Poetry Friday is hosted Jone at Check it Out
We have a black cat, who, due to our lack of imagination and inability to come to a collective family decision, is called Cat. Cat, however, has risen above his lackluster name. He has attitude in spades, a hefty sense of entitlement, and owns any space he chooses to inhabit – it’s his world, and he lets us be a part of it when he chooses. We love him.
Black Cat by Rainer Maria Rilke
A ghost, though invisible, still is like a place
your sight can knock on, echoing; but here
within this thick black pelt, your strongest gaze
will be absorbed and utterly disappear:
just as a raving madman, when nothing else
can ease him, charges into his dark night
howling, pounds on the padded wall, and feels
the rage being taken in and pacified.
She seems to hide all looks that have ever fallen
into her, so that, like an audience,
she can look them over, menacing and sullen,
and curl to sleep with them. But all at once
as if awakened, she turns her face to yours;
and with a shock, you see yourself, tiny,
inside the golden amber of her eyeballs
suspended, like a prehistoric fly.