Hate That Cat

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by Sharon Creech


  why the kitten is a poet

  but

  she

  is

  And I cannot explain

  how my mother paints

  words

  with

  her

  hands

  but

  she

  does

  And I cannot explain

  how—

  when we paint words

  with each other—

  I hear sounds

  but I do not know

  if she hears anything—

  any strange or amazing

  or good or terrible

  or sparkling or fizzing

  sound

  at

  all.

  FEBRUARY 7

  So much depends upon

  making words

  without

  sounds

  FEBRUARY 11

  MY YELLOW CHAIR

  by Jack

  FEBRUARY 14

  Happeeeee Valentine’s Day!

  I liked when you said

  we could try

  turning the metaphors

  upside down or inside out

  and I liked when you used

  my chair poem as an example

  so

  instead of saying

  the chair is like a pleasingly plump momma

  we could try

  my momma is like a pleasingly plump chair

  except that now

  everyone thinks

  my mother is very plump

  and looks like a chair

  and it doesn’t mean the same

  when you turn them around

  because while the chair

  is a lot like a plump momma

  my own mother

  is like

  so

  much

  more

  than a chair.

  FEBRUARY 21

  Well, okay, I will try it.

  Here goes:

  My mother is like a plump chair

  all squishy soft and huggy

  when you sit in her lap

  (Just so you know:

  I am too old to sit in her lap.

  I’m just saying this for the poem.)

  Her arms hold you in

  so you won’t fall

  and will feel

  safe

  And she has sturdy legs

  (although I want to make it clear

  that my real mother has two legs

  not four)

  and a straight back

  She is proud

  but not too proud

  and she is there

  waiting for me

  always

  quietly

  waiting

  for

  me.

  End of Poem.

  So here’s the problem:

  My real mother

  can’t always be

  waiting for me

  because she works at night

  and my mother

  doesn’t sit in the same place

  day in and day out

  like a chair does—

  she is always

  moving moving moving

  her hands

  wav air

  ing the

  in

  talking to us

  with hands

  those

  and she isn’t plump at all

  and like I said

  she has two legs, not four

  and so

  really

  she is not very much

  like a chair

  at

  all.

  I will never be

  a

  real

  poet.

  FEBRUARY 25

  Today the fat black cat

  up in the tree by the bus stop

  dropped a nut on my head

  thunk

  and when I yelled at it

  that fat black cat said

  Murr-mee-urrr

  in a

  nasty

  spiteful

  way.

  I hate that cat.

  FEBRUARY 28

  I am getting

  a little worried

  about poor

  Mr. William Carlos Williams

  (is he alive?)

  I mean:

  first there was the

  poem about the

  red wheelbarrow

  and the chicky chickens

  and it’s true I like that poem now

  (it grows on you)

  but

  those two poems about the

  PLUMS . . . !!!???

  I think Kaitlyn was crying

  because she felt stupid

  and to tell you the truth

  I felt stupid, too,

  because even though

  those were nice little thingies

  that Mr. William Carlos Williams said

  about the sweet plums

  and the old lady

  and even though I could see

  little pictures

  in my mind

  when you were reading

  the plum poems

  it would be very very hard

  to explain to my uncle Bill

  why those are poems

  and not little notes

  scribbled on scrap paper.

  And did you notice that

  Mr. William Carlos Williams

  does NOT use much in the way of

  ALLITERATION

  or

  ONOMATOPOEIA

  or

  SIMILE

  or

  METAPHOR?

  Mm? Did you notice that?

  MARCH 6

  This morning I left

  a note

  for my mother:

  THIS IS JUST TO SAY

  I have eaten

  the pudding

  that was in

  the fridge

  and which

  you were maybe

  saving

  for dessert

  Forgive me

  it was so yum

  so thick

  so creamy

  MARCH 7

  Those non-poems

  of

  kookoo Mr. William Carlos Williams

  are running in my head:

  MOM IN THE KITCHEN

  (INSPIRED BY MR. WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS)

  BY JACK

  crunching on a pickle

  in the middle of the room

  juice running down her arm

  It tastes good to her

  It tastes good

  to her. It tastes

  good to her

  You can tell by

  the way she closes her eyes

  and licks her lips

  and then her arm

  Refreshed

  a song of dill pickles

  filling the air

  It tastes good to her

  MARCH 13

  You know WHAT?

  Today in the library

  I found some more poems

  by Mr. William Carlos Williams

  and do you know what he wrote?

  A poem about a cat

  A CAT!

  The title is POEM

  (Is Mr. William Carlos Williams

  a little lazy?)

  and it is only about

  a cat climbing over a jamcloset

  (what is a jamcloset?)

  and into a flowerpot!

  That is IT.

  That is the p-o-e-m.

  But as soon as I read it

  I saw in my head

  Skitter McKitter

  my black kitten

  so

  here is a

  non-poem

  about her:

  NON-POEM*

  (INSPIRED BY LAZY MR. WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS)

  BY JACK

  As the kitten

  leaped over

  the pot

  of blue violets

 
first the front

  paws

  gracefully

  then the hind paws

  landing

  into the bottom of

  the kitchen sink

  MARCH 14

  ANOTHER NON-POEM

  (INSPIRED BY MR. WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS)

  BY JACK

  The fat black cat

  crouched on a limb

  of the maple tree

  needle claws

  scratching

  the bark

  menacingly

  then the tail

  whacking

  at the branch

  in warning.

  MARCH 21

  Just as I expected

  my uncle Bill

  is not a big fan

  of Mr. William Carlos Williams.

  Uncle Bill says Mr. WCW

  is a “minor poet”

  and

  a “foe poet”

  (later my dad explained

  he meant faux

  which means “fake”)

  and I said

  “What about the

  ‘so much depends upon’

  poem

  and the plum poems?”

