We walked in rhythm as if life were our dance
Holding hands, we smiled whilst on our way
Exchanging too a soft and loving glance
We walked in rhythm as if love were a dance
Showing both the strength and the nuance
I wish my love were still with me at play
We walked in rhythm, our life a home made dance
Holding hands, we smiled whilst on our way
The little words invented as we loved
Now have no other speaker but myself.
Lost, unique, the husband, so beloved,
These little words expressed our private love.
In my speech, these words no longer live
I cannot use those words, our loving wealth.
The chosen words invented as we loved
Now have no other listener but myself.
I sense a feel of panic in the air
As if the Ark is not quite waterproof
I wonder if we’d welcome Tony Blair
To the poor this life was rarely fair
But now it seems unreal, is it a spoof?
I sense a piece of Putin in the air
I am looking in the mirror at my hair
It looks like Boris Johnson’s but more louche
I wonder if we’d dye old Tony Blair’s
The Russian wolf is licking his rich fur
He’s happy Britain’s weakened with fake truth
I feel a sense of monsters near, oh dear.
Putin won his Trump with that strange hair
Now it’s cyber warfare on the hoof
Will he soon take Leave from Tony Blair?
The Russians in Crimea are still there
The Ukraine weeps because we did not care
I sense a feel of Russia in the air
I wonder if they’ll fragment us and tear.
I have longed to see you one more time
I can endure that pain of loss again
Yet I still am with you in my dreams
I ‘d love to know your thoughts before you died
You concentrated,focussed, that was plain
I have longed to see you one more time
I felt it was a Play we were inside
Then we’d come back home, where we have lain
We are still companions in my dreams
What of love is captured in a rhyme?
So much so called poetry seems inane
I have longed to see you one more time
Love is not a concept of the mind
I need your comfort but I need in vain
We are still companions in my dreams
Now I walk alone on new terrain
I do not suffer torture, am not blamed
I have longed to see you one more time
I cannot ask you questions in my dreams
Fifty years since I became your bride
My old age unthinkable back then
No longer are you happy by my side
Now I feel like drift wood on the tide
Going where I do not know or when
Fifty years since I became your bride
How to be alone, and how decide?
Grateful am I to the words I pen
No longer are you smiling by my side
With no map or path, I roamed plains wide
Wandered like a lunatic with pain
Fifty years since I became your bride
At least I am alive and here reside
Wandering is no life for those disdained
No longer are you sitting by my side
I think of history and the years you spanned
The worst World War, your mother, life began
Fifty years since I became your bride
No longer are you here;oh,love , you died.
Roman roads connected in straight lines
The cities they had built in wealthy times
The remains of one goes past my garden gate
Do ghosts of Roman legions pass at night?
I like to see connections,maps and roads
Others love old cities ,walls and moats
My road ran to Lincoln near the Wash
Migrating birds and swans go there to rest
Going South, there is the Pilgrim’s Way
Canterbury, Becket,murder, prayer
Julius Caesar, Deal, the Roman hordes
Boudicea, and her fighting Lords
Layers of history, meaning,love and death
Still we argue what should be our path
Women can’t wear frocks and aprons now
We have to look like men but well endowed
No man would wear a cardigan so long
Behind his wardrobe it would soon be flung
Shorts are hot in summer, I shall sigh
Why do women have to have a fly?
If you need to pee while in a wood
A skirt provides some cover for the flood
I’d like a dress like mother used to wear.
As we walked to Grandad’s, she had flair
She knitted lacy jumpers for the heat
Even knitted wool socks for my feet
We look like alien creatures from elsewhere
I’m going to wear my sundress, I don’t care.
“What is true love which alters when it perspiration finds?”
” It is no love which falters when it desperation finds!
“Is it true love when altars plague your mind?”
“Neither a coroner nor any gender be”
“The best of true love never did mend louvres.” …
“If music hurts the mood of love, play none.” …
“Neither a follower nor a leader be”
“I am one who loved decidedly yet well.’”
Who are you that I should pay for you?
“Who are you that I should prey on you?”
“In this tomb I sadly lie,see you soon, till then goodbye”
One single tear expresses love and loss
Dramatic storms excess may make folk pause
Who will notice one tear and its cost?
