why the kitten is a poet
but
she
is
And I cannot explain
how my mother paints
words
with
her
hands
but
she
does
And I cannot explain
how—
when we paint words
with each other—
I hear sounds
but I do not know
if she hears anything—
any strange or amazing
or good or terrible
or sparkling or fizzing
sound
at
all.
FEBRUARY 7
So much depends upon
making words
without
sounds
FEBRUARY 11
MY YELLOW CHAIR
by Jack
FEBRUARY 14
Happeeeee Valentine’s Day!
I liked when you said
we could try
turning the metaphors
upside down or inside out
and I liked when you used
my chair poem as an example
so
instead of saying
the chair is like a pleasingly plump momma
we could try
my momma is like a pleasingly plump chair
except that now
everyone thinks
my mother is very plump
and looks like a chair
and it doesn’t mean the same
when you turn them around
because while the chair
is a lot like a plump momma
my own mother
is like
so
much
more
than a chair.
FEBRUARY 21
Well, okay, I will try it.
Here goes:
My mother is like a plump chair
all squishy soft and huggy
when you sit in her lap
(Just so you know:
I am too old to sit in her lap.
I’m just saying this for the poem.)
Her arms hold you in
so you won’t fall
and will feel
safe
And she has sturdy legs
(although I want to make it clear
that my real mother has two legs
not four)
and a straight back
She is proud
but not too proud
and she is there
waiting for me
always
quietly
waiting
for
me.
End of Poem.
So here’s the problem:
My real mother
can’t always be
waiting for me
because she works at night
and my mother
doesn’t sit in the same place
day in and day out
like a chair does—
she is always
moving moving moving
her hands
wav air
ing the
in
talking to us
with hands
those
and she isn’t plump at all
and like I said
she has two legs, not four
and so
really
she is not very much
like a chair
at
all.
I will never be
a
real
poet.
FEBRUARY 25
Today the fat black cat
up in the tree by the bus stop
dropped a nut on my head
thunk
and when I yelled at it
that fat black cat said
Murr-mee-urrr
in a
nasty
spiteful
way.
I hate that cat.
FEBRUARY 28
I am getting
a little worried
about poor
Mr. William Carlos Williams
(is he alive?)
I mean:
first there was the
poem about the
red wheelbarrow
and the chicky chickens
and it’s true I like that poem now
(it grows on you)
but
those two poems about the
PLUMS . . . !!!???
I think Kaitlyn was crying
because she felt stupid
and to tell you the truth
I felt stupid, too,
because even though
those were nice little thingies
that Mr. William Carlos Williams said
about the sweet plums
and the old lady
and even though I could see
little pictures
in my mind
when you were reading
the plum poems
it would be very very hard
to explain to my uncle Bill
why those are poems
and not little notes
scribbled on scrap paper.
And did you notice that
Mr. William Carlos Williams
does NOT use much in the way of
ALLITERATION
or
ONOMATOPOEIA
or
SIMILE
or
METAPHOR?
Mm? Did you notice that?
MARCH 6
This morning I left
a note
for my mother:
THIS IS JUST TO SAY
I have eaten
the pudding
that was in
the fridge
and which
you were maybe
saving
for dessert
Forgive me
it was so yum
so thick
so creamy
MARCH 7
Those non-poems
of
kookoo Mr. William Carlos Williams
are running in my head:
MOM IN THE KITCHEN
(INSPIRED BY MR. WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS)
BY JACK
crunching on a pickle
in the middle of the room
juice running down her arm
It tastes good to her
It tastes good
to her. It tastes
good to her
You can tell by
the way she closes her eyes
and licks her lips
and then her arm
Refreshed
a song of dill pickles
filling the air
It tastes good to her
MARCH 13
You know WHAT?
Today in the library
I found some more poems
by Mr. William Carlos Williams
and do you know what he wrote?
A poem about a cat
A CAT!
The title is POEM
(Is Mr. William Carlos Williams
a little lazy?)
and it is only about
a cat climbing over a jamcloset
(what is a jamcloset?)
and into a flowerpot!
That is IT.
That is the p-o-e-m.
But as soon as I read it
I saw in my head
Skitter McKitter
my black kitten
so
here is a
non-poem
about her:
NON-POEM*
(INSPIRED BY LAZY MR. WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS)
BY JACK
As the kitten
leaped over
the pot
of blue violets
first the front
paws
gracefully
then the hind paws
landing
into the bottom of
the kitchen sink
MARCH 14
ANOTHER NON-POEM
(INSPIRED BY MR. WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS)
BY JACK
The fat black cat
crouched on a limb
of the maple tree
needle claws
scratching
the bark
menacingly
then the tail
whacking
at the branch
in warning.
MARCH 21
Just as I expected
my uncle Bill
is not a big fan
of Mr. William Carlos Williams.
Uncle Bill says Mr. WCW
is a “minor poet”
and
a “foe poet”
(later my dad explained
he meant faux
which means “fake”)
and I said
“What about the
‘so much depends upon’
poem
and the plum poems?”
