from the 9th century Irish
Myself and Pangur, my white cat,
have much the same calling, in that
much as Pangur goes after mice
I go hunting for the precise
word. He and I are much the same
in that I’m gladly “lost to fame”
when on the Georgics, say, I’m bent
while he seems perfectly content
with his lot. Life in the cloister
can’t possibly lose its lustre
so long as there’s some crucial point
with which we might by leaps and bounds
yet grapple, into which yet sink
our teeth. The bold Pangur will think
through mouse-
on something naggingly abstruse,
then fix his clear, unflinching eye
on our lime-
focus, in so far as I can,
on the limits of what a man
may know. Something of his rapture
at his most recent mouse-
I share when I, too, get to grips
with what has given me the slip.
And so we while away our whiles,
never cramping each other’s styles
but practicing the noble arts
that so lift and lighten our hearts,
Pangur going in for the kill
with all his customary skill
while I, sharp-
shed light on what had seemed obscure.
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Home Pond
Ireland
Myself and Pangur
Paul Muldoon