A Family of Cats and Men We are a family of cats and men. Some are wide, some are short, or tall. We amount to fourteen when counted but not different at all. We pass the days by running and playing, behind each other or in groups. If not, you'll find us simply laying, like battle-weary troops. Upon the hard floor, like witches we run-- very often we trip and dab. Our hustle starts with the rise of sun from the stair unto the slab. The minor squabbles will bewilder you: we are sour and we are sweet. Each cat has a name and a byname too, to be addressed while we greet. I shall minstrel to you about them first and then I will turn to human; you might feel tingles of laughter burst and will welter all you can. The foremost of them is the long black chief; little delegates he has three. One is white as snow; one green as leaf, and one like a broad brown tree. 'Kutumunu', a male— the headman star; 'Chiku' and 'Chanu'— each female; their shapes and sizes resemblant are; and white 'Chalu' is a male. 'Chiku' is frantic, she demurs all-where; who fiercely ambushes on food; 'Chalu' is lurksome with a fixed stare, 'Chanu' is composed as wood. Of two more parties I shall tale about- much separate than the others; at daylight, they mostly maunder out; their captains are two mothers. The mother of all is the oldest cat: she is black upon pewter grey. Her belly is always full and fat; she wanders the house all day. She kits, she always, birthed in our house- she never birthed any less. Their tutelage starts with a feast of a mouse-- O' Lord, you her methods bless! Her place is the wooden shoebox's top, with many a drabby jute bags. Her friends are the flax-broom, the shrunk mop, and the unwashed, clarty rags. She has mothered again three new kittens; one is 'Teddy', one is 'Niku'. They're tiny as to fit hand mittens; the other's name is 'Julu'. 'Teddy' is likewise the name that she bears, while 'Niku' does seem like a toy; 'Julu', the blackest of all appears-- he is brash and other's, coy. 'Chiku' is a mother with three new-borns; their fur is as dense as mutton their form is pebbly but which adorns, a silky lay like cotton. One is a mix of ochre and swallow; one is somewhat gravel-like black; one is silv'ry but not so shallow; each shape seems a fluffy sack. Their dwelling is beside the heap of socks where all the newspapers are piled. They settle inside a carton-box on the landing stair, untiled. They o'erlay on each other while lapping, and they look like a lump of sponge. So calm it is when they are napping; so violent when they lunge! Their necks are like hackle on a necklace, they present us colourful hues; and so are endearing of the face, and innocent of the views. One so gazes as if a guileless being, stands morally before the fish; my vigilance when seeing a shift they all turn leprechaunish! As I am the only guard of my house, my parents go to duty's line; I role the maidservant and the mouse, their carer too, I define. All the time, I chase them; all day and night; I observe every step and move; I stay audient; flinch at not a sight-- I cannot prove incompetence. These actions go on till the come of noon- from collation for lunch till eve. Then, past that, at a time opportune, from their ruckus, they take leave. My father nantles them when he arrives, we all love to snoozle them much; around them, a worn-out life revives-- comes happiness with a touch. That there can be sadness, that life be short, of all sufferings and sorrow; we forget all as the cats import hope's light of new to-morrow. So, if you visit us, full loads of bliss and delight you must expect then. Nowhere in Earth you will find like this, family of cats and men. The Queen Cat The Queen Cat vaults from drain to drain-- by the buffer, narrow and tall; to find a refuge when the rain will with the grating thunders, fall. Her paunch is swollen at both the ends: sheltering unborn kittlings. From where the bolting traffic bends, she skelters towards a corner The folks who witnessed months ago, tell- she had birthed younglets three. Now too, her belly stripes show- no lesser would the travail be. Her soppy eyes- timid and red, like bordered has a chunk of rheum; and, constant is the look of dread, as if the night will lead her doom. For provender, when, she once had gone, the household where her cat-kin slept, was taken 'fore the coming dawn- slaughtered and on the dustheap, swept. When she hunches under the bough, from ducts, drinks the sewage water. I see it in her trembling now: which goes not far, but rather shrinks. As now the throat of cloudform soars, and lengthy downpour rams the earth, she roams the steps of