"Chester" by John Koethe (read by Tom O'Bedlam)

Chester was the cat's name - or I've totally misunderstood the poem. Cats seem to be the most self-contained of all creatures. They are right at the top end of the food-chain. They have no further use for evolution. Their only business here is to enjoy life at the top.

There was a French philosopher who said that cats were super-intelligent and could talk if they wanted to. They just didn't have anything to say. Cats have no use for intellect.

I had a chocolate persian called Watson, who spent most of his time in a cathouse called The Watsonian Institute. We discussed elementary things. The conversation tended to be somewhat one-sided and he often communicated his opinion by going to sleep.

I had to answer an intelligence question once, "As music is to rhythm so days are to _______" The correct answer turned out to be "repetition". That made me wonder whether the people who set these tests were actually smarter than me and, if not, what was the point in taking their damned tests? Why couldn't they explain what was wrong with "succession", "periodicity" or "diurnality" which they rejected?

Then there was the question "A Cynic is someone who knows the price of everything and the _____ of nothing" I said that the answer they were probably looking for was "value" but it wasn't a valid question because it was one of Oscar Wilde's epigrams and, although it worked as a joke, it wasn't true. They didn't like me.

Days do go by indistinguishably leaving no trace. That doesn't bother the cat, so why should it bother us? "Because we're conscious" is the answer, perhaps, and consciousness implies self-consciousness. We're aware of our surroundings, but we're also aware of ourselves observing them. Like the painter who paints his view of the world and then realises he has to paint himself observing it. But then he realises that there has to be a higher self which is aware of that self painting it. But that implies an infinite regression of selves... I think I got that from a book by J W Dunne. I haven't done a seach yet.

We just eat and drink, urinate, have sex and fritter away time by watching TV, listening to music, reading etc. If any one of these pursuits became unavailable, then we would realise how important they were to our happiness, much more fundamantal than philosophy or religion. We should be grateful for uneventful days because when eventful ones come along they will probably be worse days.

Yet we are troubled by the doubt that there should be more to existence than our daily routine. We should have some sort of higher intellectual life and be making a contribution to the world, delving deeper into the meaning of it all, making a serious attempt to follow Derrida's arguments and deconstructing our existence.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Deconstruction

Or we could just give in to the desires of the flesh, have a tomato sandwich and watch the Shopping Channel. It will all come to the same thing in the end. But, look, the cat knows the answer already. Just being here satisfies him. He knows something we don't. He ain't telling - but he could if he wanted to.

You can John Koethe himself read it here:
http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/poetryeverywhere/uwm/koethe.html

The home made cat stamps came from this site:
http://rubberstamping.about.com/

Another day, which is how they usually come:
A cat at the foot of the bed, noncommittal
In its blankness of mind, with the morning light
Slowly filling the room, and fragmentary
Memories of last night's video and phone calls.

It is a feeling of sufficiency, one menaced
By the fear of some vague lack, of a simplicity
Of self, a self without a soul, the nagging fear
Of being someone to whom nothing ever happens.

Thus the fantasy of the narrative behind the story,
Of the half-concealed life that lies beneath
The ordinary one, made up of ordinary mornings
More alike in how they feel than what they say.

They seem like luxuries of consciousness,
Like second thoughts that complicate the time
One simply wastes. And why not? Mere being
Is supposed to be enough, without the intricate
Evasions of a mystery or offstage tragedy.

Evenings follow on the afternoons, lingering in
The living room and listening to the stereo
While Peggy Lee sings "Is That All There Is?"

Amid the morning papers and the usual
Ghosts keeping you company, but just for a while.

The true soul is the one that flickers in the eyes
Of an animal, like a cat that lifts its head and yawns
And stares at you, and then goes back to sleep.

Видео "Chester" by John Koethe (read by Tom O'Bedlam) канала SpokenVerse