For he is of the tribe of Tiger

This showed up in my Facebook feed this morning: The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, read by Anthony Hopkins and Eliot himself. This is probably one of my favorite poems, ever. I remember studying it in Dr. Borck's Brit Lit II class at LSU. I remember his reading of it--his quirky interpretation, his pure, child-like enjoyment of it, still, after having read it thousands of times, after countless lectures on it for students who may or may not have been listening, and his indisputable declaration, after closing his battered, Post-it note-riddled Norton Anthology when he'd finished his lecture: "Good stuff!" 

I didn't realize there was a recording of Eliot reading Prufrock, though, honestly, Hopkins does a better job here. There's something about hearing a poem read that gives one a totally different experience of the poem than when one reads it. Lines you barely noticed in previous readings become more prominent. There's no denying that one of the most striking lines for me has always been,

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

 The ragged claws, the mermaids singing, each to each, the gorgeous sea imagery I always associate with this poem often obscures the poem's other imagery. In listening to these readings today, I was struck by another image, one that is a familiar presence in many of Eliot's poems--the slinky, mysterious cat, which, in this poem, masquerades as a fog.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,

Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

 Anyone who has read Old Possums' Book of Practical Cats will recognize shades of Growltiger and Macavity in this stanza. Hearing it, and reading it again, reminds me of how beautiful this poem, and these lines in particular, are: the fog that curled, like a cat, once about the house, and fell asleep. It brings to mind my own lanky, mysterious (and slightly disturbed) half-Siamese cat Saki; and it also brings to mind the other great cat poems and poets I've encountered over the years.

Saki, curling once about the scratching post...

At the top of this list is, obviously, Jubilate Agno, Fragment B [For I will consider my Cat Jeoffry], by Christopher Smart. Christopher Smart has (or should have) a special place in every crazy cat lady's heart for writing this poem. Prone to religious mania, incarcerated for much of his life in St. Luke's Hospital and Mr. Potter's Madhouse (sounds fun!), he influenced William Blake, Theodore Roethke, and Allen Ginsburg (1). Here is a selection:

from Jubilate Agno, Fragment B [For I will consider my Cat Jeoffry] 

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 is this 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 considered God and himself he will consider his neighbor.
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 defense 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 sit 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 Icneumon 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, though 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. (2)

Another favorite of mine is Margaret Atwood's "February".

February 

Winter. Time to eat fat
and watch hockey. In the pewter mornings, the cat,
a black fur sausage with yellow
Houdini eyes, jumps up on the bed and tries
to get onto my head. It’s his
way of telling whether or not I’m dead.
If I’m not, he wants to be scratched; if I am
He’ll think of something. He settles
on my chest, breathing his breath
of burped-up meat and musty sofas,
purring like a washboard. Some other tomcat,
not yet a capon, has been spraying our front door,
declaring war. It’s all about sex and territory,
which are what will finish us off
in the long run. Some cat owners around here
should snip a few testicles. If we wise
hominids were sensible, we’d do that too,
or eat our young, like sharks.
But it’s love that does us in. Over and over
again, He shoots, he scores! and famine
crouches in the bedsheets, ambushing the pulsing
eiderdown, and the windchill factor hits
thirty below, and pollution pours
out of our chimneys to keep us warm.
February, month of despair,
with a skewered heart in the centre.
I think dire thoughts, and lust for French fries
with a splash of vinegar.
Cat, enough of your greedy whining
and your small pink bumhole.
Off my face! You’re the life principle,
more or less, so get going
on a little optimism around here.
Get rid of death. Celebrate increase. Make it be spring. (3)

Here is Eliot again:

The Naming of Cats

Recommended reading:

Ella Mason and Her Eleven Cats  by Sylvia Plath

The Owl and the Pussy-Cat by Edward Lear

Finding the Cat in a Spring Field at Midnight  by Pattiann Rogers

The cat's song by Marge Piercy

Last Words to a Dumb Friend  by Thomas Hardy (WARNING: this one's a real tear-jerker)

I'm sure there are many others I'm leaving out and I'll probably wake up in the middle of the night and remember them. For now, these are some of my favorites.