Well, why not. My painting now dominates the other blog so I'm dedicating this one to original poetry, plays and stories, usually in English!
Starting as I mean to go on, here's a little poem in the style of C-S. Eliot. I wrote a programme for a fellow stage performer and myself. Actually I wrote the short stage plays, and we read all the wonderful "Cats" poems in between. The evening was calls "Cats and other Creatures" and was very successful.
Macintosh really did exist. His story is a sad one, though. He was black and white, long, sleek and beautiful. He came to us as a baby, and grew very fast into an elegant and rather arrogant creature. One day he disappeared and we had given up searching for him (believing him dead) when I was told by a child in the neighbourhood that she had seen him looking out of a third floor window in a house down the road. I let it be known that I would call the police if he wasn't returned immediately. Lo and behold, hours later, after dark, someone rang my doorbell and by the time I got to the door had scarpered, leaving a dazed and bleary eyed cat sitting on the doormat. Unfortunately, the imprisonment had made poor MacIntosh aggressive and he attacked us for no reason, going for our eyes, which was very scary. I couldn't hang on to him anyway because I had a cat flap and the other cats left home temporarily and held court in the garden. He also attacked them if he ever got near them. After a few days he went off and this time we did not look for him. We think he was taken by whoever had taken him the first time. He wasn't underfed, just psychotic! Poor Macintosh. The poem looks back on happier days.
A cat for all seasons (1988)
(with sincere apologies to T.S.Eliot)
There’s crash in the kitchen,
It’s that horrible cat again,
Mic, Mec, Moc, Macintosh,
Up to his ears in the cranberry sauce.
There’s a splash in the bathroom,
It’s that terrible cat again,
Moc, Mec, Mic Macintosh,
Up to his eyes in the luxury foam.
There’s a scrunch in the sitting-room,
It’s that mischievous cat again,
Mec, Mic, Moc, Macintosh,
Spreading the plant soil all over the rug.
There’s a plink in the music room,
It’s that musical cat again,
Plonking the piano with four little paws.
There’s a silence all round us,
It’s that tired weary cat again,
Dear sweet old Macintosh,
Counting the sheep at the foot of my bed.