Poetry Monday

Now for something completely different: Pablo Neruda

Cat's Dream



How neatly a cat sleeps,


sleeps with its paws and its posture,


sleeps with its wicked claws,


and with its unfeeling blood,


sleeps with all the rings--


a series of burnt circles--


which have formed the odd geology


of its sand-colored tail.






I should like to sleep like a cat,


with all the fur of time,


with a tongue rough as flint,


with the dry sex of fire;


and after speaking to no one,


stretch myself over the world,


over roofs and landscapes,


with a passionate desire


to hunt the rats in my dreams.






I have seen how the cat asleep


would undulate, how the night


flowed through it like dark water;


and at times, it was going to fall


or possibly plunge into


the bare deserted snowdrifts.


Sometimes it grew so much in sleep


like a tiger's great-grandfather,


and would leap in the darkness over


rooftops, clouds and volcanoes.






Sleep, sleep cat of the night,


with episcopal ceremony


and your stone-carved moustache.


Take care of all our dreams;


control the obscurity


of our slumbering prowess


with your relentless heart


and the great ruff of your tail.