Selected by Don Share
National Poetry Month 2012
Letter from the Editors
Our thanks to Don Share for today's Poet's Pick!
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Don Selby & Diane Boller
Don Share's Poetry Month Pick, April 2, 2012
"To Mrs Reynolds's Cat"
by John Keats (1795–1821)
Cat! who hast passed thy grand climacteric,
How many mice and rats hast in thy days
Destroyed? How many tit-bits stolen? Gaze
With those bright languid segments green, and prick
Those velvet ears - but prithee do not stick
Thy latent talons in me, and up-raise
Thy gentle mew, and tell me all thy frays
Of fish and mice, and rats and tender chick.
Nay, look not down, nor lick thy dainty wrists -
For all thy wheezy asthma, and for all
Thy tail's tip is nicked off, and though the fists
Of many a maid have given thee many a maul,
Still is that fur as soft as when the lists
In youth thou enteredst on glass-bottled wall.
Don Share Comments:
When we think of John Keats, we naturally think of Odes, Grecian Urns, Nightingales, Autumn, and “negative capability.” We don’t think of cats. Yet one of my favorite poems is Keats’s “To Mrs Reynolds’s Cat,” and you need not be a cat lover to cherish it.
Most of us generally regard Keats with sorrow, and certainly his letters, along with many of his poems, leave us feeling lachrymose. Yet we should not forget how funny Keats could be, and “To Mrs Reynolds’s Cat” is a comic gem; it was not published until 1830, almost a decade after his death, so perhaps his solemn reputation was already, as it were, writ in stone. But most recent selections of Keats’s work do include the poem, so there’s hope that readers will come to appreciate another dimension of his character and work.
Who, you ask, was Mrs. Reynolds? She was the mother of the poet’s good friend J.H. Reynolds, an ode writer himself. The title grabs your attention, but a strong opening line is ominous of good, as Keats might have put it, in a poem. How not to love this opening gambit for a sonnet:
Cat! who hast past thy grand climacteric…
Alas! We no longer celebrate the “grand climacteric,” i.e., the reaching of one’s 63rd year, and it’s not a year Keats could commemorate in his own life, but poems, like cats, have many lives. The thing is, this is not simply a funny poem, or a good cat poem, though it’s both of those things. It is arguably a tiny harbinger of modernism, too. One also appreciates a strong last line or two in a poem, and this one ends:
Still is that fur as soft as when the lists
In youth thou enter’dst on glass-bottled wall.
William Carlos Williams’s poems are chock full of walls and bits of glass, and I can’t help but think of “Between Walls”:
the back wings
will grow lie
in which shine
pieces of a green
No cats there. But modern poetry is characterized just as poetry was in Keats’s time by catfights and talon-sinking scuffles. I can’t help but imagine that Keats’s fondness for Mrs. Reynolds’s cat contains some reflection upon his own frays with artists and writers. After all, when Reynolds and another friend, Benjamin Robert Haydon, quarreled, Keats instinctively wanted to smooth things over, to stroke their fur you might say, writing to Benjamin Bailey:
It is unfortunate—Men should bear with each other: there lives not the Man who may not be cut up, aye lashed to pieces on his weakest side. The best of men have but a portion of good in them—a kind of spiritual yeast in their frames, which creates the ferment of existence by which a Man is propelled to act, and strive, and buffet with Circumstance.
“To Mrs Reynolds’s Cat” is a fine, warm, and humane poem that soothes, and forgives us our scrapes, and imagines us growing old and reconciled together. It is lovely.
About Don Share:
Don Share is Senior Editor of Poetry. His new book of poems, Wishbone, is forthcoming from Black Sparrow Books, and a book on Basil Bunting's Persia will be published this summer by Flood Editions. He co-hosts (with Christian Wiman) a monthly poetry podcast, and blogs at Squandermania and Other Foibles. Previous books include Squandermania, Union, The Traumatophile, and Seneca in English.
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