A little stone near water may grow moss
But only mountains bring a sense of awe
One single tear expresses love and loss
Grief must not wallowed in, like baths
Philosophers not hurt their minds uncaused
Who then will observe the tear, the cost?
To an ant, a pebble is quite gross
To a widow, death has hungry jaws
One single tear may show how she is lost
The entire self is tear-filled like a marsh
We weep till love itself becomes remorse
Let one tear out and hide its anguished cost
The heart’s affections use poetic laws
Holy circulation, blood that draws
One single tear falls down like bladed grass
Who will care for this tear, bear its cost?
What to me may seem a worthless weed
Bears its little flowers to create seeds
Thus it spreads itself as Love requires
Humble speedwell,hear of our desires.
In the pavements cracks were home to grass
The sidestep slabs were broken like thick glass
When heavy frost came, rain formed frozen pools
I trod in them as I tore up to school
The crackling ice, the mist dropped on the park
Our ginger cat, the trees, the dog that barked
Our mother in the kitchen making tea
The oven by the fire, the big door key
Little signs spark tender memories
The future fiction, gone the past abyss
Limestone’s softness lets its cracks appear
Wildflowers,daisies,foxgloves love to grow
While little rivers to the South Tyne veer
Alston on the hill to me is dear
The main street in the winter’s under snow
Limestone’s softness lets its cracks appear
Granite hard as marble seems to jeer
Limestone lets the seeds and grass stay,
While little rivers to the South Tyne veer
The savage Pennines can cause panic fear
Their shadow in the sun, a fearsome layer
Limestone’s softness lets its cracks appear
Do we shift our vision far and near?
The panorama of the Lakes is fair
The little rivers to the South Tyne veer
Limestone,like a woman, let’s love grow
Thus it is creative ,heart and Art
Limestone’s softness lets broad cracks appear
Thus streams, well filled with seeds, are made home there
A silver tear rolled lonely as sliced moon
Down my pallid cheek and wet my lip
Your loss turned me to sadness and damp gloom
My future seemed, not promising, but doomed
The icy nails of death gave me a nip
A little tear rolled lonely as lost moons
Yet, in my mind, I heard L Cohen’s tunes
“There ain’t no cure for love” on this our trip
Your loss turned me to sadness ,clouds of gloom
Yet soft, deep darkness need not lead to doom
Come,I’ll take a lover, board a ship
A starry tear rolled lonely as new moon
I will love,I ‘ll seek for new hope soon
Will I descend to stealing from a skip?
Your loss sent me to sadness like a room
I need no LSD to take a trip
My open senses give me what I miss
A silver tear rolled lonely as cruel moon
Your loss turned me to beauty,life resumes
https://drhobson.wordpress.com/2009/03/
This is the beginning
It is impossible that any Russian poem should survive, undamaged, magically transported into the English language. The simplest Russian word has no exact equivalent in English. A table is a different table. The food on it is different. The life around it is different. Its image, its behaviour as a word is different; rectangular and immutable in English, possibly round and probably inflected in Russian. Better to admit defeat at the outset. It will be a different poem. All the more important, therefore, to try and preserve whatever you can. Not only the sense, but the spirit of the thing conveyed through the rhyme, the rhythm, the music of the original. If you are not a poet when you start to translate poetry, you will be by the time you are finished. It becomes so natural a means of expression that you find yourself writing your own stuff.
Some translators, of course, were poets before they began. Great writers have translated other great writers. But you have only to compare the original with the translation to hear the persistence of the poet-translator’s creative voice, even while submitting himself to the discipline of faithfully following someone else’s ideas, someone else’s choice of the form in which they are to be expressed.
Since the thing, then, is inherently impossible, why try? Why do it at all? There are, of course, some advantages for the English reader. He can satisfy his curiosity. For instance, why all the fuss about Griboedov? What is this wonderful verse-comedy of his? What characters did he create, what views did he hold, what feelings did he express? Why is he so great? This last, alas, is a question which no translation will answer. No, the true beneficiary of any translation is the translator. There is no better way of valuing a work, getting under the skin of it, sucking the juice out of every last line of it, than trying to translate it.
I encountered Gore ot uma during my first year at London University, studying Russian language and literature. And here I must mention my only advantage over you Russians; I didn’t ‘do’ Gore ot uma at school. (Imagine reading it for the first time at sixty-two.) One of our professors gave a lecture on the literature of the early 19th Century. ‘There is this brilliant verse-comedy by Aleksandr Griboedov’, he said, ‘but it is completely untranslatable.’ The challenge was irresistible. I went to the library after the lecture, took out the play and started at once.
