February

Poetry is a vital part of my life. I read it, I write it, and I mull over the delicate words like a sommelier considering the subtle nuances of flavors in a glass of wine. For some there is only a simple surface meaning, but for the connoisseurs an abstract mix of words provides deep insight into who we are and how we think. My favorite poems are the ones that fall somewhere in the middle; they can be enjoyed without the need to analyze every dash and comma, but they also provide enough substance that deeper reading reveals something more. Finding that added nugget of meaning is the kind of reward that stirs one into mental action, sparking the fires of creativity that keep us from falling victim to the monotony of everyday life. The meanings may not always be pleasant, and we may not always agree, but the pursuit of those meanings is what gives the greatest pleasure. The following piece is one that has given me the thrill of analysis; it is among my favorite works. I share with you February by Margaret Atwood. –Gaia_song

February

Winter. Time to eat fat
and watch hockey. In the pewter mornings, the cat,
a black fur sausage with yellow
Houdini eyes, jumps up on the bed and tries
to get onto my head. It’s his
way of telling whether or not I’m dead.
If I’m not, he wants to be scratched; if I am
he'll think of something. He settles
on my chest, breathing his breath
of burped-up meat and musty sofas,
purring like a washboard. Some other tomcat,
not yet a capon, has been spraying our front door,
declaring war. It’s all about sex and territory,
which are what will finish us off
in the long run. Some cat owners around here
should snip a few testicles. If we wise
hominids were sensible, we’d do that too,
or eat our young, like sharks.
But it’s love that does us in. Over and over
again, He shoots, he scores! and famine
crouches in the bedsheets, ambushing the pulsing
eiderdown, and the windchill factor hits
thirty below, and pollution pours
out of our chimneys to keep us warm.
February, month of despair,
with a skewered heart in the centre.
I think dire thoughts, and lust for French fries
with a splash of vinegar.
Cat, enough of your greedy whining
and your small pink bumhole.
Off my face! You’re the life principle,
more or less, so get going
on a little optimism around here.
Get rid of death. Celebrate increase. Make it be spring.