Poem: Cat Possessed By Poet Keats

CAT POSSESSED BY POET KEATS

Cockney John could have sneaked in while Mr.
Meepers lay unconscious with an abcess
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 suns'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

With hes "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.

"Cat Possessed By Poet Keats" reprinted courtesy of Red Hen Press.
"Cat Possessed By Poet Keats" originally appeared in Amplified Dog.