PS Cottier

Cat poems

My cat is a cunning composer.
She leaves scores around the house.
There are syncopated jazz rats, still jerking,
replete with her creation.
They hum as tiny drumsticks protrude,
percussion and strings combined.
She arranges her catch with
an unblinking painter’s eye.
A wavering line of random feathers
changes into a bald peach bird,
elegantly draped among the pears.
She is Flemish in her still life,
Nature mort, most mort.
My Renaissance cat creates poems of pain,
with small commas of grey as meek mice
punctuate, curling. Each whisker a line of praise,
a direct compliment, to her well executed verse.

PS Cottier

I always dread putting a photograph of anything feline up, as I’m bound to get lolcats comments. Oh well, I’ll be brave…

Cats are tremendous murderers, almost as good as people. So click this feather from a bird one killed earlier, for further poesie:

My poem today was published in my first book, The Glass Violin.

ALSO: There’s a fun article about the Poets Train written by the wonderful organiser, Fiona McIlroy at this link, in which I have become PC Cottier. I haven’t been PC for a very long time, Fiona!:-)

UPDATE: I am back to being P.S. Cottier! Unfortunately, I momentarily typed and posted Fiona’s name as Fiona Wright: quite a different person. And although I corrected that quickly here, it’s up on the Australian Poetry site as Wright in my pingback comment. It’s McIlroy, I tell you! Sorry Fiona!