gravity and waggery


Hello Friends,

Jeoffry of "For I will consider my Cat Jeoffry" is considered by some the most famous cat in English literature. What is not shared as often about this poem is that it was written while Christopher Smart was confined to a mental instutition (St. Luke's Hospital for Lunatics) for several years. In the 1750s, you were allowed to have your cat with you while institutionalized! Jeoffry's role as Smart's companion takes on greater weight when you consider he was simultaneously enduring estrangement from his wife and daughters and most of respectable society. It is also not often discussed that Jubilate Agno (the larger piece, of which "For I will consider my Cat Jeoffry" is the most famous fragment) was never published in Christopher Smart's lifetime — the manuscript wasn't discovered until the 1900s. Smart had no idea that readers three hundred years later would still be relating to that human love for our pets.

I've included the excerpt below, but it contains very long lines that don't display well on mobile. So I'm also going to send you to the web to read it here.

Enjoy.
Ellen


For I will consider my Cat Jeoffry.
For he is the servant of the Living God duly and daily serving him.
For at the first glance of the glory of God in the East he worships in his way.
For this is done by wreathing his body seven times round with elegant quickness.
For then he leaps up to catch the musk, which is the blessing of God upon his prayer.
For he rolls upon prank to work it in.
For having done duty and received blessing he begins to consider himself.
For this he performs in ten degrees.
For first he looks upon his forepaws to see if they are clean.
For secondly he kicks up behind to clear away there.
For thirdly he works it upon stretch with the forepaws extended.
For fourthly he sharpens his paws by wood.
For fifthly he washes himself.
For sixthly he rolls upon wash.
For seventhly he fleas himself, that he may not be interrupted upon the beat.
For eighthly he rubs himself against a post.
For ninthly he looks up for his instructions.
For tenthly he goes in quest of food.
For having consider'd God and himself he will consider his neighbour.
For if he meets another cat he will kiss her in kindness.
For when he takes his prey he plays with it to give it a chance.
For one mouse in seven escapes by his dallying.
For when his day's work is done his business more properly begins.
For he keeps the Lord's watch in the night against the adversary.
For he counteracts the powers of darkness by his electrical skin and glaring eyes.
For he counteracts the Devil, who is death, by brisking about the life.
For in his morning orisons he loves the sun and the sun loves him.
For he is of the tribe of Tiger.
For the Cherub Cat is a term of the Angel Tiger.
For he has the subtlety and hissing of a serpent, which in goodness he suppresses.
For he will not do destruction, if he is well-fed, neither will he spit without provocation.
For he purrs in thankfulness, when God tells him he's a good Cat.
For he is an instrument for the children to learn benevolence upon.
For every house is incomplete without him and a blessing is lacking in the spirit.
For the Lord commanded Moses concerning the cats at the departure of the Children of Israel from Egypt.
For every family had one cat at least in the bag.
For the English Cats are the best in Europe.
For he is the cleanest in the use of his forepaws of any quadruped.
For the dexterity of his defence is an instance of the love of God to him exceedingly.
For he is the quickest to his mark of any creature.
For he is tenacious of his point.
For he is a mixture of gravity and waggery.
For he knows that God is his Saviour.
For there is nothing sweeter than his peace when at rest.
For there is nothing brisker than his life when in motion.
For he is of the Lord's poor and so indeed is he called by benevolence perpetually—Poor Jeoffry! poor Jeoffry! the rat has bit thy throat.
For I bless the name of the Lord Jesus that Jeoffry is better.
For the divine spirit comes about his body to sustain it in complete cat.
For his tongue is exceeding pure so that it has in purity what it wants in music.
For he is docile and can learn certain things.
For he can set up with gravity which is patience upon approbation.
For he can fetch and carry, which is patience in employment.
For he can jump over a stick which is patience upon proof positive.
For he can spraggle upon waggle at the word of command.
For he can jump from an eminence into his master's bosom.
For he can catch the cork and toss it again.
For he is hated by the hypocrite and miser.
For the former is afraid of detection.
For the latter refuses the charge.
For he camels his back to bear the first notion of business.
For he is good to think on, if a man would express himself neatly.
For he made a great figure in Egypt for his signal services.
For he killed the Ichneumon-rat very pernicious by land.
For his ears are so acute that they sting again.
For from this proceeds the passing quickness of his attention.
For by stroking of him I have found out electricity.
For I perceived God's light about him both wax and fire.
For the Electrical fire is the spiritual substance, which God sends from heaven to sustain the bodies both of man and beast.
For God has blessed him in the variety of his movements.
For, tho he cannot fly, he is an excellent clamberer.
For his motions upon the face of the earth are more than any other quadruped.
For he can tread to all the measures upon the music.
For he can swim for life.
For he can creep.

kinds of rain


Hello Friends,

As some of you may have already heard on Facebook, a minor catastrophe has struck this poem-a-day project. A fellow spilled his coffee all over my laptop that held all the poems and the schedule, and now the laptop will not turn on. As a result, your poems may not come as regularly this week — but I'm going to do my best to keep up. I do have a hard drive back-up, but it's 56 days out-of-date, so I am missing much of what I had prepared for Poetry Month. But let us proceed nonetheless.

