Stan and Bette Solomons

Poetry and Artwork

Author: PGallagher69 Page 4 of 6

Unkind Cut

Tyger, Tyger, pussy cat,
Meditating on the mat.
Nowadays you can no other
Sitting like a burnished Buddha.

Tyger, Tyger, pussy cat,
I often wonder what you’re at.
Perhaps you dream of former glories
Defending all your territories.

Of victory and feral feats
Against the other alley cats.
The smiles that spread so enigmatic
Are naughty thoughts of past gymnastics.

But now, alas, these dreams of action
Are mere immaculate conception.

Oh it was the most unkindest cut
When we took you to see the vet.

From the Computer Room

The day awakes
and slowly stretches
under its grey covers
and the morning breeze
stirs the leaves.

I hear bird-song
rising along the hedges,
in brilliant bubbles of sound.

And all around the scene
colours brighten,
dark turns to brown
and grey to red

I look down
on flower-bed and lawn;
taste from the crimson cups
of tulips;
hear golden fanfares
from the daffodils;
smell the sweet flare
of apple blossom;
follow meandering
flight of bees;
and see sharp starlings,
beaks askew,
spiking the grass
quiet with dew.

And then I turn away,
from the real day,
to my computer screen.

Morning Nap

Ten o’clock and all’s well,
at least as well
as can be expected.

I recline
in the half-light
of the lace curtains

I lie long,
fitting my spine,
against the line
of the armchair
listening to the bird song
swooping and scooping
in tender bubbles of sound.

I move my eyes
and laze there,
unwilling to turn around,
and range the room.

Objects vanish and loom
full fish-eye,
paintings and photographs,
carved wood and books.

I half close my eye
and look out
through the film
around my gaze
in lieu of sight.

Awareness abates
and I retreat
from reality,
from anxiety,
from the pleasure,
and the refined pain
that fills my leisure,
and I search for beauty,
whatever that may be.

Dad Painted by Mum

Grief

He lay in the hollow
scooped from his Present,
and could not emerge,
could not see back
into his past,
nor go forward
into his Future.

Here was no cause,
and no effect,
no real relief
no end to anything.

So he smiled at grief,
the pain within,
the problems,
weighing upon him.

Smiles that friends
took, mistakenly,
at their face value.

Joy

That morning he awoke
And it was so strange
So new, so nascent,
Everything arranged
Crystal clear,
Full of an inner sense,
Relaxed and yet intense
There was no fence
Between him and the rest,
Him and events
No more regrets
All with a purpose
All with a unity
And joy.

Anger

So, in the end
I told my anger to my friend,
and he gazed down from
his superior intelligence
saying in a loud voice
that anger was a vice,
a destructive emotion,
violence a primitive notion ,
and neither should be allowed
to linger within and fester
“It makes sense!” he said.

At this point I am afraid,
suffering from schadenfreude
and surfeit of good advice,
I left my friend behind.

I made up my mind,
sought out my foe,
told him my anger
and hit him very hard
upon the nose.

And to tell the truth,
my anger did depart,
along with one tooth,
and I felt better.

Frames of Mind

Sulking

Slumped in a dull red sulk
he sits, ego pulsing inside
its slender shell of identity,
around his psyche.

The child within
peers out, tearfully.
Given time he’ll
mend his mind
glue around the cracks,
reconstruct himself
convincingly,
even admit his lack
of maturity.

A Birthday Poem to my Wife

So many ways
To punctuate time.
Dates, anniversaries,
Not forgetting birthdays.

Notes in your diary
Knots tied in string
Knots in your mind.
And all for untying.

Watching the dials
Nicely mathematical
See how the seconds go
Neatly staccato.

Marking infinity.
Dissecting eternity
Leaving no trace
On the surface of Space.

Figures and figments
Projections of mind
Second hand measurements
Imposed on Time.

But this special day
There’s no more I can say,
Except you are my wife,
My love, my life.

November 16th 2003

The Cat

The cat is the most fascinating and mysterious of animals. Dogs, horses, cattle, pigs were of immediate use to man, but the cat, not useful to anyone, independent, fierce, remained its own master.

When it did strike up a relationship, it was not out of affection, but self-interest, because it could not resist the succulent mice that roamed the granaries of Ancient Egypt.

Scientists seem to agree that the domestic cat is a cross between the European wildcat (Felis sylvestris) and the African Wildcat (Felis lybica). It lived like a small tiger in the wild. Only in the Third Millennium did it mortgage its freedom and was tempted to begin its softer life in Egypt. Here it was deified and venerated and slowly accepted the company of men.

The goddess Bast or Past – hence the diminutive puss – was depicted with the head of a cat endowed with a mysterious bewitching gaze. She was the moon, the lover of the night.

Nowadays the cat knows that it comes from noble lineage, and will not let us forget it. Every cat has its own particular psyche – it may be timid, impudent, stubborn, tranquil, spiteful, courageous, neurotic. How much it acquires from men is problematic. But under this it also has typically feline qualities of independence, curiosity, cruelty and jealousy.

In this collection Company of Cats, I have tried to portray some of these.

Catatonic

Sleek sybaritic,
Sibylline feline,
Eyes slanting
Enigmatic,
Towards a mind,
Nihilistic.

Page 4 of 6

© Pete Gallagher - PJG Creations Ltd