many doors, securely to her younglings birth. The Door My Door is strong. I know him- no sore flakes fly from him; decay could never befall him; yet why does my dear Door aches? It aches for the spent foretime: My Lucia, when she, to his doorcase achime would come and peer for me. Old time, ah! merry; old time, ah! sweet-- joydom was in the knocks, when from the stairs he heard her feet-- would stunt all hearts and clocks; would agog muchly be my eyes, for full a-greeting that she came; I oped the Door-- a great surprise! near to his bright doorframe. My Door's still strong. I trust him- though now he greets not her light heels; sorrow and pain now rust him, fly all the fleaks with brazen squeals. With each footstep now ascents fast, my Door frenzies, a-baiting me; but that was someone else who passed; not Lucia, awaiting me. A Christmas Eve The mission-home is full of sound, the world appears a blinding light, this year-end month, the Lord was crowned, and merriness of Christmas night. Big stars hang from lintels of doors, the spence has dinner set for all, the nan relates the holy lores, to children thereinto the hall. Behind a glass, a glowing peep,-- a hovel and figures of clay, the hay-pile and each mounted sheep, look keenly at the parents gay; in unison, the chimney smoke whistles and rises to the sky, the clock's on twelve; the time's awoke a flying sled will soon be nigh! The wishful stockings will be full, the happy morning is not far, so invest in your warming wool, invite the others where they are. I've heard you hover to all parts, O' mystic old man clad in red, with boxed-gifts for their longing hearts and harness where great boons are led. But one sweet child, without a lamp, who's studying on his carrel chair; one worn, lurching and famished tramp who's hardened by the freezing air; And one cat-mother on the way with three kittens, half-ceased in cold, to them, will you not take your sleigh, and your benign cloth on them fold? And to me if you come O' Lord, I'd say if enquired for the wish: that for the tramp, vittle's reward, a lampad the child can afford, and for the cats, shelter and fish. Shamik Banerjee is a poet and poetry reviewer from the North-Eastern belt of India. He loves taking long strolls and spending time with his family. His deep affection with solitude meshes well with peace, and poetry provides him an ageless harbourage of happiness. He has recently founded a poetry journal and aims to contribute immensely towards its future.
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Once again, thank you for your continued support of the Meditating Cat Zine! As promised, here is a free phone wallpaper for you, brought to you by the Meditating Cat Zine and Garden Of Venus Zine. Download the wallpaper by following this link. Happy holidays! We hope your 2022 has been okay so far. It has been a wild ride for us! Thanks to your support, the Meditating Cat Zine has reached its 1st anniversary. To broaden the zine's appeal, we have altered many aspects and technical details of the zine over the past year. As we past this 1-year milestone, we continue to reflect on what the zine means to us, and its purpose in this unstable, volatile climate. While Google defines 'magazine' as "a periodical publication containing articles and illustrations, often on a particular subject or aimed at a particular readership", we think that a literary journal, such as the Meditating Cat Zine, has so much more potential. We strive to be a collective of ideals from people of all backgrounds, to collect and pass on memories and emotional imprints, for the next generation of young hopefuls. Through our unthemed issues, mixed-media, literature, and visual art coalesce to form a messy ecosystem of society. In 2022, our most memorable event was this collaboration with Garden Of Venus Zine. We were able to learn many valuable lessons from them, and we hope to be able to put those lessons into concrete improvements. At the same time, we would like to express our gratefulness to the Garden Of Venus Zine for the opportunity for this collaboration. 2022's Christmas would not have been as magical as it has without their efforts. The Meditating Cat Zine promises to accompany you through 2023.
-your favorite feline editor, Curios Read 'Curios And The Christmas Fairy' here
Issue 5 of Meditating Cat Zine is here! Gingerbread Marshmallow Cat hopes you enjoy reading with your hot cocoa and blankets, wherever you are (and if you are in the tropics or the Southern hemisphere, have fun with the heat). Happy December!! Link to read: Click here
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