I got rained on really hard this morning, so we're going to do an encore with one more rain poem today. This one comes from the September 1933 issue of Poetry magazine, but I know next to nothing about its author, Beatrice Goldsmith.

Enjoy.
Ellen


Rain

Said Constance, with the rain deep in her hair,

“This is spring cider, and the wind and I
Are drunk and crazy—O my dear”—her voice
Was full of rain and laughter, and her eyes
Were green and wild—“my dear,
I have known other kinds of rain:
Rain bouncing madly off my knees and toes
Into a lake to break its top like glass;
And then one day rain thin and cool and gold
With the sun out; and rain
Upon a certain sultry night like steam
That silvered all the grass and choked my throat.
But this”—her lashes, spangled, black and wet,
Shot up and made her eyes like mad green stars—
“But this, I tell you—” and her hands were cupped
Like small pale blossoms, petals spilling cold
White wine, “it was for this
The wind and I were waiting—we and spring.”

Praise crazy. Praise sad.


Hello Friends,

Poetry and rain have a long history together. Perhaps it's the rhythm of rain, or the lines, or the gray area. It's hard to pick just one rain poem to send you this rainy April day — but I decided to go with one that is both a rain poem and a praise poem, by the great Mvskoke poet Joy Harjo from her most recent collection Conflict Resolution for Holy Beings (2015).

Enjoy.
Ellen


Praise the Rain

Praise the rain; the seagull dive
The curl of plant, the raven talk—
Praise the hurt, the house slack
The stand of trees, the dignity—
Praise the dark, the moon cradle
The sky fall, the bear sleep—
Praise the mist, the warrior name
The earth eclipse, the fired leap—
Praise the backwards, upward sky
The baby cry, the spirit food—
Praise canoe, the fish rush
The hole for frog, the upside-down—
Praise the day, the cloud cup
The mind flat, forget it all—

Praise crazy. Praise sad.
Praise the path on which we're led.
Praise the roads on earth and water.
Praise the eater and the eaten.
Praise beginnings; praise the end.
Praise the song and praise the singer.

Praise the rain; it brings more rain.
Praise the rain; it brings more rain.

Joy Harjo was also featured for Meet Me in 811's Poem-A-Day April 30, 2017 and Poem-A-Day April 22, 2015.

the beautiful, needful thing


Hello Friends,

In addition to being an accomplished poet, Robert Hayden was also a scholar of Black History, and many of his poems reflect this subject matter. The subject of this poem, Frederick Douglass, experienced Emancipation Day, but not true freedom, in his lifetime. Hayden imagines a day when his people will find that freedom.

DC celebrated the anniversary of its Emancipation Day on April 14 this year — though the actual date was April 16, 1862.

Enjoy.
Ellen


Frederick Douglass

When it is finally ours, this freedom, this liberty, this beautiful
and terrible thing, needful to man as air,
usable as earth; when it belongs at last to all,
when it is truly instinct, brain matter, diastole, systole,
reflex action; when it is finally won; when it is more
than the gaudy mumbo jumbo of politicians:
this man, this Douglass, this former slave, this Negro
beaten to his knees, exiled, visioning in a world
where none is lonely, none hunted, alien,
this man, superb in love and logic, this man
shall be remembered. Oh, not with statues' rhetoric,
not with legends and poems and wreaths of bronze alone,
but with the lives grown out of his life, the lives
fleshing his dream of the beautiful, needful thing.

The secret anniversaries of the heart

Holidays

The holiest of all holidays are those
     Kept by ourselves in silence and apart;
     The secret anniversaries of the heart,
     When the full river of feeling overflows;—
The happy days unclouded to their close;
     The sudden joys that out of darkness start
     As flames from ashes; swift desires that dart
     Like swallows singing down each wind that blows!
White as the gleam of a receding sail,
     White as a cloud that floats and fades in air,
     White as the whitest lily on a stream,
These tender memories are;—a Fairy Tale
     Of some enchanted land we know not where,
     But lovely as a landscape in a dream.

"Holidays" can be found in Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's Kéramos: And Other Poems (1878).

Longfellow was also featured for Meet Me in 811's Poem-A-Day April 29, 2017 and Poem-A-Day April 7, 2014.

Heartbeat of the pulsar


Hello Friends,

I sent you shorter poems the past couple of days, so today I'm hoping you'll stick around for a longer, harder poem.

Adrienne Rich gives us the note that this piece is inspired by Caroline Herschel (1750 - 1848), the first woman in England to be paid for her work in astronomy, the first female elected to the Royal Astronomical Society, and the discoverer of several comets. "And others" probably refers to the many other women in astronomy whose work was attributed to men or otherwise lost.

Some accounts of Herschel's childhood claim her parents thought she was too ugly to marry and prepared her for the life of a domestic servant — Rich may be referring to this narrative in starting the poem "A woman in the shape of a monster." However, Herschel was able to follow her older brother William into ventures in music and then astronomy.

"Planetarium" appeared in Rich's collection The Will to Change: Poems 1968-1970.