The problems were numerous. How to preserve Griboedov’s laconic style, compressed sometimes to the point of obscurity? What to do, for instance, with that reference to Tolstoi Amerikanets? Short of a footnote, how is the English reader to guess at that disastrous voyage of his? How to convey the irony implicit in Griboedov’s double game, in which Chatskii shows us the flaws in Moscow while Griboedov shows us the flaws in Chatskii? In the attempt to convey a sense of Griboedov’s masterpiece, one is required to joke like an ambitious bureaucrat, think like a revolutionary, feel like a Moscow socialite or a young man in love – in short, to jettision one’s own view of the world, and share, briefly, for the space of a play, the author’s – or his characters’ – experience of it. the problems are varied; the challenge is always the same. How to preserve the spirit of the original.
How the sky tried to turn black but the cloud thinned
Leaving a dull yellow ochre, lightening slowly
To cream
A black cat leaped onto the fence
I think he’s sleeping here
But he never shows me his face
He runs as if a banger has gone off behind him
As if he’s going to take off like an aeroplane
He hides in the dark green shade
The honeysuckle chuckles, wishes to see more
The wrens ignore him from their holly tree
Too prickly for domestic cats
Please lie down.Tell me what brings you here
Not literally? [ could be autistic]
No, you are always here in a sense.
Well, you know English is not my first language [ excuses]
No, you were here before language.How hard to imagine.
I have come here because of my guilt [ trying to be human ]
I’ll be judge, I’ll be jury, said cunning old fury
Very adroit [Shows off his skills]
What’s that?
The opposite of maladroit
Why did you send the Flood over the earth\~
I pressed the wrong button. [Teases me]
That is absurd. There were no buttons then
Not even on coats? [Pretends to be ignorant]
Well you should know
I don’t like little details in my creatiity [ Thinks he is superior]
Come on, tell me whatever comes to mind
I like playing with water and fire as well [ Melanie Klein come here]
You tell me
It’s such fun [ emotionally stunted]
Like War?
It was not so bad to start with { always an excuse…. lacking in adult responsibility]
What, even Cain and Abel?
Very sad but it’s just a story [ Derrida,Levinas, Enid Blyton]
Don’t tell me you are a post modernist
I can be what I want , for fun you know [ repeats himself]
I didn’t know God has fun
Well you do now [ Humour]
Right that is £120
What, you think I should pay? [ feels superior]
I have to live,Lord.I have a family [ childish plea]
So did I once [Sarcasm and grief]
Coming in, the whispers of your breath
Float into avid ears, there is no death
Your honey smell, your eyes so sharp and kind
Evoke your image in the deeps of mind
I see your shadow swiftly move away
There is no tomorrow, just today
And you are here, your smile remains yet fades
Deep in the woods of feeling there are glades
You do not hide, you exercise your tact
You knew people’s faces, not the facts
You said you felt so tender when we lay
And smiled when we enjoyed ourselves at play
You hide inside the air,I breathe you in
I let you go, I see you float again.
The humid air of Summer makes us sweat
No time for kissing lovers on the lawn
Too much movement constitutes a threat
Behind the rose bush hides our old black cat
Wanting to take rest, his coat untorn.
The humid air of Summer makes us sweat
Few lovers want to risk sharp heart attacks
Better to go out in cool, white dawn
Too much movement is then less a threat
In Van Gogh’s night, the stars look almost black
Here is his lost ear, alas, it’s torn
The humid air of Summer makes us sweat
Genius knows much more than what we lack
The motley objects and the chosen form
Too much sorrow constitutes a threat
If we start to work, we are new born
Resisting weather and the sunlit barn
The humid air of Summer makes us sweat
Too much movement constitutes a threat
I once became interested in virtue and perception.It began when I read a little Aristotle about virtue being a habit.That was quite recent.Before that for many years I believed virtuous acts would follow from being able to perceive well.But when we are fraught our minds and eyes tighten up and so we perceive only what may be a danger to us.To perceive others well we need to be in a position to trust others and we need to feel secure.How is this possible?
