Hate That Cat (4 page)

So much depends upon

making words

without

sounds

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.

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.

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.

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?

This morning I left

a note

for my mother:

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

Those non-poems

of

kookoo Mr. William Carlos Williams

are running in my head:

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

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:

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

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.

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.