3 ms·

not really a favorite poet, but a favorite poem : 'Cat in an empty apartment' Die--you can't do that to a cat. Since what can a cat do in an empty apartm

not really a favorite poet, but a favorite poem : 'Cat in an empty apartment' Die--you can't do that to a cat. Since what can a cat do in an empty apartment? Climb the walls? Rub up against the furniture? Nothing seems different here but nothing is the same. Nothing's been moved but there's more space. And at nighttime no lamps are lit. Footsteps on the staircase, but they're new ones. The hand that puts fish on the saucer has changed, too. Something doesn't start at its usual time. Something doesn't happen as it should. Someone was always, always here, then suddenly disappeared and stubbornly stays disappeared. Every closet's been examined. Every shelf has been explored. Excavations under the carpet turned up nothing. A commandment was even broken: papers scattered everywhere. What remains to be done. Just sleep and wait. Just wait till he turns up, just let him show his face. Will he ever get a lesson on what not to do to a cat. Sidle toward him as if unwilling and ever so slow on visibly offended paws, and no leaps or squeals at least to start. -- Wislawa Szymborska it never fails to get to me.

lukasm 12y ago
this, absolutely! My favourite as a kid A big locomotive has pulled into town, Heavy, humungus, with sweat rolling down, A plump jumbo olive. Huffing and puffing and panting and smelly, Fire belches forth from her fat cast iron belly. Poof, how she's burning, Oof, how she's boiling, Puff, how she's churning, Huff, how she's toiling. She's fully exhausted and all out of breath, Yet the coalman continues to stoke her to death. Numerous wagons she tugs down the track: Iron and steel monsters hitched up to her back, All filled with people and other things too: The first carries cattle, then horses not few; The third car with corpulent people is filled, Eating fat frankfurters all freshly grilled. The fourth car is packed to the hilt with bananas, The fifth has a cargo of six grand pi-an-as. The sixth wagon carries a cannon of steel, With heavy iron girders beneath every wheel. The seventh has tables, oak cupboards with plates, While an elephant, bear, two giraffes fill the eighth. The ninth contains nothing but well-fattened swine, In the tenth: bags and boxes, now isn't that fine? There must be at least forty cars in a row, And what they all carry -- I simply don't know: But if one thousand athletes, with muscles of steel, Each ate one thousand cutlets in one giant meal, And each one exerted as much as he could, They'd never quite manage to lift such a load. First a toot! Then a hoot! Steam is churning, Wheels are turning! More slowly - than turtles - with freight - on their - backs, The drowsy - steam engine - sets off - down the tracks. She chugs and she tugs at her wagons with strain, As wheel after wheel slowly turns on the train. She doubles her effort and quickens her pace, And rambles and scrambles to keep up the race. Oh whither, oh whither? go forward at will, And chug along over the bridge, up the hill, Through mountains and tunnels and meadows and woods, Now hurry, now hurry, deliver your goods. Keep up your tempo, now push along, push along, Chug along, tug along, tug along, chug along Lightly and sprightly she carries her freight Like a ping-pong ball bouncing without any weight, Not heavy equipment exhausted to death, But a little tin toy, just a light puff of breath. Oh whither, oh whither, you'll tell me, I trust, What is it, what is it that gives you your thrust? What gives you momentum to roll down the track? It's hot steam that gives me my clickety-clack. Hot steam from the boiler through tubes to the pistons, The pistons then push at the wheels from short distance, They drive and they push, and the train starts a-swooshin' 'Cuz steam on the pistons keeps pushin' and pushin'; The wheels start a rattlin', clatterin', chatterin' Chug along, tug along, chug along, tug along! . . . . Julian Tuwim

lukasm 12y ago

this, absolutely! My favourite as a kid A big locomotive has pulled into town, Heavy, humungus, with sweat rolling down, A plump jumbo olive. Huffing and puffing and panting and smelly, Fire belches forth from her fat cast iron belly. Poof, how she's burning, Oof, how she's boiling, Puff, how she's churning, Huff, how she's toiling. She's fully exhausted and all out of breath, Yet the coalman continues to stoke her to death. Numerous wagons she tugs down the track: Iron and steel monsters hitched up to her back, All filled with people and other things too: The first carries cattle, then horses not few; The third car with corpulent people is filled, Eating fat frankfurters all freshly grilled. The fourth car is packed to the hilt with bananas, The fifth has a cargo of six grand pi-an-as. The sixth wagon carries a cannon of steel, With heavy iron girders beneath every wheel. The seventh has tables, oak cupboards with plates, While an elephant, bear, two giraffes fill the eighth. The ninth contains nothing but well-fattened swine, In the tenth: bags and boxes, now isn't that fine? There must be at least forty cars in a row, And what they all carry -- I simply don't know: But if one thousand athletes, with muscles of steel, Each ate one thousand cutlets in one giant meal, And each one exerted as much as he could, They'd never quite manage to lift such a load. First a toot! Then a hoot! Steam is churning, Wheels are turning! More slowly - than turtles - with freight - on their - backs, The drowsy - steam engine - sets off - down the tracks. She chugs and she tugs at her wagons with strain, As wheel after wheel slowly turns on the train. She doubles her effort and quickens her pace, And rambles and scrambles to keep up the race. Oh whither, oh whither? go forward at will, And chug along over the bridge, up the hill, Through mountains and tunnels and meadows and woods, Now hurry, now hurry, deliver your goods. Keep up your tempo, now push along, push along, Chug along, tug along, tug along, chug along Lightly and sprightly she carries her freight Like a ping-pong ball bouncing without any weight, Not heavy equipment exhausted to death, But a little tin toy, just a light puff of breath. Oh whither, oh whither, you'll tell me, I trust, What is it, what is it that gives you your thrust? What gives you momentum to roll down the track? It's hot steam that gives me my clickety-clack. Hot steam from the boiler through tubes to the pistons, The pistons then push at the wheels from short distance, They drive and they push, and the train starts a-swooshin' 'Cuz steam on the pistons keeps pushin' and pushin'; The wheels start a rattlin', clatterin', chatterin' Chug along, tug along, chug along, tug along! . . . . Julian Tuwim