Acéphale

The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter,

     It isn’t just one of your holiday games;

You may think at first I’m as mad as a hatter

When I tell you, a cat must have THREE DIFFERENT NAMES.

First of all, there’s the name that the family use daily,

     Such as Peter, Augustus, Alonzo, or James,

Such as Victor or Jonathan, George or Bill Bailey—

     All of them sensible everyday names.

There are fancier names if you think they sound sweeter,

     Some for the gentlemen, some for the dames:

Such as Plato, Admetus, Electra, Demeter—

     But all of them sensible everyday names,

But I tell you, a cat needs a name that’s particular,

     A name that’s peculiar, and more dignified,

Else how can he keep up his tail perpendicular,

     Or spread out his whiskers, or cherish his pride?

Of names of this kind, I can give you a quorum,

     Such as Munkustrap, Quaxo, or Coricopat,

Such as Bombalurina, or else Jellylorum—

     Names that never belong to more than one cat.

But above and beyond there’s still one name left over,

     And that is the name that you never will guess;

The name that no human research can discover—

     But THE CAT HIMSELF KNOWS, and will never confess.

When you notice a cat in profound meditation,

     The reason, I tell you, is always the same:

His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation

     Of the thought, of the thought, of the thought of his name:

          His ineffable effable

          Effanineffable

Deep and inscrutable singular name.

Aleksandra Waliszewska – Mitusia

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All Greece hates the still eyes in the white face, the lustre as of olives where she stands, and the white hands.

All Greece reviles the wan face when she smiles, hating it deeper still when it grows wan and white, remembering past enchantments and past ills.

Greece sees, unmoved, God's daughter, born of love, the beauty of cool feet and slenderest knees, could love indeed the maid, only if she were laid, white ash amid funereal cypresses.

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I will wade out till my thighs are steeped in burn- ing flowers I will take the sun in my mouth and leap into the ripe air Alive with closed eyes to dash against darkness in the sleeping curves of my body Shall enter fingers of smooth mastery with chasteness of sea-girls Will I complete the mystery of my flesh I will rise After a thousand years lipping flowers And set my teeth in the silver of the moon

Pablo Picasso Girl in a Chemise c.1905

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wade through black jade.        Of the crow-blue mussel-shells, one keeps        adjusting the ash-heaps;               opening and shutting itself like

an injured fan.        The barnacles which encrust the side        of the wave, cannot hide               there for the submerged shafts of the

sun, split like spun        glass, move themselves with spotlight swiftness        into the crevices—               in and out, illuminating

the turquoise sea        of bodies. The water drives a wedge        of iron through the iron edge               of the cliff; whereupon the stars,

pink rice-grains, ink-        bespattered jelly fish, crabs like green        lilies, and submarine               toadstools, slide each on the other.

All external        marks of abuse are present on this        defiant edifice—               all the physical features of

ac- cident—lack        of cornice, dynamite grooves, burns, and        hatchet strokes, these things stand               out on it; the chasm-side is

dead. Repeated        evidence has proved that it can live        on what can not revive               its youth. The sea grows old in it.