Enjoy.
Ellen


Planetarium

     Thinking of Caroline Herschel (1750—1848)
     astronomer, sister of William; and others.

A woman in the shape of a monster
a monster in the shape of a woman
the skies are full of them

a woman     'in the snow
among the Clocks and instruments
or measuring the ground with poles'

in her 98 years to discover
8 comets

she whom the moon ruled
like us
levitating into the night sky
riding the polished lenses

Galaxies of women, there
doing penance for impetuousness
ribs chilled
in those spaces     of the mind

An eye,

     'virile, precise and absolutely certain'
     from the mad webs of Uranusborg

               encountering the NOVA

every impulse of light exploding

from the core
as life flies out of us

     Tycho whispering at last
     'Let me not seem to have lived in vain'

What we see, we see
and seeing is changing

the light that shrivels a mountain
and leaves a man alive

Heartbeat of the pulsar
heart sweating through my body

The radio impulse
pouring in from Taurus

     I am bombarded yet     I stand

I have been standing all my life in the
direct path of a battery of signals
the most accurately transmitted most
untranslatable language in the universe
I am a galactic cloud so deep     so invo-
luted that a light wave could take 15
years to travel through me     And has
taken     I am an instrument in the shape
of a woman trying to translate pulsations
into images     for the relief of the body
and the reconstruction of the mind.

Adrienne Rich was also featured for Meet Me in 811's Poem-A-Day April 27, 2012 and Poem-A-Day April 25, 2008.

wordless replies


Hello Friends,

Georgia Douglas Johnson was a Harlem Renaissance poet, playwright, and newspaper columnist. Of mixed African American, Native American, and white descent, she was far ahead of her time in portraying race as a social construct — in works like "Common Dust."

Today's quatrain from The Heart of a Woman and Other Poems (1918) is a beautiful building up to a powerful last line, reinforced with perfect rhyme.

Enjoy.
Ellen


The Measure

Fierce is the conflict—the battle of eyes,
Sure and unerring, the wordless replies,
Challenges flash from their ambushing caves—
Men, by their glances, are masters or slaves.

Word Count

The Quiet World

In an effort to get people to look
into each other's eyes more,
and also to appease the mutes,
the government had decided
to allot each person exactly one hundred
and sixty-seven words, per day.

When the phone rings, I put it to my ear
without saying hello. In the restaurant
I point at chicken noodle soup.
I am adjusting well to the new way.

Late at night, I call my long distance lover,
proudly say I only used fifty-nine today.
I saved the rest for you.

When she doesn't respond,
I know she's used up all her words,
so I slowly whisper I love you
thirty-two and a third times.
After that, we just sit on the line
and listen to each other breathe.

— Jeffrey McDaniel, Forgiveness Parade (1998)

I didn’t know I was blue


Hello Friends,

Today's poem is from Li-Young Lee's new collection The Undressing (2018). In the grand tradition of art inspiring art, he was moved to write this piece after hearing Kishori Amonkar sing on the album Great Jugalbandis.

Enjoy.
Ellen


Spoken For

I didn't know I was blue,
until I heard her sing.

I was never aware so much
had been lost
even before I was born.
There was so much to lose
even before I knew
what it meant to choose.

Born blue,
living blue unconfessed, blue
in concealment, I've lived all my life
at the plinth
of greater things than me.

Morning is greater
with its firstborn light and birdsong.
Noon is taller, though a moment's realm.
Evening is ancient and immense, and
night's storied house more huge.

But I had no idea.
And would have died without a clue,
except she began to sing. And I understood

my soul is a bride enthralled by an unmet groom,
or else the groom wholly spoken for, blue
in ardor, happy in eternal waiting.

I heard her sing and knew
I would never hear the true

name of each thing
until I realized the abysmal
ground of all things. Her singing
touched that ground in me.

Now, dying of my life, everything is made new.
Now, my life is not my life. I have no life
apart from all of life.

And my death is not my death,
but a pillow beneath my head, a rock
propping the window open
to admit the jasmine.

I heard her sing,
and I'm no longer afraid.
Now that I know what she knows, I hope
never to forget
how giant the gone
and immaculate the going.
How much I've already lost.
How much I go on losing.
How much I've lived
all one blue. O, how much
I go on living.

Li-Young Lee was also featured for Meet Me in 811's Poem-A-Day April 17, 2012, Poem-A-Day April 14, 2011, and Poem-A-Day April 28, 2008.

The Hand That Cradles The Rock


Hello Friends,

Today's poet, Rita Mae Brown, is better known as a novelist. But in 1971 she put out one of the best-titled poetry collections I've encountered: The Hand That Cradles The Rock.

To the best of my knowledge, "promittor" is an astrological term: "In astrology, the planet which promises to produce a particular event upon forming a conjunction, or aspect, with the sun, moon, mid-heaven, or ascendant."

Enjoy.
Ellen


Promittor

Dew falls on the oysters at low tide
And the sea is ablaze with pearls.
I ride a horse to moongate
Where the water's fire
Lights the backbones of prehistoric fish
Tangled in my brain.