by Eric Schoonover
This poem was inspired by “Pangur Bán,” a 9th-Century
Irish poem about a scholar monk and his cat.
Cats are such fine fellows
neat and fierce, quick and soft.
Their lives are tidy at the edges
carefully surveying all—before the leap.
In that ancient poem, Pangur’s dedication to mousing
is likened to his monk’s devoted writing.
They labor in their different vineyards (yet close by)
catching mice, discovering meaning in the text, each
wrapped in deadly silent focus: the mouse upon the
floor, the portending skull upon the desk.
Sic transit gloria mundi.
I met my Pangur on a dark and stormy, boldly
crying at my door with impatient ice-matted fur
the neighbor’s cat neglected neighbors told.
I let him in, he stayed for years
and we nourished each other’s silent padding ways
tho my pen would scratch and he would purr,
signatures of our contented ways. But Kumba’s
gone. Another neighbor? No, I fear the car
as we live against a fast street, challenging
our arthritic days. But then . . .
in a ninth life, he stands moaning at the door
ear torn, blood-matted but eyes still bright.
I let him in, he leans against my leg as if a dog.
Mice beware! The challenge of my page awaits!
. . . and our lives resume.
Eric Schoonover is a writer, boatbuilder, and watercolorist, who lives in Gloucester in a small 1735 Cape Ann cottage with his wife, also a writer. He is the author of the award-winning The Gloucester Suite and Other Poems and a novel, Flowers of the Sea. His latest book, Telling Tales, has recently been published.