atiguhya padma
08-18-2004, 12:55 PM
Some say the novelist
and the poet
Are gods.
I say they are godmakers.
When Magwitch
Terrifies the young Pip
In a Gravesend cemetery
Tell me
Where are you?
My cat sends me prayers,
Petitioning for food
And comfort.
What can he know
Of process, of livestock,
Of economy and scale.
He looks up to me
And though he sees me,
He cannot know me.
Maybe he senses
A greater life than his,
An all-powerful presence.
He would be mistaken,
But understandably so.
Pet-like, petulant, he prostrates
Himself, belly-posturing,
Submissive and ritualistic.
His prayers are answered
Around 7.45am
And 7pm.
He knows the power
Of praise and communion
Of worship and prayer.
Such is the life of a pet
and the poet
Are gods.
I say they are godmakers.
When Magwitch
Terrifies the young Pip
In a Gravesend cemetery
Tell me
Where are you?
My cat sends me prayers,
Petitioning for food
And comfort.
What can he know
Of process, of livestock,
Of economy and scale.
He looks up to me
And though he sees me,
He cannot know me.
Maybe he senses
A greater life than his,
An all-powerful presence.
He would be mistaken,
But understandably so.
Pet-like, petulant, he prostrates
Himself, belly-posturing,
Submissive and ritualistic.
His prayers are answered
Around 7.45am
And 7pm.
He knows the power
Of praise and communion
Of worship and prayer.
Such is the life of a pet