We’ve
not had any T.S. Eliot for a long time—not since I started out National Poetry
Month in 2013 with a
clip from “The Waste Land”. On account of April being the cruelest month.
If
you’re a young person looking for existential angst and despair, Eliot’s your
man. I mean, really—if “The Waste Land” doesn’t do it, “The Love Song of J.
Alfred Prufrock" will. There’s no better description of what youth fears (when
youth thinks about it) in old age than “I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers
rolled.”
(He
also perfectly described the academic environment when he said of his time at Merton
College, “I hate university towns and university people, who are the same
everywhere, with pregnant wives, sprawling children, many books and hideous
pictures on the walls… Oxford is very pretty, but I don’t like to be dead.”)
But
there’s another side to Eliot, as evidenced by Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats, a collection of light verse.
You’ll know a lot of the pieces if you’ve heard anything by Andrew Lloyd
Webber. But if you can divorce yourself from those earworms, tuck into “Macavity:
The Mystery Cat”.
I’ve
got an edition of Old Possum’s Book of
Practical Cats illustrated by Edward Gorey. Here’s the one for Macavity:
This
is a great poem to read with kids, especially with all the repetition of his
name. The notion of a cat outwitting the best that grownups have to offer (Scotland
Yard, the Foreign Office) is just so delicious. The descriptions link Macavity
to Professor Moriarty and the Scarlet Pimpernel; you know—elusive, triumphant
scofflaws. Precisely what you’d expect from a Feline of the World.
This
is definitely one you should read aloud.
“Macavity:
The Mystery Cat”
Macavity’s a Mystery Cat: he’s called
the Hidden Paw—
For he’s the master criminal who can
defy the Law.
He’s the bafflement of Scotland Yard,
the Flying Squad’s despair:
For when they reach the scene of
crime—Macavity’s not there!
Macavity, Macavity, there’s no one
like Macavity,
He’s broken every human law, he breaks
the law of gravity.
His powers of levitation would make a
fakir stare,
And when you reach the scene of
crime—Macavity’s not there!
You may seek him in the basement, you
may look up in the air—
But I tell you once and once again,
Macavity’s not there!
Macavity’s a ginger cat, he’s very
tall and thin;
You would know him if you saw him, for
his eyes are sunken in.
His brow is deeply lined with thought,
his head is highly domed;
His coat is dusty from neglect, his
whiskers are uncombed.
He sways his head from side to side,
with movements like a snake;
And when you think he’s half asleep,
he’s always wide awake.
Macavity, Macavity, there’s no one
like Macavity,
For he’s a fiend in feline shape, a
monster of depravity.
You may meet him in a by-street, you
may see him in the square—
But when a crime’s discovered, then
Macavity’s not there!
He’s outwardly respectable. (They say
he cheats at cards.)
And his footprints are not found in
any file of Scotland Yard’s
And when the larder’s looted, or the
jewel-case is rifled,
Or when the milk is missing, or another
Peke’s been stifled,
Or the greenhouse glass is broken, and
the trellis past repair
Ay, there’s the wonder of the thing!
Macavity’s not there!
And when the Foreign Office find a
Treaty’s gone astray,
Or the Admiralty lose some plans and
drawings by the way,
There may be a scrap of paper in the
hall or on the stair—
But it’s useless to
investigate—Macavity’s not there!
And when the loss has been disclosed,
the Secret Service say:
It must have been Macavity!’—but he’s
a mile away.
You’ll be sure to find him resting, or
a-licking of his thumb;
Or engaged in doing complicated long
division sums.
Macavity, Macavity, there’s no one
like Macavity,
There never was a Cat of such
deceitfulness and suavity.
He always has an alibi, and one or two
to spare:
At whatever time the deed took
place—MACAVITY WASN’T THERE!
And they say that all the Cats whose
wicked deeds are widely known
(I might mention Mungojerrie, I might
mention Griddlebone)
Are nothing more than agents for the
Cat who all the time
Just controls their operations: the
Napoleon of Crime!
1 comment:
Somewhere I have a 78 rpm record of Edith Sitwell reading Ol' Possum.
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