Ode to the Cat

I like this poem. It is a bit long & I was just going to post a little of it but you really have to read the whole thing. I've read this to my cats and they were not at all interested. Right now I'm housesitting for Stephen & Kiko so I thought I'd try it out on their cats. They weren't interested either. This has led me to some conclusions: 1) Cats don't like poetry. 2) Cats like poetry but they don't like Neruda. 3) Cats like poetry and Neruda but don't like listening to me read. 4) Cats (like many people) enjoy messing with my mind. I'm thinking that number four is most likely correct. Anyway I hope you all enjoy the poem. Try reading it to your cats - I suspect you'll get the same reaction I did. 

Ode to the Cat

The animals were imperfect,
long-tailed,
unfortunate in their heads.
Little by little they
put themselves together,
making themselves a landscape,
acquiring spots, grace, flight.
The cat,
only the cat
appeared complete and proud:
he was born completely finished,
walking alone and knowing what he wanted.

Man wants to be fish or fowl,
the snake would like to have wings
the dog is a disoriented lion,
the engineer would like to be a poet,
the fly studies to be a swift,
the poet tries to imitate the fly,
but the cat 
only wants to be a cat
and any cat is a cat
from his whiskers to his tail,
from his hopeful vision of a rat 
to the real thing,
from the night to his golden eyes.

There is no unity 
like him,
the moon and the flower
do not have such context:
he is just one thing
like the sun or the topaz,
and the elastic line of his contours
is firm and subtle like
the line of a ship's prow.
His yellow eyes
have just one 
groove
to coin the gold of night time.

Oh little
emperor without a sphere of influence
conqueror without a country,
smallest living-room tiger, nuptial
sultan of the sky,
of the erotic roof-tiles,
the wind of love
in the storm
you claim
when you pass
and place
four delicate feet
on the ground,
smelling,
distrusting
all that is terrestrial,
because everything
is too unclean
for the immaculate foot of the cat.

Oh independent wild beast
of the house
arrogant
vestige of the night,
lazy, gymnastic
and alien,
very deep cat,
secret policeman
of bedrooms,
insignia
of a 
disappeared velvet,
surely there is no
enigma
in your manner,
perhaps you are not a mystery,
everyone knows of you 
and you belong
to the least mysterious inhabitant,
perhaps everyone believes it,
everyone believes himself the owner,
proprietor,
uncle
of a cat,
companion,
colleague,
disciple
or friend
of his cat.

Not me.
I do not subscribe.
I do not know the cat.
I know it all, life and its archipelago,
the sea and the incalculable city,
botany,
the gyneceum and its frenzies,
the plus and the minus of mathematics,
the volcanic frauds of the world,
the unreal shell of the crocodile,
the unknown kindness of the fireman,
the blue atavism of the priest,
but I cannot decipher a cat.
My reason slips on his indifference,
his eyes have golden numbers.

Pablo Neruda

Robin, the lonely blog mistress