In our arts we find our bliss…

I have a cat

I have a cat who comes to me

but not into my arms

she comes instead for blessings

and to bring me magic charms

by way of spoken greetings

and of softly-called farewells

by means of gentle emphasis

her love for me compels

requitement immaterial

plus all her wonted wares

the milk and meat and kibble

the warm and cushioned chairs

the window seats and hammocks

plus all I can conceive

the toys that deck the carpet

and the doors that help her leave

to go beyond my knowledge

into worlds she cannot share

I have a cat that comes to me

who lives her days elsewhere

yet dreams upon the sheepskin rug

below my restless head

and often will call down for me

if I am late for bed

I have a cat who comes to me

whose courage is so strong

yet sometimes longs for company

when everything goes wrong

I have a cat who comes to me

it doesn’t matter

when

or where

how frequently

or even for how long

I have a cat who comes to me

and there I end my song

Postscritch: The railway kitten…

When writing about my first (that wasn’t my parents’) cat, Jay, I forgot — goodness knows how: as my jaw still bounces off my slippers thinking about it! — his most astonishing exploit.

Home at the time of his adoption was just around a mile’s walk from Darwen station, which had regular and frequent direct trains to Manchester: a place I used to visit a great deal, mainly for the culture — especially the Hallé orchestra at the Free Trade Hall — although shopping at the Arndale Centre (in the days before the devastating 1996 IRA bomb) and for pre-loved clothes (the city has a wonderful student-based and therefore youth-friendly economic sector); exploring the architectural Wow! that is the Central Library; playing backgammon in hidden pubs off Deansgate of an evening; snaffling cask ales and late-night vegetarian takeaways — particularly after experiencing The Smiths launch Meat is Murder… — were all great motivations for being there: and it is for these (and many other wonderful contributing enticements) that Manchester became the first city (of — and still to this day — a very select handful) that I fell in love with (and eventually worked in).

A Tale of Two Kitties…

A rather camera-shy Petronius the Arbiter

The first cat is the steepest…

I was outside Darwen rather than Damascus: however, the conversion took place just as abruptly, with only a few seconds warning. One moment I was being asked…

– How would you feel about looking after Jay for a while?

[All of my friend’s cats – and horses – were named after birds: Blackbird – ‘Blackie’ for short – a rook-coloured bruiser wearing white gloves (probably concealing knuckle-dusters); and big bullying brother to Kestrel – a beautiful, mournful tabby, with the same gleaming toes; and currently Jay – who, not being a blood relative, was beaten up by both of them almost daily, and therefore frequently went missing for days, and always came home injured. Why Kestrel didn’t also fly away – without the “coming home” bit, of course… – I shall never know for certain. Timidity is one possibility; but likely also some warped form of sibling loyalty.]

Farewell, my Little Man…

And so succeeded.
For Felix, with immense gratitude and love…
– we shall not look upon your like again.

Like Jesus, he came down to Earth
for just a few years, and just a few days:
his message unique – delivered in mirth –
that all you need is fluff. Oh! Let us praise

the wonder that was sent to us here:
a cat full of sympathy, caring, and fun;
a creature packed so full of love there was no fear:
just a healthy appetite for life and joy, for air and sun.

He shared his heart, though, far too intensely:
his lives thus counting down as each year passed.
He hid the hurt, of course, that burned immensely,
deep inside; the joy he brought unto the last

so very much more than anyone could ever bring again.
Like Jesus, he came down to us to take away our pain.

Lockdown diary #4: My words fly up, my thoughts remain below…

Where the bee sucks, there suck I:
In a cowslip’s bell I lie;
There I couch when owls do cry.
On the bat’s back I do fly
After summer merrily.
Merrily, merrily shall I live now
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.
– Shakespeare: The Tempest (V.i.88-94)

As with so much horticultural minutiae, it was Felix – still not yet accustomed to having the run of the garden (or – as he must see it – patrolling ‘his’ domain) – who first spotted the tiny creature, and then alerted me (his unrealized chaperon) to its hovering presence; swiftly (and coincidentally) followed by The Guardian’s consistently high-quality Country diary column. I say “tiny”… – but the “creature” in question has a big name in so many respects: “Bombylius major, the large or dark-edged bee‑fly”. Nevertheless, it is small. Yet another of nature’s brilliant and beautiful works of precision engineering, and perfect, startling, purpose. [Bee-flies are sometimes called “humble-flies”. But never, sadly, “humble-bees”… – an eponym reserved for bumble-bees: who, if their buzz (or hum) is anything to go by, are actually quite assertive!]

Felix the flopsicle cat…

Felix the flopsicle cat, and
Felix the affable cat, are
one and the same, of course… – but
what should be said about that?

