There was something wrong with the animals: their tails were too long, and they had unfortunate heads. Then they started coming together, little by little fitting together to make a landscape, developing birthmarks, grace, flight. But the cat, only the cat turned out finished, and proud:
Follow up:
born in a state of total completion, it sticks to itself and knows exactly what it wants. Men would like to be fish or fowl, snakes would rather have wings, and dogs are would-be lions. Engineers want to be poets, flies emulate swallows, and poets try hard to act like flies. But the cat wants nothing more than to be a cat, and every cat is pure cat from its whiskers to its tail, from sixth sense to squirming rat, from nighttime to its golden eyes. Nothing hangs together quite like a cat: neither flowers nor the moon have such consistency. It's a thing by itself, like the sun or a topaz, and the elastic curve of its back, which is both subtle and confident, is like the curve of a sailing ship's prow. The cat's yellow eyes are the only slot for depositing the coins of night. O little emperor without a realm, conqueror without a homeland, diminutive parlor tiger, nuptial sultan of heavens roofed in erotic tiles: when you pass in rough weather and poise four nimble paws on the ground, sniffing, suspicious of all earthly things (because everything feels filthy to the cat's immaculate paw), you claim the touch of love in the air. O freelance household beast, arrogant vestige of night, lazy, agile and strange, O fathomless cat, secret police of human chambers and badge of burnished velvet! Surely there is nothing enigmatic in your manner, maybe you aren't a mystery after all. You're known to everyone, you belong to the least mysterious tenant. Everyone may believe it, believe they're master, owner, uncle or companion to a cat, some cat's colleague, disciple or friend. But not me. I'm not a believer. I don't know a thing about cats. I know everything else, including life and its archipelago, seas and unpredictable cities, plant life, the pistil and its scandals, the pluses and minuses of math. I know the earth's volcanic protrusions and the crocodile's unreal hide, the fireman's unseen kindness and the priest's blue atavism. But cats I can't figure out. My mind slides on their indifference. Their eyes hold ciphers of gold.
Ode to the Cat, Pablo Neruda
with the animals:
their tails were too long, and they had
unfortunate heads.
Then they started coming together,
little by little
fitting together to make a landscape,
developing birthmarks, grace, flight.
But the cat,
only the cat
turned out finished,
and proud:
Follow up:
born in a state of total completion,
it sticks to itself and knows exactly what it wants.
Men would like to be fish or fowl,
snakes would rather have wings,
and dogs are would-be lions.
Engineers want to be poets,
flies emulate swallows,
and poets try hard to act like flies.
But the cat
wants nothing more than to be a cat,
and every cat is pure cat
from its whiskers to its tail,
from sixth sense to squirming rat,
from nighttime to its golden eyes.
Nothing hangs together
quite like a cat:
neither flowers nor the moon
have
such consistency.
It's a thing by itself,
like the sun or a topaz,
and the elastic curve of its back,
which is both subtle and confident,
is like the curve of a sailing ship's prow.
The cat's yellow eyes
are the only
slot
for depositing the coins of night.
O little
emperor without a realm,
conqueror without a homeland,
diminutive parlor tiger, nuptial
sultan of heavens
roofed in erotic tiles:
when you pass
in rough weather
and poise
four nimble paws
on the ground,
sniffing,
suspicious
of all earthly things
(because everything
feels filthy
to the cat's immaculate paw),
you claim
the touch of love in the air.
O freelance household
beast, arrogant
vestige of night,
lazy, agile
and strange,
O fathomless cat,
secret police
of human chambers
and badge
of burnished velvet!
Surely there is nothing
enigmatic
in your manner,
maybe you aren't a mystery after all.
You're known to everyone, you belong
to the least mysterious tenant.
Everyone may believe it,
believe they're master,
owner, uncle
or companion
to a cat,
some cat's colleague,
disciple or friend.
But not me.
I'm not a believer.
I don't know a thing about cats.
I know everything else, including life and its archipelago,
seas and unpredictable cities,
plant life,
the pistil and its scandals,
the pluses and minuses of math.
I know the earth's volcanic protrusions
and the crocodile's unreal hide,
the fireman's unseen kindness
and the priest's blue atavism.
But cats I can't figure out.
My mind slides on their indifference.
Their eyes hold ciphers of gold.