3 thoughts on “Friday Catblogging: Missing Mr. Drake

  1. When will the shit show that is 2020 stop? I am so sorry. Perhaps you know Neruda’s Ode to the Cat. It made me feel a little better when the coyotes murdered my 20-year-old Raul.

    The animals were imperfect,
    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
    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,
    all that is terrestrial,
    because everything
    is too unclean
    for the immaculate foot of the cat.

    Oh independent wild beast
    of the house
    vestige of the night,
    lazy, gymnastic
    and alien,
    very deep cat,
    secret policeman
    of bedrooms,
    of a
    disappeared velvet,
    surely there is no
    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,
    of a cat,
    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,
    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.

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