Where Would Art Be Without Cats?

There’s no need for a piece of sculpture in a home that has a cat.
~Wesley Bates

The smallest feline is a masterpiece.
~Leonardo Da Vinci

Tiger here, reporting for duty. Sorry I've been gone for so long. Mice happens, I suppose. (Note to self: consult funny people for jokes that won't force readers to cough up hairballs prematurely.) I know you've missed me, so I promise to never again stay away for so long. However, if for some reason I'm quiet for an extended period of time, I know you won't stay angry. All I have to do is lie on my back, chirp sweetly and look at you upside down with all four of my little paws in the air. Cuteness always wins.

During my hiatus, I discovered a talented artist named Carrie Hawks. Most of her art features fantasy cats, but in her gallery and journal you'll also find some wonderful pieces featuring dragons, humans and other magical creatures. When it comes to Ms. Hawks' cat pieces, there's something for everyone. My lady loves the winged cats best, but you'll also find alien cats, Mardi Gras cats, fairy cats, hippie cats, gothic cats, and even a merkitty! One of her pictures will be featured in a soon-to-be-released anthology of pictures and poetry called Enchanted Artists; Visions of Atlantis. Visit Tigerpixie Art Studio to view and purchase Ms. Hawks' beautiful artwork. You can also learn more about the artist through her biography and live journal, order notecards and bookmarks and enter a contest to win a fine art print of her whimsical piece, "Alien Cats." If you love cats, art and fantasy, then Tigerpixie Art is the place for you.

And now, another cat poem from my lady, Karen D. Mitchell:

A few years before I lived in the woods there was what was called a 'winged cat" in one of the farm-houses in Lincoln nearest the pond, Mr. Gillian Baker's....They gave me a pair of her 'wing,' which I keep still....This would have been the right kind of cat for me to keep, if I had kept any, for why should not a poet's cat be winged as well as his horse?
~ Henry David Thoreau, Walden

on the third day

i. guilt

After the accident, Tiger stares at me
as he’s carried away in a cardboard box.

Red paw prints scatter across the porch,
but I can’t cry.

I hear that Russian villagers have drowned
a winged cat, believing it was a messenger of Satan.

I open the piano, caress its bones,
pretend I never had a cat.

Later, I dream that an orange cat with black wings
flies out of an ivory box and bleeds
into my arms.

ii. atonement

We have to decide. Either the baby or the cat must go.

The baby wins.

So Nomad lives up to his name
and leaves us to eat another’s fruit.

When I see the blue winged cat
perched on a wooden throne behind glass
at the art museum, I want to
smash its cage and offer
a spoonful of pureed bananas.

iii. resurrection

On the Day of the Dead,
I visit altars that coax back the lost.

Green and pink sugar grin skulls linger
on picado-lined shelves.

Clay bowls hold water for the journey.

Incense mingles with marigolds
that bloom around a memory mosaic:
china pig, cigarettes, tattered diary,
bottle of tequila.

Living eyes water inside glass frames
as if they smell the freshly-baked bread
and feel the candle’s heat.

I watch him dangle from the diorama’s black ceiling,
a wooden cat with wings.
He soars over a graveyard, where skeletons
wave red handkerchiefs.

All night, I dust off the bones
until they shine and bury them
again,
wrapped in velvet,
beneath the moon.

Copyright 2005 by Karen D. Mitchell

The above poem is featured in Karen's first chapbook, Thanatology of Moths, which is available for $6.00 from 3-Legged Cat Press. E-mail us at three(underscore)legged(underscore)cat(underscore)press@yahoo(dot)com for ordering information.