Felix the flopsicle cat loves…
rolling around whilst the brush licks his fur;
leaving the ground to fight strings in the air;
chewing on catnip, and having a run… –
for no other reason that running is fun!
He’ll chomp at the pigeons, and poor blackbirds, too,
but takes pity on blue tits too small for the stew
he dreams of when sleepy, when conjuring mice
that he’d make disappear – gnash, gnash, gulp – in a trice!
(All this is pretend, I really should say:
for poor Felix is kept tight indoors every day:
not out of malice or anything spiteful
but to keep him happy and healthy and brightful!)

Felix the flopsicle cat, and
Felix the affable cat, are
one and the same, of course… – but
what should be said about that?

Felix the affable cat loves…
cuddling close, and keeping me warm;
keeping his guard up, to save me from harm;
following me calmly, a paw from my heel,
knowing, sooner (not later), I’ll suddenly kneel
and pay him back gently with scratches and rubs,
crisp bikkits, moist foods, and all sorts of nice grubs… –
rewarded, in turn, with soft paws on my hand,
a lick of my nose, and a purr that’s so grand!
(All this is quite true, but much understated,
for good Felix has charms that are far from inflated:
so special, and loving, the most caring I’ve known… –
in touch with my feelings as much as his own!)

Felix the flopsicle cat, and
Felix the affable cat, are
one and the same, of course… – and
there is nothing as perfect as that!
There is nothing as perfect,
so utterly perfect, as
Felix the flopsicle, furrable,
Felix the affable, tabbicle,
Felix the magical cat!

Let it die as it was born…

I didn’t even have time to focus my binoculars. The shock slammed them hard against my surprised spectacles: anomalous barriers carving the amazement unhesitatingly into my face. The squabbling, squeaking sparrows didn’t even have time to hide: lined up ‒ as they were – regularly, innocently, spaced along the fence-top as fairground targets are… (although these ragged rascals were – it turned out – surprisingly safe: protected by perspective and pathological fledgling hunger; paradoxically, those wiser, those hidden, those mute, were not). The air didn’t even have time to part – literally playing its supporting role to perfection: greasing the event, the skimming of its constituent atoms, of the life it fires. Of one life concluded.

Eat, prey, fluff…

It is an overwhelming and life-affirming privilege to share the existence of another sentient creature: one devoted to you, and dependent on you, to such a large extent that the alliance rapidly becomes symbiotic. Such a relationship has to be based on mutual trust, as well as love, though; and both parties have to be frank as to what to expect from each other; what they will need; and how much time and affection they are able and willing to give. That so much of this goes (and has to go) unsaid should be no impediment (in fact, to some, this may seem to strengthen the bond…) – even though many would preach the value of constant open communication in cementing any such connection.

For those who respect and love animals there can be no bigger thrill than one coming to you of its own free will, understanding what you are trying to communicate, and trusting you not to harm it.
– Claire Bessant: The Cat Whisperer

That I am writing about the association of human and feline may well prompt derision from some quarters; but the majority, I hope, will innately grasp the truth at the heart of this hypothesis. [As I type, Felix, the characterful dark tabby who prompted the above, is curled up tightly next to me, dreaming: as genial and graceful a proof of vulnerability, faith, and commitment, as I think you may find. He knows no hurt will come to him here; and his credence and company, in return, both comfort and calm me – despite the plethora of hairs wisping over my keyboard and screen…. He is therefore the ideal companion for someone as disabled as myself: especially as I am currently confined to home (even) more than what passes for usual, fighting (and perhaps finally starting to subdue) a variety of maladies….]

It’s National Poetry Day…!

For the Guardian of Minack (October 1987)

This afternoon I found

          that you had died

     And I was glad

          that I was all alone

For inevitable rivers

          of tears flow

     And waters leap

          where you have gone

And this is all I know

          save

That deaths and entrances are all we crave

And where will you go

          now that all your goings are done?

     A subtle lightening

          in the new child’s eyes

     Much more than such

          a suitable joy

     For this you gave

That deaths and entrances are all we crave

And through this joining

          although it may force crying

     I was so glad

          that I was all alone

And as the fragile life force

          leaps

     It’s old to new religions

          now

          that vow

That deaths and entrances are all we crave

A little herd of England’s timorous deer…

The National Trust’s Charlecote Park is one of my favourite places to wander around: especially West Park – home to the main breeding herd of fallow deer. There is a grandeur in the mature tree-lined avenue down to the west gate, on the Stratford Road; and, the last time I was there, a great deal of mystery, until the fog – that had covered everything in a damp monochrome shroud – eventually lifted.

