I don’t really understand the idea of a yoga mantra, but I
do have a verse of poetry I repeat to calm myself.
Let us go then, you
and I…
It’s “The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock”. I cannot get enough of this poem. My first real paper was about it. Since, I’ve written two more about the
verses. Nothing touches me in quite the
same way.
I remember in high school, learning about Eliot’s love of
cats. I remember learning about characterization
for the first time in this poem, learning about how the fog in the poem is
actually a cat.
******
The yellow fog that
rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that
rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into
the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the
pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back
the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the
terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was
a soft October night,
Curled once about the
house, and fell asleep.
*****
After reading the poem in high school, I knew I wanted a cat named Eliot. Preferably orange, as I’d somewhat erroneously imagined the one in “Lovesong”.
As my literary knowledge grew, so did my collection of
cats. After reading The Great Gatsby, Fitzgerald joined the ranks. Then Hemmingway.
My real life collection now has all but Hemmingway. As of this summer, an orange fluff of a cat
happened upon my family as they explored the nearby river. I heard tales of the orange cat via Viber, of how sweet he was, of his motorboat purr. After returning
from Brazil, I quickly renamed him Eliot, to my siblings’ dismay. The youngest
still insists on calling him Fireheart…
 |
| Obviously, I tried to work too diligently. |
Eliot has chosen me as his own. He follows me around the house, at a distance
so I don’t notice. I can never
notice. Because he takes his time, Eliot
often finds himself confronted with a closed door. He bats at the obstruction until the magic
opens it (or we the humans get annoyed) and continues after me. When we’re in the same room, he doesn’t want
anything to do with me… That is until I’m busy.
When I’m reading, he pounces.
When I’m sleeping he attacks.
When I want to cuddle, he hides under the bed.
 |
| Ready to attack! |
I’m still working on gaining his affection on my terms. The first step has been feeding him, though
this somewhat backfired this morning, when he was hungry and eager to eat in my
room. In the midst of my morning rush, I
shoved him out, not wanting him to be locked in the room all day. I’ll see if
he’s forgiven me after yoga tonight.
