Shadow Ball: New and Selected Poems

Cat Possessed by Poet Keats

97 Cat Possessed by Poet Keats Cockney John could have sneaked in while Mr. Meepers lay unconscious with an abscess At the vet’s. Or did the surgeon-poet Squeak in later, through the draining tube Stuck in the poor cat’s head? It’s certain That—stretched in my lap, my hands conducting The concerto of his purr—he said, No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist Wolf’s bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine. Within a week, he’d rattled off “Endymion,“ “The Eve of Saint Agnes,“ “La Belle Dame sans Merci,“ plus all the odes. He liked to sit with Kate and me, watching Clouds dirigible across the sky, The sun’s last rays igniting them As mockingbirds extemporized. Kate recognized The most melodious pair: Felix and Fanny Mendelssohn. Toadily, Kate’s southwest Toad, turned out to be Georgia O’Keefe; Nigel the Hedgehog was Shakespeare; Tchaikovsky, Yeats, Bach, and Vermeer flocked To my back yard, chattering. Even The caravans of ants proved to be artists, Though minor ones, like me. First Among us all was Keats, making us laugh 98 With his “Mra-raa!“ and “Tee Wang Dillo Dee,“ The “amen to nonsense“ which he used If I got pretentious, fought with Kate Over trivialities, or didn’t pay Attention as he caught flies, chased pink Ribbons, wrestled his jingling mouse. It was Keats, I know, who called the others To my house, and convinced Kate to marry me— Kate, whose love offsets my lack of genius, And makes me capable of anything. ...