  (which are stuck in my head

  and I can say them from memory)

  and Uncle Bill said

  “Tuh! Overrated, highly

  overrated!”

  And I found myself

  sticking up for

  poor Mr. William Carlos Williams

  and the small ordinary things

  he writes about

  and the small ordinary moments

  that you don’t notice

  until you read his poems

  and Uncle Bill said

  “Small things? Small moments?

  Tuh! Give me LARGE things!

  LARGE moments!

  Give me poems about

  death and dying

  about war and tragedy

  and philosophical metaphors

  give me sonnets

  give me odes . . .”

  blah blah blah

  The only interesting thing

  he said while he was visiting

  was that he is allergic to cats

  and he sneezed a lot just to

  prove it

  and he made us lock Skitter McKitter

  in my room

  and

  when he left, my dad said

  two things.

  First:

  “Sometimes I envy your mom

  not being able to hear”

  and

  Second:

  “If Uncle Bill

  is allergic to cats

  maybe he won’t be able

  to visit us anymore.”

  Ha ha ha.

  MARCH 26

  This is just to say that

  Skitter McKitter

  has run away

  And maybe Uncle Bill

  would say this is not a

  tragedy

  but in our house

  it

  is

  a

  tragedy.

  MARCH 27

  How can you go from

  hating cats

  to loving one cat

  in particular

  one black cat

  one Skitter McKitter cat

  who chases a brown nut

  across the wood floor

  and who trails balls of string

  over chairs and under tables

  and who falls over backwards

  when she is swatting at a plant

  and who leaps in your lap

  and purrrrrrrrrrs

  and who sleeps on your pillow

  curled behind your head

  with one paw on your ear

  and who crawls under the covers

  to nip at your toes

  how can you love a little cat

  so much

  in such a

  short

  short

  time?

  MARCH 28

  Last night my mother

  signed the word C-A-T

  and then tapped

  her heart

  HARD-soft

  HARD-soft

  HARD-soft.

  MARCH 31

  Still no Skitter McKitter.

  We think she got out

  when the plumber

  left the door open.

  I keep thinking about

  Mr. Christopher Myers’

  roaming cat

  and the person in the poem-story

  who says over and over:

  where’s your home, where do you go?

  There is a big

  emptiness

  in our house

  just like there was

  when my dog Sky

  died.

  We’ve looked everywhere

  we’ve called Skitter’s name

  we’ve put out bowls of milk

  but the only cat who

  slurps the milk

  is that other black cat

  that mean fat black cat

  that scratched me.

  I saw it creeping away

  from the milk bowl

  licking its chin

  lazy waddling cat

  flicking its proud tail.

  I hate that cat.

  And more bad news:

  yesterday I received a postcard

  from Mr. Walter Dean Myers

  and on it he said that

  his cat

  DIED.

  He said his cat was old

  and had lived a

  good

  long

  life

  but that he

  misses

  his cat.

  I know what he means.

  Keep your doors

  closed

  so your cats do not

  get

  out

  and if you have any

  old cats

  take good care of them.

  APRIL 2

  Skitter McKitter:

  Here is your home.

  Why did you go?

  APRIL 11

  So much depends upon

  a black kitten

  mewing outside

  your back door.

  Yes, Skitter McKitter is back!

  I heard scratching

  and then howling

  but it didn’t sound like Skitter.

  When I opened the door

  there was the fat black cat

  making a ruckus

  and then I heard a

  softer mewing

  kitten mewing

  Skitter mewing

  and lying there

  beside the door

  was Skitter McKitter

  looking thin

  and bedraggled

  with a gash on one ear

  and a clump of fur missing

  from her neck

  and when I went to reach

  for Skitter

  the fat black cat

  put a paw out

  protectively

  and licked Skitter’s ear

  and then nudged Skitter

  up and into my hands

  and then the fat black cat

  sat there very still—

  silent—

  as I carried Skitter inside.

  I left the door open

  in case the fat black cat

  wanted to come inside too

  but instead the fat black cat

  turned and walked away

  whisking its fat black tail

  whisk whisk.

  I think the fat black cat

  found Skitter McKitter

  and

  saved her

  and brought her

  home.

  I’m sorry I hated that cat.

  When I held Skitter

  in my lap

  and petted her

  she licked my hand

  she licked it
/>
  and licked it

  It tasted good to her

  It tasted good

  to her. It tasted

  good

  to

  her.

  APRIL 18

  THE KITTEN

  (INSPIRED BY MR. ALFRED LORD TENNYSON)

  BY JACK

  She pats the package with padded paws

  and pulls apart the golden gauze

  with her tiny furry jaws.

  Then like an acrobat she leaps

  legs and ribbon in a heap

  tangled round and tangled deep.

  APRIL 25

  THE PURR

  (INSPIRED BY MR. EDGAR ALLAN POE

  AND MY NEW THESAURUS)

  BY JACK

  Hear the kitten with her purr,

  humming purr!

  What a contagious contentment

  her vibrations spur!

  How she hum hum hums

  keeping time time time

  in a sort of thrumming rhyme

  To the murmurabulation of the thrums

  and the hums

  of her purr, purr, purr, purr,

  purr, purr, purr—

  of the humming and the thrumming

  of her purr.

  MAY 2

  Thank you thank you thank you

  for showing me all the books

  of cat poems

  and all the books

  that tell a story

  in

  poems.

  I never knew

  a writer could do that—

  tell a whole story

  in

  poems.

  I already read the one

  by Mr. Robert Cormier

  (alive?)

  and next

  by my bed is

  that dust book by

  Ms. Karen Hesse

  (alive?)

  and underneath that one

  is the Essie and Amber one

  by Ms. Vera B. Williams

 

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