Fred Wolven

Fred Wolven

THERE'S NO CAT OUTSIDE MY DOOR, # 8

“Oh, yes, the telephone rings.”
--a Tribal chant

When I was young I admired those who could figure
skate; now as I age I find I still appreciate those who
figure skate. Today a friend buried her pet dog,
yesterday another friend's father passed away at 92,
and the day before yet another friend's dad died after
a long, sad struggle with cancer. Sometimes I just sit
here waiting for the phone to ring wishing you'd call
and talk with me, wanting to hear your lovely voice
in my ears, looking so forward to doing so that oft
times I nearly try to will it so—that the telephone
will indeed ring, ring only until I pick it quickly up.
I'm never too sure when I sit at the computer if what
is in my thoughts, what is working around in brain
patterns will or won't find its way into something
less than a puzzle, something quite different from
when a mother cat suckles its newborn kitten giving
the love only the mother can. Yes, if I can learn but
half of what Roethke shows in poems, I will smile.

THERE'S NO CAT OUTSIDE MY DOOR, # 9

First I moved the shelves over along the side wall,
then I found a place for the small wine rack, the
pedestal with the classic head upon it, and finally
the Native American made drum. Eventually, I
decided it was essential to shift the knick-knack
cabinet being careful not to disturb your angels,
your unicorns or your various associated other
collectables. I wonder if the neighbor's cat is
outside or sitting pretty in a window looking out?
I supposed, unlike Roethke's cat which sat some-
what patiently looking in the screen door while
the poet performed his ballads and love songs,
that such focused creatures, unlike we humans,
rarely lose their compunction to complete a task
whatever it may be. I opened the door a crack
late last night and just now again this morning,
but there was no, and there isn't any cat outside
my door then or now. So a cat stays in this poem.

THERE WAS A CAT OUTSIDE HIS DOOR, # 13

I've read that the hummingbird beats its wings 60-80 times
a second when in flight. I wonder how fast its small heart
pumps when it is resting? Of all the mysteries of nature,
of all the magical qualities uncovered, yea, discovered by

all the scientists studying known creatures, or poets' verses
extolling their virtues, I never quite just wondered which
is the most awesome, which more remarkable, which truly
the most fantastic one of all. Perhaps it's the smallest web

spider spinning its lines in order to corner it's unsuspecting
prey? Maybe it's the slow moving snail inching across a
morning sidewalk? Could that be Roethke's field mouse
darting across the open field, unprotected and avoiding

all its natural predators? How long does the average small
ant survive in its anthill? Can one even begin to actually
measure the kind of quality of sound attributed to blue jays
on the wire? Isn't it just possible that without the aid of all

our devices, without use of all our technology, without our
often coveted skills, the poet's cat does somehow still live?

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