McCartney - Poetry from scratch: a kittens book of verse

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Copyright 2016 by Jennifer McCartney

All rights reserved

For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, The Countryman Press, 500 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10110

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Book title courtesy of Richard W. Parker
Book design by Nick Caruso Design

The Countryman Press
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A division of W. W. Norton & Company, Inc.
500 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10110
www.wwnorton.com

978-1-58157-428-9 (hc.)

978-1-58157-429-6 (e-book)

TO OLIVIA MEOW

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In central Milan, there is a lovely cat caf. A space where a writer can sit and think while drinking a cappuccino out of a mug shaped like a cat. These serene writerly haunts sustain serious writers like myself. (Someone who studies literature and art and is supremely cultured.) It was on this last occasion I happened upon a small door marked Biblioteca Gatto I hadnt noticed on previous visits. Being the naturally curious writer that I am, I turned the small brass knob and peered inside what indeed appeared at first glance to be a small cat library. Each volume was a slim one, and being in Italian, it wasnt quickly obvious what the volumes contained, although my excitement mounted at the possibilities. Each title was bound handsomely in leather, with gold writing on the spine and cover.

After a conversation with the owner, a kind Milanese woman named Falsa Nome, whose family had run the cat caf for generations, it was revealed to me that this astonishing library contained what might be the first of its kind in the worlda repository of literature and poetry written by the cats of the caf over the last hundred or so years. She and her ancestors had dutifully transcribed the cats writings, and published them privately with a small printer in the same district as the caf. It made sense to me. Italy, home to some of the worlds greatest writers and artists, would naturally be home to some very intelligent and literary inclined felines. Not knowing whether the books were of any interest to anyone but themselves, the owners of the cat caf had kept the books for their own enjoyment and gradually ceased to realize the great literary importance of such a library.

I, of course, was immediately intrigued and, after many more conversations and phone calls, was able to secure the rights to translate the books into English for the first time and publish the poems abroad. Here in your hands is the first volume of that effort. A collection of the best (and only) cat poetry in existence, finally in print here for the first time. We hope you enjoy their efforts.

Classic poems are ones that weve enjoyed over the years (or studied once in high school), but, for some reason or another, are mostly lacking in cats. Here are some of your favorite poems, now with 100 percent more cats.

The Rodent Not Taken

Two rodents diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not pursue both
And being one feline, long I crouched
And watched one scurry as far as I could
To where it veered into the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was plump and wanted wear;
Though as for that mouse-grey hair,
Had rendered them really about the same,

And both that morning equally played
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back,
to snack.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two rodents diverged in a wood, and I
I took the one less fit and spry,
And that has made all the difference.

Dinner is the thing with feathers

Dinner is the thing with feathers
That perches on the windowsill
And sings the tune without the words
And never stopsat all

Until

And sweetestin the tummy
And sore must be Mittens
Who couldnt catch the little Bird
That kept me full

Ive heard it in the birdfeeder
And on the birdbath Sea
Yetnever tastedin its Entirety,
It left no crumbon me.

A man who carries a cat by the tail learns something he can learn in no other way.

Mark Twain

Human, This Is Just To Say

I have eaten
the herbs
that were on
the windowsill

and which
you were probably
saving
for dinner

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so fresh

Human, This Is Just To Say

I have eaten
the Meow Mix
that was in
the silver bowl

and which
you were probably
thinking
would be my dinner

I will not apologize
it was delightful
so crunchy
and so dry

The Red Laser Pointer

so much depends
upon

a red laser
pointer

whooshing across
the carpet

I will catch it
this time

Fuzzymandias

I met a traveler from the yard next door
Who said: a vast and heavy leg of stone
stands in the garden. Topped with a bowl of water
half sunk, a flurry of sparrows bathe, whose chirps
and clueless yammerings tell of joy, and fearlessness.
They display well those passions for a summer bath
They yet survived, our claws not stamped on those lifeless things,
Our paws that mocked them and their hearts that fed;
And on the pedestal these words appear:
Concrete birdbath: Made in China:
Splash in me, ye mighty, and rejoice!
Nothing beside remains, now. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare-boned