empty-handed on  .  .  .
           Proud rose of Sharon
             -- Sampu --


Sadness at twilight .  .  .
Villain!  I have let my hand
Cut that peony
             -- Buson --


White chrysanthemum .  .  .
  Before that perfects flower
          Scissors hesitate
                 -- Buson --

Cut it and carry its beauty with you, for only a short time though.
But, it will die soon anyway.
Leave it so someone else can also enjoy its beauty.

Poets in Japan and the US, the East and the West:  perhaps the twain can meet, occasionally.

All haiku from A Little Treasury of Haiku,  Avenel Books
translations by Peter Beilenson

Some Poetical Cats

A short time ago, I came across a small book. It was Henry Beard's Poetry For Cats. No, it's not a book with poems about cats. The title is somewhat misleading. It is, says Henry Beard, a collection of poems by cats. Even a quick glance through the book will show that the themes of the poems are those one might well suspect would be of most interest to cats: mice, rats, dogs, birds, vets .

Moreover, these are poems written by cats who have had some connection with well-known human poets. This small volume should be of interest to those scholars who love teasing out influences among writers: A influenced B who influenced C who influenced D who had no influence on anybody at anytime. A careful perusal of the poems by humans and those by cats who lived with the human poets could possibly, I think, show some similarities between them. As to the direction of the influence, whether the human poet influenced the feline poet or vice-versa, I shall leave it to the experts to figure out.


Here is a well-known poem by the human poet, Elizabeth Barrett Browning:

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 every day'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 the 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.

Her cat had a slightly different version:

To A Vase

How do I break thee! Let me count the ways.
I break thee if thou art at any height
My paw can reach, when, smarting from some slight,
I sulk, or have one of my crazy days.
I break thee with an accidental graze
Or twitch of tail, if I should take a fright.
I break thee out of pure and simple spite
The way I broke the jar of mayonnaise.
I break thee if a bug upon thee sits.
I break thee if I'm in a playful mood,
And then I wrestle with the shiny bits.
I break thee if I do not like my food.
And if someone thy shards together fits,
I break thee once again when thou are glued.



Or one by William Carlos Williams

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens



William's cat wrote the following:

so much depends
upon

a yellow gold
fish

washed down with bowl
water

inside the white
kitten





And one last example, one of my favorites, Robert Frost's


Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.



And Frost's poetical cat penned the following:

Sitting by the Fire on a Snowy Evening

Whose chair this is by now I know.
He's somewhere in the forest though;
He will not see me sitting here
A place I'm not supposed to go.

He really is a little queer
To leave his fire's cozy cheer
And ride out by the frozen lake
The coldest evening of the year.

To love the snow it takes a flake:
The chill that makes your footpads ache,
The drifts too high to lurk or creep,
The icicles that drip and break.

His chair is comfy, soft and deep.
But I have got an urge to leap.
And mice to catch before I sleep.
And mice to catch before I sleep.




Others in the book are "Grendel' s Dog" by an anonymous cat (trans. from Old English by the Editor's Cat)


"Brave Beocat,_____ brood-kit of Ecgthmeow,

Hearth-pet of Hrothgar_____ in whose high halls

He mauled without mercy_____ many fat mice,"




Besides the ones just quoted are cat friends of Chaucer, Donne, Blake, Milton, and of course, Shakespeare, along with many others.

If you wish to see variants of some well-known poems, perhaps some of your favorites, from a feline POV, I can recommend this book.

Henry Beard
Poetry for Cats
Villard Books, a division of Random House