" He sighed, more exhaustedly than regretfully, I thought. That morning was the last time I saw Moreland. It was also the last time I had, with anyone, the sort of talk we used to have together. Things drawing to a close, even quite suddenly, was hardly a surprise. The look Moreland had was the one people take on when a stage has been reached quite different from just being ill.
from Temporary Kings ( A Dance to the Music of Time )
by Anthony Powell
This morning we said goodbye to our cat Max. For many years, he sat with me in the morning before the rest of the house was up. And in the evening the two of us would sit in my study to read or watch hockey while the rest of the family was in the living room. This summer he spent 3 months at the cabin with us, mostly sleeping on the screened in porch in a state of feline bliss. It was only a few months ago when his health started to fail that I came to appreciate the tremendous gap he would leave.
Max and I collaborated on this poem in April of 2012
it was a happier time. Rest in love little man.
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The Cat Wishes to Use the Pen
by Max
To write doubtless,
about the space under the rug where he keeps things and
the spot under the coffee table where he also keeps things
including himself, dreaming of jungle, he would like to
immortalize lurking unseen.
Unless he wants a drink in which case he will write
of the white porcelain tub where he sits demanding
a drink from the faucet. Or yowling through the house
until someone follows him to his dish to witness
the wonder of a feeding cat.
He would include a triumphant inventory of the
clawed furniture, the red leather chair, the sofa, the
good Lazy Boy. The declawed cat broke lamps but he
is all about fabric, sweaters, wedding dresses,
comforters and of course the good Lazy Boy.
He would surely write about laying across a warm chest
with one paw extended purring happily. But there will be
no mention of the small white dog who sniffs his butt,
let him write his own poem.
"The thudding sound from the quarry had declined now to no more than a gentle reverberation, infinitely remote. It ceased altogether at the long drawn wail of a hooter - the distant pounding of centaurs' hoofs dying away, as the last note of their conch trumpeted out over hyperborean seas. Even the formal measure of the seasons seemed suspended in the wintry silence."
from Hearing Secret Harmonies ( A Dance to the Music of Time )
by Anthony Powell