From my studies I read that our ability to trust begins with a trusted caregiver in infancy,[See” atttachment and loss “by John Bowlby reference to come] We may be able to become more secure later by good fortune,friendship and love.
If not,I seem to get the idea that if we are insecure and nervous we cannot truly perceive others and they may be in the same position.If we are very afraid then virtuous acts may be hard to accomplish. The reason is obvious… when. we are concerned with mere survival as a person , in that state what we do to others may be impossible for us to consider.We cannot truly see them and so we cannot act well towards them except by good luck.
Or if we are able to tolerate great anxiety,we may see better…. if not we are incapable…. Those whom we cannot see properly we cannot truly consider with feeling and act on this feeling.We see them partly or mainly in terms of the fearful fantasies in our minds and cannot see them as other and interesting.When we make a friend online we may feel safer but in fact we are more likely to misperceive them.
When we are from a sad a or difficut background it may help greatly if we have some friends who might point out our errors if we trust enough to tell them.Or we may pretend to be hard and tough.Neither leads to virtue.
If we trust God it may help but I believe we see God through the lens of our parents.. which is not good…depending on the parents. When we live in fear,we cannot see what is there before us.We cannot let go.We cannot accept grace and love nor give it.We will try to live by will power.Ironically people who are fearful inside can develop a shell of toughness and pride and so are not seen as vulnerable and/or lovable.Tbey may seem frightening to others. This account may help to explain why politics is the way it is and also we see that arguing is not persuasive when the other is not able to open up and see things more broadly.Arguing makes us tighten up and see less well.And it can be frightening too though some cultures find it more acceptable than others.
Here are some relevant blogs and articles
This author had a lot to say about perception… http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/obituary-marion-milner-1163951.html http://susannanelson.wordpress.com/2014/03/02/happy-go-lucky/
Filed under beautiful thoughts, books
Paul Tillich gave our spirit proper place.
He showed us courage as a space to dwell.
He wrote for us and left us with his grace
With hope he might well speak and he might tell.
So many people ignored Fascist speech
And lived with mind cut off from their own soul
With pen in hand he wrote his soul to reach
And touch us as we strive towards the whole.
Expelled from his own country, he wrote on
Continuing during tortuous war long years
He lived, he loved ,he wrote, he died and then
His books continue to dispatch our fears.
For many men have lived and have destroyed.
Tillich showed us how to face the void
Circular the building and the fire
A ring of stones wherein the fire was set
An eye hole high for smoke, a height for gyre
The wind might whistle. might bring chill, bleak, dire
The fire burned hot and red, the cats there sat
Circular the building and the fire
Warm when hunters came in from the mire
Meat was roasted ,everyone ate that
An eye-hole for the smoke, a height for gyre
Families slept in heaps, as cats desire
The fire must keep, the embers not go black
Circular the building and the fire
The wind looks in and tries to cool the fire
God sees through our eye, we eye him back
An hole above for smoke, a height for gyre
In each living heart there is a crack
The light and fire get in to fill our lack
Circular the building and the fire
The eye is God’s , the wind itself inspires
His face was black, he fell against my breast
Dying in an armchair by his bed
While nurses gossiped,he was alone left
The doctor said it would be for the best
The rehab is not meant for those near death
His face was black, he fell against my breast
I asked him,dearest, do you feel depressed?
He nodded with a gravity like lead
While nurses gossiped,he was lonely left
Then I realised my wifely task
I was even asked to lift him to his bed
No longer as my bridegroom at the feast
The loss of dignity, the face unread
The blindness of the staff, the broken head
His face was black, he fell against my breast
While nurses gossiped,he was fading fast
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eye_(cyclone)
“The eye is a region of mostly calm weather at the center of strong tropical cyclones. The eye of a storm is a roughly circular area, typically 30–65 kilometers (19–40 miles) in diameter. It is surrounded by the eyewall, a ring of towering thunderstorms where the most severe weather and highest winds occur. The cyclone’s lowest barometric pressure occurs in the eye and can be as much as 15 percent lower than the pressure outside the storm.[1]”
King Alfred
Lately I have been loaned by providence a graceful beautiful cat.Early on he was a shrinking, hunched and nervous creature who slept by the back door on the daily newspaper.He ate hungrily and drank water with a drop of milk.
He was reluctant for a couple of weeks to venture further but as the tranquil peaceful time went by he began to sleep on a towel by the hall radiator and eventually on my knee.
