The cats are twitterpated: lords and ladies
of misrule, they squeal like St Martin’s pigs
in their carnal carnival. Birds’ nests burgeon
in the hedges and, on the early apricot,
a choir of ruby buds swells, ready to burst
into scented song.
More “notes for a poem” than a finished poem, I think. And they were notes taken several years ago.
Continue reading “mardi garden”
Maybe I should have realised it was some kind of warning…
Continue reading “red sky in the morning”
A friend has told me that, before he started discussing poetry with me – by which he probably means before he started listening to me rant about it – he thought poetry was mostly about “kittens”. By which he definitely means hearts-and-flowers and Hallmark-style fluffy kittens.
There is far too much bad cat poetry out there. I don’t mean Roger McGough’s Bad, Bad Cats, which contains gems such as The Cats’ Protection League; I mean the self-indulgent, fluffy stuff that gets me ranting about poetry.
Continue reading “nine lives”
It seems awfully late in the season, but we still have lots of insects about. As soon as the sun comes out, the ivy is busy with honey bees and wasps, and I found this green bug-eyed monster on the verandah earlier on today:
The cats don’t often come inside the house, but I was sitting reading beside the log fire last night and thought I’d see if they wanted to join me. The one in the photo is the tamest of the lot and, on the rare occasion he gets the chance, he’s usually very happy to settle into an armchair and make himself at home. I’d forgotten that we’d rearranged things in the kitchen, though.
Almost the first thing he saw when he came in was the tiger statue. He then spent over twenty minutes stalking, reversing and approaching with caution from different angles, before deciding that he’d really rather go back into the cold and dark of the garden than spend time in the same place as that fearsome creature.
don't confuse the narrator 