It seems as though we mere morals have ever had a fascination with Cats. Before there were YouTube videos and Instagram... there was Charles Bukowski... and his Cats. Who would have thought that such a gristly, cantankerous writer such as Mr. B, colloquially known as The Dirty Old Man of American Letters and The Laureate of the Lowlife, would have a colony of Cats all his own?
... nine at one point...
B's musings on his fierce and funny felines, some of whom he describes as his greatest teachers (and occasionally the bane of his existence) could fill a Twitter archive... before there was Twitter. Maybe it's not surprising after all, because Cats appear as frequent characters in his writings: they're usually portrayed as brash, bold, judicious with affection, occasionally cruel, often indifferent, and always fiercely independent: attributes Mr. B apparently embodied, as well. He describes them as a "beautiful devil," whose characteristics he captures in as much detail as a photograph when recounting experiences with those who've caught birds and other innocents.
It appears as though Mr. B had something of a love-hate relationship with Cats... something to which I can relate. I say this as my teenage little man sits here watching me type these words with profound interest, most likely more interested in the moving cursor on the screen than my incisive prose, who then proceeds to chew on the fringe of my Restoration Hardware cashmere throw.
It was just happenstance that I came across this lovely little gem while browsing at the library, because we recently acquired a teenage ginger cat which was bottle raised by my nephew, who needed a (possibly) temporary home. I haven't had a cat in the house for nearly 20 years, and it's been almost a lifetime since I had a young one, so it's been an education, to say the least.
Something tells me that Mr. Bukowski could relate.
In fact, I may end up writing a few choice verses of my own, when all is said and done.
This small collection was published in 2017, to the delight of Bukowski aficionados everywhere, much from never-before-published material. I'll just let him speak for himself, far more eloquently than I ever could.
---- Notable Musings and Priceless Gems ---
âIn my next life I want to be a cat. To sleep 20 hours a day and wait to be fed. To sit around licking my ass. Humans are too miserable and angry and single-minded.â
----------
âyesterday the cat walked calmly up the driveway
with the mockingbird alive in its mouth,
wings fanned, beautiful wings fanned and flopping,
feathers parted like a woman's legs in sex,
but the bird was no longer mocking,
it was asking, it was praying
but the cat
striding down through centuries
would not listen.â
-------------
âmy cat shit in my archives
he climbed into my Golden State Sunkist
orange box
and shit on my poems
my original poems
saved for the university archives
that one-eared fat black critic,
he signed me off.â
----------------
"There are no spirits or gods in a cat, don't look for them.
A cat is the picture of the eternal machinery, like the sea."
------------------------
"If I were all the man
that he is cat-
if there were men like this
the world could
begin"
---------------------------
Animals are inspirational. They don't know how to lie. They are natural forces. TV can make me ill in five minutes, but I can look at an animal for hours and find nothing but grace and glory, life as it should be.
-------------------------------
Beethoven rattles his bones
in majesty.
and those damn cats
don't even care
about
any of that.
and
if they did
I wouldn't like them
at
all:
things begin to lose their
natural value
as they near
human
endeavor.
... nine at one point...
B's musings on his fierce and funny felines, some of whom he describes as his greatest teachers (and occasionally the bane of his existence) could fill a Twitter archive... before there was Twitter. Maybe it's not surprising after all, because Cats appear as frequent characters in his writings: they're usually portrayed as brash, bold, judicious with affection, occasionally cruel, often indifferent, and always fiercely independent: attributes Mr. B apparently embodied, as well. He describes them as a "beautiful devil," whose characteristics he captures in as much detail as a photograph when recounting experiences with those who've caught birds and other innocents.
It appears as though Mr. B had something of a love-hate relationship with Cats... something to which I can relate. I say this as my teenage little man sits here watching me type these words with profound interest, most likely more interested in the moving cursor on the screen than my incisive prose, who then proceeds to chew on the fringe of my Restoration Hardware cashmere throw.
It was just happenstance that I came across this lovely little gem while browsing at the library, because we recently acquired a teenage ginger cat which was bottle raised by my nephew, who needed a (possibly) temporary home. I haven't had a cat in the house for nearly 20 years, and it's been almost a lifetime since I had a young one, so it's been an education, to say the least.
Something tells me that Mr. Bukowski could relate.
In fact, I may end up writing a few choice verses of my own, when all is said and done.
This small collection was published in 2017, to the delight of Bukowski aficionados everywhere, much from never-before-published material. I'll just let him speak for himself, far more eloquently than I ever could.
---- Notable Musings and Priceless Gems ---
âIn my next life I want to be a cat. To sleep 20 hours a day and wait to be fed. To sit around licking my ass. Humans are too miserable and angry and single-minded.â
----------
âyesterday the cat walked calmly up the driveway
with the mockingbird alive in its mouth,
wings fanned, beautiful wings fanned and flopping,
feathers parted like a woman's legs in sex,
but the bird was no longer mocking,
it was asking, it was praying
but the cat
striding down through centuries
would not listen.â
-------------
âmy cat shit in my archives
he climbed into my Golden State Sunkist
orange box
and shit on my poems
my original poems
saved for the university archives
that one-eared fat black critic,
he signed me off.â
----------------
"There are no spirits or gods in a cat, don't look for them.
A cat is the picture of the eternal machinery, like the sea."
------------------------
"If I were all the man
that he is cat-
if there were men like this
the world could
begin"
---------------------------
Animals are inspirational. They don't know how to lie. They are natural forces. TV can make me ill in five minutes, but I can look at an animal for hours and find nothing but grace and glory, life as it should be.
-------------------------------
Beethoven rattles his bones
in majesty.
and those damn cats
don't even care
about
any of that.
and
if they did
I wouldn't like them
at
all:
things begin to lose their
natural value
as they near
human
endeavor.