The contrast between West Park, and the rest of the estate, is quite marked; and is exemplified by the two groups of deer that populate each. In the main grounds, the deer are less timorous, and even quite approachable when in the right mood (usually during or after feeding); whereas those to the west – where the ground is more natural and wild – retain more of their essential character: especially as the presence of fawns makes the mothering does protective, and the fathering bucks permanently on-guard. Should the presence of the occasional human get too much – and they are a much rarer sight than the deer, on this side of the park – the herd also has the deer sanctuary to retreat to.

In the more visited areas, to the east and north of the house, the deer – bucks of all ages: kept, I think, mostly for decoration; and to make flesh of the legend of Shakespeare’s supposed poaching (and supposed retribution in his portrayal of the fusspot, Justice Shallow) – are outnumbered by both visitors and the wonderful flock of splotchy Jacob sheep. The sheep behave as sheep always do: grouping stochastically together, mimicking and following each other’s actions, intent on munching on as much grass as they can. Whereas the deer have become more domesticated: the presence of those strange upright creatures who seem intent on photographing their every move not being quite so alarming.

If you sit on a fallen tree, for instance, close to the ground where food has been scattered by their keepers, even the younger ones will quite happily – although occasionally glancing at you with barely concealed forbearance – wander within feet of you: not at all bothered by the constant clicking of your shutter; their simple minds intent, like the companion sheep, on filling their gullets.

Approach them when they are sated, or basking in the sun, and you will soon know when you have overstepped their boundaries. The less brave will rise, stand and stare – getting to their hooves in reverse order of fearlessness. The last to do so, though – if he can be bothered; and with a disdainful eye aimed towards your camera – will always be Boris: a large leucistic buck, with a face that bears witness to many rutting duels and skirmishes.

Why “Boris”? Well, with his pure white coat, and obvious leadership status – combined with his slightly ‘interesting’ facial features – there was no real alternative! He also seems keen on communicating; and I have seen him lower his head, ever so slightly, and walk purposefully, but slowly, towards those too curious to appreciate his personal space. It’s a message that is always read loud and clear (I believe that he is actually pretty chilled – he’s just become accustomed to bossing others about…); and I have never seen him concede the smallest amount of ground, unless he, and his cabinet, are majorly outnumbered – and then they will saunter away, prompted more by a desire to be left alone, rather than any concern for their safety. (If you have Boris defending you, there is probably very little that bothers you!)

The thick fog appeared to have left me with the park to myself – although, as the sun emerged, a scattering of other visitors appeared. However, I was alone, initially, when I popped into the Orangery Restaurant for my usual brunchfast of warming soup (which is always served with a very large chunk of fresh bread), moist treacle flapjack (there is none better), and steaming Americano.

The previous time I was here, I had the company of one of Charlecote’s resident, and characterful, cats: sitting, nuzzling, on my knee: occasionally staring intensely at his image, reflected back, on my iPhone. “Is this me?” However, Jasper – who had been an almost permanent gatekeeper for the restaurant: often trying to sneak in for warmth, company, or food (when, really, he knew better…) – died, a few days later; and the Orangery is a sadder place for his absence.

It is such individuals that make Charlecote – the humans: volunteers and staff alike; as well as the wild- and not-so-wild-life – as much of an attraction as it is the landscape and architecture. And they are a large part of the reason I return again and again: watching how the seasons affect them; making each visit different – whether a quick stroll to and from the restaurant, or a longer walk around the parkland. And, if I leave, with venison in my bag, like young Will, then it is probably only in the form of sausages, acquired legally, from the local produce shop in the Pantry!

For Martyr Valentinus (or even Lupercalia…)

Missingness

I knew she wasn’t home

When the cat came to greet me

Cuddled up on the window’s ledge

And hungry for his love

He knows my returning tones

No-one had been there to keep him warm

And he pounces to the door

To welcome and to beg me

I knew her for some short time

Before I presented her

With a parcel of myself

Gilt-wrapped and silk-tied

Many hours had been used in preparation

Of that second skin

And with a lightness of touch

And tenderness of intuition

She undid my heart

And unveiled the reality of self

I know not what mysteries she uses

In her companionship of me

But I know the missingness of her

Is impossible to bear

I knew she wasn’t home

The curtains too were parted

And the milk lay idle on the step

Where the cat cries for love

So I lifted the bottles

Closed the door and gave him warmth

And switched the television on

For false comradeship

We knew each other longer

The intricacies perhaps now too easy

Our parcels so emptied

That we cannot further rip the paper

Of our selves

But still the missingness

Is perhaps the thing that excites us

With no missingness

Will those selves find stagnant love?

I knew she wasn’t home

The dishes still need washing

And the home still lacks the willingness

I knew she wasn’t home

because I’ve waited there for too long

And she didn’t come down

And the bed was cool

PS: I told the cat

I told the cat it was called loving

This warming stroking snuggling thing

He nuzzled my hand and padded my lap

And fell curling asleep