Catfight- a poem about Feline Courtiers

[antonio449]

When was it now I do not care to remember I began a translation of Lope de Vega's mock epic La Gatomaquia. It was for a penance of sorts is all that I recall. The poem is a mock epoch in the stile of the Batromaquia from Homer's time. However instead of frogs and rats duking it out we have cats anthropomorphized to make fun of 17th century Spanish gallantry and questions of honor. Besides Chesterton I have not seen a poet or writer equal the energies of Lope, in his popularism and celebration of life. And Cervantes would shrug to hear me say this, but Lope created Spain as a literary construct in the popular imagination. Including a lot of the stereotypes which Antonio Banderas (the voice of Puss n' Boots) and others have made their careers on. However, in this poem Lope is basically poking fun at himself in his old age, as the structure of the poem follows many of his plays.

Although I have not as yet finished the entire work I have many a canto stuffed away in my drawer, or electronic folder as the case may be.
Here is the general Introduction and the first part of Canto I:


Introductory Sonnet

With a sweet voice and diligent pen

not dressed with confusing chaos

you sing, Tomé, the weddings and soirées,

of Shoo-kitty and valiant Puss n’ Fluff.

If Homer’s illustrious forehead was crowned

for singing about the arms of Greek ships

And you chant the most excellent meows of jealousy,

wars of love on account of sudden events

You well deserve a cat-hair bag of doubloons

even though you do not celebrate Lope or Tasso,

Richard the Lion Heart or Geoffrey de Bouillon.

Because of you, second Catspeare

the libraries of Parnassus

will always remain free of mice.


Prologue

I, the one who in times past

sang of forests and meadows;

these dressed with great trees,

those with cattle and flowers,

the arms and laws

that conserve kingdoms and kings

now in a less grave instrument

I sing of gentle love, anger and disdain.

Good things and bad not all forgotten,

the fierce drum beat tempered

with the whistle of the sonorous horn.

You, muses of Castalia’s choir,

give me favor the same

as you gave me genius so that I can

sing the war, loves, and trials

of two valiant cats.

As others go to the dogs

for their own wrongdoings

or those of others

there too are men who go to cats

because of the neglect of ungrateful princes

or because fortune persecutes them

from within the swing of earth’s cradle.

You, sir Lope, if perchance

you allow yourself to be distracted by Parnassus,

the Dutch pirate, the thieving cat of our silver

who infests the coasts which you wander along with the Armada,

stay for a time that valiant steel

with which you enter into battle

and listen to my famous Cat Fight.

Thus from the Indies to Romania

our name and fame resound

and now it runs through out our fatherland

since you saw the Moorish port of Tunez and Bizerta,

a child armed like Cupid

alongside the famous Marquis of greater title

blessed like his father, through out the sea,

you do not always have

to attend to wrathful Mars,

as practiced since your tender age

dressed with diamonds,

proud, arrogant and topped-off with feathers.

Sometimes rest is a cordial comforter of arms

and Venus at peace like Saint Elmo

removes his helmet with marble hands . . .


Canto I.

On top of a tall rooftop

there sat beautiful Shoo-kitty

licking her tail and bottom

in the cool breeze,

so stuffy and proud

as if she were a cat from a convent.

Her own thoughts served as a mirror

since a broken piece

attracted a joshing magpie

that left no hairpin or collar

that she did not hide on that roof,

which was at the corner of a Master’s hallway.

After she had washed and licked her paws,

covered in a mink fur,

she sang a sonnet in a half-formed voice

from her windpipe

as the Thracian muse could have sung

so that anyone of a feline nature

who heard her discordant meows

would know she didn't

give a damn for mice.

Spring was already peering

over a balcony of roses and wallflowers

and Flora with golden linen

smilingly cheered up the riverside.

Pots from Talavera welcomed late-spring

when Meowicus, a black and brown cat

had a sure warning from Meower

a cat from La Mancha, his squire,

that shapely Shoo-kitty was coming out

toward the sun

as a purple rose greets the morning

among the leaves of the greenish bed

so ruby red that it looks like a flame.

And with a sweet song

in Juan de Mena’s high style

she wooed the breeze.

Attentive to his page’s news Meowicus

(for fame woos from afar)

more than the rustles of skin

of the bell-like dress-

introduced by tailors and clothes sellers,

erudite masters in the taking of money-

he praised her beauty and grace

with such sweet measure,

asked for a horse

at which he was brought a she-monkey

according to the use of his country,

a captive in a war the cats and monkeys had fought.

He put on fine linen and shoes made

of two open thimbles

that he put on painfully because they were crooked,

a silver spoon for a sword,

a red cape in the French manner

made out of an old stocking

so equal, so lucid, so similar

that it would not be flattery

to say that Adonis, pardon Venus,

did not equal him in cleanliness and style.

With a hat made out of half a grapefruit

with a green feather in it

from a parrot slain by his claws

that said: Who goes there?”

a certain day though the king was coming

and it was Meowicus who was on the prowl.

For a leather jacket he found two halves of a glove

that he attached on the front and back

and a little girl’s lace for a collar.

The big cat was of a genteel character

and no less a suitor than a lover.

with white whiskers and a clear face

cheerful eyes, the color of diamond-emeralds

and atop the she-monkey he looked

like the knightly Orlando

that was coming to visit fair Angelica.

The haughty nymph, the damsel,

upon seeing the tomcat composed herself

in such a way that she transformed into a grave lady

licking herself like butter, the surface of her lips dry

and for fear of embarrassment

she covered her privates with her tail

She lowered her eyes to the ground

her own haughtiness her veil:

for a damsel must be virtuous

since the more composed

the more she is beautiful.

Then, Meowicus with light paws

thumping the Tetuan horse

-for ‘twas not Ironfoot nor Cockfoot-

galloped around four times

with other genteel chatter and niceties,

as a high demonstration of his desires.

And with his cap in his hand

he approached beau and courtier-like

When he told her of his love

she, with the colors that shame imprints

gave him a braid of her hair

and the too meowed with glee.

And with tender satisfied sighs

they shared their sentiments.