Fred Wolven

Fred Wolven

THERE WAS A CAT OUTSIDE HIS DOOR, # 5
from a new series

Even if he was still somehow sitting there outside his door,
I seriously doubt that even a Buddha would realize
that in order to be fully present in the moment one—either
the cat or the poet—would have become spirit enough

that, although felines do have such a sixth sense about them
they often cause we humans to wonder if they have
a direct connection to the pharaohs in terms of possessing
a breadth and depth of learning especially of ritual and medicine,

nd which could put we mortals to shame. Ah, when Roethke
was writing in tribute to Yeats and Stevens, his clear and distinct
voice held such a musical quality that much of his verse
lends itself to singing and stage performance. Subjects like

the forested birds—jays, sparrows, hawks; the miniscule
field mice; the lake pickerel and brook trout; the spinney pines,
aging oaks, and spreading maples; and the roots of wildflowers,
all gathering together in orchestral rehearsal, caught his fancy.
Perhaps the cat tuned in like a concertmaster and the sirens' lilting
love calls lulling sailors until death somehow are kindred spirits.

THERE WAS A CAT OUTSIDE HIS DOOR, # 6

Perhaps when Roethke noticed the cat outside his door,
he realized that even this small creature was a kindred soul.
Perhaps when the cat outside his door sat watching
this poet performing his verses, his lines, his songs,

he couldn’t but help tilt his head just a bit, listening
harder, listening closer, hearing just a might more
as the writer dotted his end stops, crossed his pitch and
raised his volume the better to be heard by such audience.

Perhaps, but not quite sure, I now recount my encounters
with this my poet, while revisiting a home town center,
with memory of the cemetery where they laid him out,
with the very roots, the branches, the flowers, the dirt

in which he reposes snug within that box, within that coffin
he was transported in from the Puget Sound area back to
his Michigan, back to this my native state also. Yet, there
is something not quite the same in this memory—in my

recall of the creeks, the small streams, and the bold nursery blooms,
and even in the verses so structured even cats catch the voices.

THERE WAS A CAT OUTSIDE HIS DOOR, # 7

How still he seemed to sit back then when Roethke read,
performing inside the house in front of the mantle, his head
tilted slightly as if listening more intently while the poet
stretched, reaching for the just right accent, the just right

volume level, using the just right gesture, the spontaneous
but just right swaying motions—the body moves of this
always anxious yet confident man, sometimes a bit too
concerned with the rhythms of others’ work, too much

struck by the compelling critic’s observations or audience
response. After all, just as the cat, whether looking in or out,
seems to weather any kind of attention, the poet seeks never
ending devotion, never ending recognition, continuing

acclaim, always needing, always wanting more than before.
Each new line, each depiction of an one of the earthen
elements, each description of birds, of small creatures,
fish in stream, brook or river, each novel twist of symbol

magnifying connections between man and nature, between
God, man and nature, still lingers in my reading of his poems.

THERE WAS A CAT OUTSIDE HIS DOOR, # 8

Oh, I know now that when he used to sit outside the door,
he had an inquisitive look on his face, his eyes were wide
in an inquiring fashion, his whiskers in perfect alignment,
his grey tail wrapped neatly around his lower extremities,

although Roethke may not have been aware of this exactness,
of the precision with which the cat paused next to the screen
looking in. I don’t believe there really was a Wicked Witch
of the West. Perhaps the eternal contest between the forces

of the environment—earth and wind—mesh so well that
there was no such spirit to cause the Frog Prince to throw
a bucket of water on? Perhaps, but who knows for certain,
for there is an untold story of Dorothy—the one having nothing

to do with Kansas in which she rides a broomstick and melts.
Yes, my poet was familiar with nursery rhymes, with a ditty
or two, and could match symbol to image line after line. Then,
too, it just may be that Gretel was fashioning a wholly unique

tale or two just about the same time as she and Hansel took
their forest stroll. Ah, but does the cat still hear Roethke’s voice?

Copyright © 2007 Fred Wolven

Cover Design: Joseph McNair