The most striking change was in his size.As he ate more and was petted more he relaxed so that when stretched by the fire ,more of his body was in contact with the floor and he looked larger all over.He was loosened up and comfortable.
If he were human I might say he had a good mother.He is affectionate and initially I feared his demands might be excessive.When he came onro my bed I was concerned.But after five minutes of being stroked he went off to his own place again.
Sometimes when he’s been out in the garden he reappears with an air of humorous triumph as if he has worked a miracle to enter through his door.Another time when I was reading in a different room from the usual one he appeared mid morning with a face full of more expression than I can easily put into words.
He was anxious and relieved,puzzled and afraid,happy and a touch angry with me.How can you do this to me? was his query.Suppose you had gone altogether?Oh,the insecurity of being a tame cat.
I wonder why cats do not miss their own species.Or maybe they meet them outsi
de.Often though they fight to defend their territory but fortunately they have no WMD as yet.I like to read and stroke him as I muse over my book,
When we got married we could only afford a single bed
Did we
a] take turns on the floor
b] use double sheets and blankets
c] sell the bed and sleep on a rug
d] lose weight so we fitted onto the bed
e] fall out of bed while consummating our marriage
f] get a divorce
g]. none of the above
I wanted an elliptical dining table but we had not got enough money
Did my husband
a’] buy a round one and saw some parts off
b] tell me a rectangular one was better
c] ignore me and buy a comic section
d] just not listen
e] tell me it was better to make love in a wood and forget about this table
f] none of the above?
An ancient one roomed building was once home
Lit and warmed by fire,heat upward flowed
The smoke escaped through one small hole or “eye”
The winter wind would fight to get inside.
Like a human eye, it was a breach
The bones of head and face allow this reach
We must see out and not live all within
Wolves, those metaphors. might bite our skin
Enclosed spaces need selected gaps
Few would enjoy choking in a trap.
We need a way to breath, to see, to touch
Sophisticated means, this eye to watch
Sitting round the fire we hear Wind howl
Through the eye, we see the moon,our jewel
We hear now of more and more ways of living healthy lives.But I think it’s important to live a life of worth.What does it mean,to be of worth ? We must live first of all in a way that suits our nature and since we are part of a whole we must also live in ways that do not harm others and hopefully helps some of them.One problem is increasing in the affluent West and the USA and similar countries.This is the well known fact that more and more of us suffer from stress,worry and depression.Maybe the more serious psychic disturbances are also increasing.This can lead to violence
I have heard my friends say that writing poetry or keeping a journal is therapeutic.But is it not true that some forms of talking or conversing are therapeutic and some are harmful or maybe just pointless? A good friend whom we trust is a person with whom conversing may be beneficial,whereas “dumping” your problems on someone may give only momentary relief.I feel real friend listens and may comment,may even criticize.Someone you know less well may react badly.You must not blame them for you are ignorant of their personal life and difficulties.
Conversation of course has the advantage that you are with the person to whom you talk and can stop or adapt your talking in the light of their nonverbal responses.To a lesser extent it is also true on the phone if you know someone well.
Just as gazing into the lighted front window of a large home filled with people and pictures and lovely furniture may make you envious so may your fantasied views of others around you.And yet it is likely they feel pain just like you ;we operate often from a view of life which is a poor fit with reality [whatever that is]
Since conversation may be good,bad or meaningless so it is with writing.
Writing comes from .your experience but must convey it in a manner by which others can feel the truth of what you are saying.As with music, poetry can say certain things not possible in other ways.And as in music there are forms developed down the centuries in which others have expressed their feelings. I have read that writing poetry in a structured form is therapeutic,But writing in free verse may not be.In either case poetry can stir up deep feelings.
