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My cat would be a poet if she could

My cat would be a poet if she could.

Perfection of the life, or of the work?

She chose the former—or, rather, had it chosen for her.

Once I arrived at Coole Park in Galway on my bicycle

In search of Lady Gregory

By hook or crook—

Too late, for it was 1971;

She’d died in 1932, they said—

Who now have here The Letters of Seamus Heaney for a bedside book.

See, Minou,* how easy it is to write poetry.

You simply string words together, one by one,

And somehow they make sense—

For some wanton passing sense will surely come.

Time passes so we groom our fur.

It’s how the better cats get fed;

No need to bake bread, or even purr.

*A pseudonym.


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