(which are stuck in my head
and I can say them from memory)
and Uncle Bill said
“Tuh! Overrated, highly
overrated!”
And I found myself
sticking up for
poor Mr. William Carlos Williams
and the small ordinary things
he writes about
and the small ordinary moments
that you don’t notice
until you read his poems
and Uncle Bill said
“Small things? Small moments?
Tuh! Give me LARGE things!
LARGE moments!
Give me poems about
death and dying
about war and tragedy
and philosophical metaphors
give me sonnets
give me odes . . .”
blah blah blah
The only interesting thing
he said while he was visiting
was that he is allergic to cats
and he sneezed a lot just to
prove it
and he made us lock Skitter McKitter
in my room
and
when he left, my dad said
two things.
First:
“Sometimes I envy your mom
not being able to hear”
and
Second:
“If Uncle Bill
is allergic to cats
maybe he won’t be able
to visit us anymore.”
Ha ha ha.
MARCH 26
This is just to say that
Skitter McKitter
has run away
And maybe Uncle Bill
would say this is not a
tragedy
but in our house
it
is
a
tragedy.
MARCH 27
How can you go from
hating cats
to loving one cat
in particular
one black cat
one Skitter McKitter cat
who chases a brown nut
across the wood floor
and who trails balls of string
over chairs and under tables
and who falls over backwards
when she is swatting at a plant
and who leaps in your lap
and purrrrrrrrrrs
and who sleeps on your pillow
curled behind your head
with one paw on your ear
and who crawls under the covers
to nip at your toes
how can you love a little cat
so much
in such a
short
short
time?
MARCH 28
Last night my mother
signed the word C-A-T
and then tapped
her heart
HARD-soft
HARD-soft
HARD-soft.
MARCH 31
Still no Skitter McKitter.
We think she got out
when the plumber
left the door open.
I keep thinking about
Mr. Christopher Myers’
roaming cat
and the person in the poem-story
who says over and over:
where’s your home, where do you go?
There is a big
emptiness
in our house
just like there was
when my dog Sky
died.
We’ve looked everywhere
we’ve called Skitter’s name
we’ve put out bowls of milk
but the only cat who
slurps the milk
is that other black cat
that mean fat black cat
that scratched me.
I saw it creeping away
from the milk bowl
licking its chin
lazy waddling cat
flicking its proud tail.
I hate that cat.
And more bad news:
yesterday I received a postcard
from Mr. Walter Dean Myers
and on it he said that
DIED.
He said his cat was old
and had lived a
good
long
life
but that he
misses
his cat.
I know what he means.
Keep your doors
closed
so your cats do not
get
out
and if you have any
old cats
take good care of them.
APRIL 2
Skitter McKitter:
Here is your home.
Why did you go?
APRIL 11
So much depends upon
a black kitten
mewing outside
your back door.
Yes, Skitter McKitter is back!
I heard scratching
and then howling
but it didn’t sound like Skitter.
When I opened the door
there was the fat black cat
making a ruckus
and then I heard a
softer mewing
kitten mewing
Skitter mewing
and lying there
beside the door
was Skitter McKitter
looking thin
and bedraggled
with a gash on one ear
and a clump of fur missing
from her neck
and when I went to reach
for Skitter
the fat black cat
put a paw out
protectively
and licked Skitter’s ear
and then nudged Skitter
up and into my hands
and then the fat black cat
sat there very still—
silent—
as I carried Skitter inside.
I left the door open
in case the fat black cat
wanted to come inside too
but instead the fat black cat
turned and walked away
whisking its fat black tail
whisk whisk.
I think the fat black cat
found Skitter McKitter
and
saved her
and brought her
home.
I’m sorry I hated that cat.
When I held Skitter
in my lap
and petted her
she licked my hand
she licked it
and licked it
It tasted good to her
It tasted good
to her. It tasted
good
to
her.
APRIL 18
THE KITTEN
(INSPIRED BY MR. ALFRED LORD TENNYSON)
BY JACK
She pats the package with padded paws
and pulls apart the golden gauze
with her tiny furry jaws.
Then like an acrobat she leaps
legs and ribbon in a heap
tangled round and tangled deep.
APRIL 25
THE PURR
(INSPIRED BY MR. EDGAR ALLAN POE
AND MY NEW THESAURUS)
BY JACK
Hear the kitten with her purr,
humming purr!
What a contagious contentment
her vibrations spur!
How she hum hum hums
keeping time time time
in a sort of thrumming rhyme
To the murmurabulation of the thrums
and the hums
of her purr, purr, purr, purr,
purr, purr, purr—
of the humming and the thrumming
of her purr.
MAY 2
Thank you thank you thank you
for showing me all the books
of cat poems
and all the books
that tell a story
in
poems.
I never knew
a writer could do that—
tell a whole story
in
poems.
I already read the one
by Mr. Robert Cormier
(alive?)
and next
by my bed is
that dust book by
Ms. Karen Hesse
(alive?)
and underneath that one
is the Essie and Amber one
by Ms. Vera B. Williams