For Kitty
Quanto più m’avicino al giorno estremo
che l’umana miseria suol far breve,
più veggio il tempo andar veloce et leve
e ‘l mio di lui sperar fallace et scemo.
I’ dico a’ miei pensier: “Non molto andremo
d’amor parlando omai, ché ‘l duro et greve
terreno incarco come fresca neve
si va struggendo, onde noi pace avremo;
“perché con lui cadrà quella speranza
che ne fe’ vaneggiar sì lungamente,
e ‘l riso e ‘l pianto, et la paura et l’ira:
“sì vedrem chiaro poi come sovente
per le cose dubbiose altri s’avanza,
et come spesso indarno si sospira.”
(Petrarch, drawing by Badges The Elder)
For Kitty
Dans la chambre de volupté
Où je t’irai trouver à Nîmes,
Tandis que nous prendrons le thé,
Pendant le peu d’heures intimes
Que m’embellira ta beauté
Nous ferons cent mille bêtises…
Malgré la guerre et tous ses maux
Nous aurons de belles surprises :
Les arbres en fleur les Rameaux,
Pâques les premières cerises…
Nous lirons dans le même lit,
Au livre de ton corps lui-même
- C’est un livre qu’au lit on lit -
Nous lirons le charmant poème
Des grâces de ton corps joli.
Nous passerons de doux dimanches
Plus doux que n’est le chocolat,
Jouant tous deux au jeu des hanches.
Le soir j’en serai raplapla
Tu seras pâle aux lèvres blanches.
Un mois après tu partiras…
La nuit descendra sur la terre
En vain je te tendrai les bras
Magicienne du mystère
Ma Circé tu disparaîtras…
(Apollinaire, watercolor by Badges The Elder)
For Kitty
Mon Lou, mon Coeur, mon Adorée,
Je donnerais dix ans, et plus,
Pour ta chevelure dorée,
Pour tes regards irrésolus,
Pour ta chère toison ambrée
Plus précieuse que n’était
Celle-là dont savait la route,
Sur la grand’route du Cathai
Qu’Alexandre parcourut toute,
Circé que son Jason fouettait.
Il la fouettait avec des branches
De laurier-sauce ou d’olivier,
La bougresse branlait des hanches
N’ayant plus rien à envier
En faveur de ses fesses blanches.
Ce qu’à la Reine fit Jason
Pour ses tours de sorcellerie,
Pour sa magie et son poison
Je te le ferai, ma chérie,
Quand serons seuls à la maison.
Je t’en ferai bien plus encore!
L’amour, la schlague et coetera…
Un cul sera noir comme un Maure
Quand ma maîtresse arrivera…
Arrive, ô mon Lou que j’adore!
(Apollinaire, watercolor by Badges The Elder)
For Kitty
A flower was offerd to me:
Such a flower as May never bore.
But I said I’ve a Pretty Rose-tree,
And I passed the sweet flower o’er.
Then I went to my Pretty Rose-tree:
To tend her by day and by night.
But my Rose turnd away with jealousy:
And her thorns were my only delight.
(Blake, watercolor by Badges The Elder)
For Kitty
The cat mewed in answer and stalked again stiffly round a leg of the table, mewing. Just how she stalks over my writingtable. Prr. Scratch my head. Prr.
Mr Bloom watched curiously, kindly the lithe black form. Clean to see: the gloss of her sleek hide, the white button under the butt of her tail, the green flashing eyes. He bent down to her, his hands on his knees.
—Milk for the pussens, he said.
—Mrkgnao! the cat cried.
They call them stupid. They understand what we say better than we understand them. She understands all she wants to. Vindictive too. Cruel. Her nature. Curious mice never squeal. Seem to like it. Wonder what I look like to her. Height of a tower? No, she can jump me.
—Afraid of the chickens she is, he said mockingly. Afraid of the chookchooks. I never saw such a stupid pussens as the pussens.
—Mrkrgnao! the cat said loudly.
She blinked up out of her avid shameclosing eyes, meweing plaintively and long, showing him her milkwhite teeth. He watched the dark eyeslits narrowing with greed till her eyes were green stones. Then he went to the dresser, took the jug Hanlon’s milkman had just filled for him, poured warmbubbled milk on a saucer and set it slowly on the floor.
—Gurrhr! she cried, running to lap.
He watched the bristles shining wirily in the weak light as she tipped three times and licked lightly. Wonder is it true if you clip them they can’t mouse after. Why? They shine in the dark, perhaps, the tips. Or kind of feelers in the dark, perhaps.
He listened to her licking lap. Ham and eggs, no. No good eggs with this drouth. Want pure fresh water. Thursday: not a good day either for a mutton kidney at Buckley’s. Fried with butter, a shake of pepper. Better a pork kidney at Dlugacz’s. While the kettle is boiling. She lapped slower, then licking the saucer clean. Why are their tongues so rough? To lap better, all porous holes. Nothing she can eat? He glanced around him. No.
On quietly creaky boots he went up the staircase to the hall, paused by the bedroom door. She might like something tasty. Thin bread and butter she likes in the morning. Still perhaps: once in a way.
He said softly in the bare hall:
—I’m going round the corner. Be back in a minute.
And when he had heard his voice say it he added:
—You don’t want anything for breakfast?
A sleepy soft grunt answered:
—Mn.
(Joyce, drawing by Badges The Elder)