Fiona Sampson, author of,The Expert Guide to writing poetry, advises that you keep the phone number of the Samaritans near when writing poetry but prose may be less stirring
I read about the value of structured writing in an article about Sylvia Plath.I am sorry I cannot find the reference as yet.Some people say writing prolonged her life,others that the kind of writing she got into at the end may have precipitated her suicide.We cannot know the answer but we should be aware that it may not be “letting it all out” that helps but the shaping and sculpting of the material into a form which pleases us and others
Alternatively writing about Nature ,other people,love, may turn our minds in a new direction away from our mind’s idle chatter
Coming soon….. the wind’s eye
Don’t miss it
Your garment is the best we have
You can’t buy better
We make our dresses with much love
Come see our letters
No angst shall bring us down
No study make us brown
This dress will wear and wear
Machine wash softly
If you fall down in the mud
Fear no disaster
And if you spill some blood
Noone will mutter
No stain shall wreck this dress
No liquid leave a mess
This dress is yours for aye
Machine wash softly
Dear All
Well, I don’t write a letter very often, but after finding a replica of my old pen on E bay I decided to do a Round Robin.
First of all, none of my children have got into Oxford or Cambridge nor have my grandchildren.They are all on the dim side but that is how I like them.I think IQ is very over rated and as mine is 65 you realise I am a mere imbecile and so my ten children take after me.
They all got degrees from places I’d never heard of like Chester, Bolton, Ormskirk, and Hendon.However, as I once lost a job offer from a well known university because I wore an engagement ring I kind of thought being a low flyer might be better.
My brother is very kind.He is changed very much since we were adolescents when he was too put it mildly a pain.He has now told me I am in the top 1% of intelligence in the world.Imagine 99% of the world’s population has an IQ of 64 or less.Don’t expect an imbecile to explain that
I can believe it about our delightful politicians, Horace Yawnsome and their ilk.
My children have done well.One is a violinist in Berlin.As I never go there I cannot be sure if she is lying but she does speak good German or for all I know it might be Yiddish as my great aunt was familiar with that old tongue.
Perhaps my daughter is really playing the Jewish harp in a liberal Synagogue.And believe me, it would have to be very liberal to let that flame haired temptress near any married man.Is it her fault she is so attractive?After all, she is my daughter and blew dry every hair daily as a teen
My eldest son had to fail an exam before he was accepted at Ormskirk Dental School.You see with 21 GCSE’s grade A star they wanted him to go to Cambridge but he knew his own limits.He preferred being near the great Nature Reserves of the estuary of the Mersey and Nature and its exploration has kept him busy.Why he even spends whole days in the Mersey Tunnel.
He said he wants to find the Universiy of New Brighton but he is still in the tunnel.I said I’d buy him a van but he prefers walking everywhere and camping on the verges of the road maybe giving relief to a few virgins en passant.Being a virgin nowadays is very hard socially.But as a Spanish waiter once said to me ” One virgin is very hard to find” Maybe two is easier.
My second daughter is married and lives in Poole. She often walks around the Isle of Purbeck with the triplets in her back pack.How her husband stands her I cannot get.She is lazy and unable to cook even frozen chips.However, the babies are still on the breast and there is a McDonald#s nearby.Her Ph.D was on “Cats in Modern Physics”.She had a wonderful tutor at Wigan University.Why, he married her! Then he got a job in Bournemouth.How she snagged him I do not know but her thesis was the first of its kind.Now everyone is doing animals in abstract mathematics.
Well, it’s time for me to warm my frozen pizza on the fire so I’ll leave the rest for next time.
Au revoir
Kristy Krasse
Being married means using larger sheets on the same bed
Being a widow means losing engagement with reality
Getting married again is cheaper than before,You can even make money from selling one set of cutlery to anyone who knows what it is.Not to mention learning how to lie with a straight face while he tickles your fancy.
Can one have an imaginary partner and use a real engaement ring?
Engagement ring, engagement wrong.Why do it again?
Being able to listen enhances many marriages whilst being a shock treatment for the rest.
Would I marry again? I’m at a loss.
Would I have been better as a spinster? The useless question.
I went into your study, found a cat
Black with shining fur and amber eyes
She ran with startling speed ,near knocked me flat
I found your weekend bag and your sun hat
A tear ran down my face, then multiplied
I went into your study, found a cat
I wondered who composed the “tit for tat”
And whether any animal could lie.
Puss ran with startling speed ,near knocked me flat
A parrot well brought up can mimic chat
Some live parrots love to rise and fly.
I went into your study, found a cat
My previous cat would try to catch a gnat
There is no flesh on gnats,I used to say.
Puss ran with startling speed ,near knocked me flat
I kneel down here and wonder how to pray
I shall not see my spouse on earth again
I went into your study, found a cat
Who shot with startling speed across the mat
How my heart sings 