That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all..........................................
by Billy Collins
The dead are always looking down on us, they say.
while we are putting on our shoes or eating a steak,
they are looking down through the glass bottom boats of heaven
as they row themselves slowly through eternity.
They watch the tops of our heads moving below on earth,
and when we lie down in a field or on a couch,
drugged perhaps by the hum of a long afternoon,
they think we are looking back at them,
which makes them lift their oars and fall silent
and wait, like parents, for us to close our eyes.
接著波赫士指出她驚鴻一暼的微笑和永遠轉開的臉。這與奧菲爾斯的故事多麼相似，詩人只有自己的詩作可恃，進入死者的國度，越過地獄，到達天堂，找到自己心愛的人，卻又再度失去她，且這一次是永遠的失去。就像是蒂朵從阿伊尼身旁跑開，像是尤芮蒂絲由奧菲爾斯身旁轉開，碧翠絲也從但丁身旁離去。儘管她轉開的臉是面對上帝，儘管她很快樂 ─ 但對他來說，最重要的一點是，他失去了她。卻又再度得回。卻又再度失去。除非我們對很多東西視而不見，才能把神曲天堂篇結局看成皆大歡喜的結局。
(節錄至 Negotiating with the dead by Margaret Atwood )
Cats believe that all human beings, animals and plants should congregate in a huge heap in the centre of the universe and promptly fall asleep together. 這是加拿大詩人 Gwendolyn MacEwen的詩句。
女詩人寫了一連串關於貓的爆笑詩句，像是Cats never get baptized. They lose their dry，是沒錯啦。
The only reason cats do not carry passports is because they have no pockets. 不然勒？？他也沒有皮包啦～
Magic Cats這首詩讓我愛上Gwendolyn MacEwen。
Most cats, with the exception of Burmese, do not celebrate their birthdays. Rather, they are extremely sentimental about Palm Sunday and Labour Day, at which times they survive solely on white lace and baloney sandwiches.
Cats on the whole are loath to discuss God.
Generally speaking, cats have no money, although some of them secretly collect rare and valuable coins.
Cats believe that all human beings, animals and plants should congregate in a huge heap in the centre of the universe and promptly fall asleep together.
Of all the cats I have known, the ones I remember most are: Bumble Bee, Buttonhole, Chocolate Bar, Molten Lava and Mushroom. I also remember Tabby who was sane as a star and spent all his time lying on his back in the sink, thinking up appropriate names for me.
Cats see their Keepers as massive phantoms, givers of names and the excellent gravy of their days.
Cats who have been robbed of balls and claws do not lament. They become their Keeper's keepers.
When cats are hosts to fleas they assume the fleas are guests.
Most cats would rather be covered with live fleas than dead ones.
Cats hold no grudges and have no future. They invade nets of strangers with their eyes.
The patron saint of cats is called: Beast of the Skies, Warm Presence, Eyes.
Cats do not worry about the gurgling horrors of the disease listed in catbooks, some of which are Hairballs Enteritis and Bronchitis. But they do become very upset about Symptoms, which is the worst disease of all.
When cats grow listless (i.e. lose their list) they cease to entertain fleas. They mumble darkly about radishes and death. They listen to Beethoven and become overly involved in Medieval History.
When cats decide to die they lie alone lost among leaves beneath the dark winds and broad thunders of the world and pray to the Beast of the Skies, Warm, Presence, Eyes.
Broadly speaking, cats do not read Gothic novels, although they tend to browse through Mary Shelley on the day before Christmas.
The only reason cats do not carry passports is because they have no pockets.
When a black cat crosses your path it usually means that he is trying to get to the other side of the street.
Cats never get baptized. They lose their dry.
Cats only perspire during Lent.
Cats have no memory and no future. They are highly allergic to Prime Ministers, radishes, monks, poets, and death.
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.
I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.
It's easy enough to do it in a cell.
It's easy enough to do it and stay put.
It's the theatrical
Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
That knocks me out.
There is a charge
For the eyeing my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart---
It really goes.
And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood
Or a piece of my hair on my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.
I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby
That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there----
A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.
Herr God, Herr Lucifer
Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.