Poetry and a Midlife Crisis

When Doug had a midlife crisis a few years ago, he bought a replica (minus the black vinyl roof) of his first car, the 1975 Gran Torino. It cost him thousands of dollars. When I had a midlife crisis last week, I ordered used copies of the first Rod McKuen books I ever owned, "Seasons in the Sun", "Looking for a Friend", and "Alone". It cost me under a hundred. Interesting, huh.

So my resurging love for Rod McKuen's poetry is probably due less to a midlife crisis and more to PMS and the results of a personality test I took in class that happened to remind me of how much I used to love poetry. (Doug's resurging love for Torinos, however, was a midlife crisis...especially for me!)

Rod McKuen was the first poet I really loved. It was his poem "A Cat Named Sloopy" that ignited my interest. At 10 years old, I wasn't crazy about boys but more about my pets. Rod's love for Sloopy and her love for him said it best. When I graduated from pets to boys, Rod was still there speaking volumes. I bought all of his paperback books when I was seventeen, but lost them over the years.

Thanks to Amazon and Ebay I'm able to collect them again.

A Cat Named Sloopy
Rod McKuen

1For a while
the only earth that Sloopy knew
was in her sandbox.
Two rooms on Fifty-fifth Street
were her domain.Every night she'd sit in the window
among the avocado plants
waiting for me to come home(my arms full of canned liver and love).
We'd talk into the night then
contented
but missing something,
She the earth she never knew
me the hills I ran
while growing bent.
Sloopy should have been a cowboy's cat
with prairies to run
not linoleum
and real-live catnip mice.
No one to depend on but herself.
I never told her
but in my mind I was a midnight cowboy even then.
Riding my imaginary horse
down Forty-second Street,going off with strangers
to live an hour-long cowboy's life,but always coming home to Sloopy,who loved me best.

2A dozen summers
we lived against the world.
An island on an island.
She'd comfort me with purring
I'd fatten her with smiles.
We grew rich on trust
needing not the beach or butterflies
I had a friend named Ben
Who painted buildings like Roualt men.
He went away.My laughter tired Lillian
after a time
she found a man who only smiled.
Only Sloopy stayed and stayed.
Winter.
Nineteen fifty-nine.Old men walk their dogs.Some are walked so often
that their feet leave
little pink tracks
in the soft gray snow.
Women fur on fur
elegant and easy
only slightly pure
hailing cabs to take them
round the block and back.
Who is not a love seeker
when December comes?
even children pray to Santa Claus.
I had my own love safe at home
and yet I stayed out all one night
the next day too.

3They must have thought me crazy
screaming Sloopy Sloopy
as the snow came falling
down around me.
I was a madman
to have stayed away
one minute more
than the appointed hour.
I'd like to think a golden cowboy
snatched her from the window sill,and safely saddlebagged
she rode to Arizona.She's stalking lizards
in the cactus now perhaps
bitter but free.
I'm bitter too
and not a free man any more.
Once was a time,
in New York's jungle in a tree,
before I went into the world
in search of other kinds of love
nobody owned me but a cat named Sloopy.
Looking back
perhaps she's been
the only human thing
that ever gave back love to me.