We named him Babur;
the sweet Marmalade cat
we kept,
because he carried
in his stripes a tiger spirit,
brave and bold
(his less-striped
lion-brother we called Simba).
“Babur, that means tiger”,
my father said
who had the privilege of books
to name our cats,
and to name a cat is a difficult matter.
When he came, his pads were
plum-soft pink, but
his claws were diamond blades,
and while still,
he was a little boy
like me, he fell
asleep purring fur to face,
his tiger-heart a walnut in my hand.
He outgrow me,
and as tomcat roamed
as street-light shadow, nocturnal carnivore
hunting for delight,
(like I would later do)
but as many teens before, one night
became his last;
a passing car crushed his skull
without a thought
and Babur’s spirit left.
Forever since
I see the tiger left
in every Marmalade and wonder how
I managed to grow old.
This is not Babur, but it could have been
Today Anmol hosts at dVerse, and wants us to write about cats and for a while forgetting the ordeal of climate change and conflict.
Also linking up to the final Tuesday Platform
Just a cat-video for fun as well
August 27, 2019
Björn Rudbergs writings 
Oh my….poor Marmelade. Love the juxtapositioning of your growing years to your experiences and the experiences of Marmalade. What a GREAT name for a cat. The ending for me, is a wonderful thoughtful introspective twist.
Poor Marmalade. You have woven a beautiful tale in honor of him Bjorn.
Such a lovely poem for Babur, and every cat. Thank you for sharing!
I have always had a thing for orange and ginger cats. Such a sweet and sad memory. I no longer have cats for the same reason; it is so hard to say goodbye.
A poignant verse and a rich tribute to Babur, Bjorn! It’s wonderful how you created that parallel between his growth and yours — the “nocturnal carnivore/hunting for delight,/(like I would later do)” is so well done. Also, the ‘tiger-heart a walnut in my hand’ and ‘plum-soft pink [pads]’ are such lovely phrases.
a small kitten and a small boy, fur to face, is precious. The whole poem is beautiful and wise.
a boy and his cat – this is sweet and sad
Sweet looking cat face conceals his tiger heart. Warm and tender write Björn.
Babur was the Marmelade cat; the name shifts confuse me a bit, but the poem was delightful, and Babur & Simba should visit the aged librarian, because Babur is a wonderful character; worthy of appearing in future poetics.
This is such a touching poem in honor of him, Bjorn!
his tiger-heart a walnut in my hand
A great line for a great lion of a cat.
Bjorn, a touching and powerful paean ~
A great tribute to your sweet cat! You never forget your cat! Well done!
A nice cat tale, Bjorn. Our Marmelade was a spayed female named Amber. Amber had a much simpler life after she came to live with us retired folk. Her recorded start was as a rescue cat saved by our daughter’s friend.
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Thank you. I loved the story of Babur … and also the video of the cats and boxes.
it is indeed a touching tribute … we must still be here for a reason even if we don’t know it!
What I like best in this lovely poem is the way the ending suddenly shifts the mood, and changes the whole poem in retrospect. It works really well.
Life can be snuffed out sudden and tragic. Very good angle you took, Bjorn
Hank
his tiger-heart a walnut in my hand….brilliant line, Bjorn…a very touching poem.
I love cats, but I wish my allergies didn’t keep me away from them! Barbur sounds like he had quite the personality. I’m sorry he was taken from your life too soon.
They certainly leave their paw prints across our hearts! Love the plum-soft pink pads and diamond blade claws. Soft playful ball of fur vs skillful hunting carnivore. You painted a beautiful picture of a boy and “his” cat.
We never forget the cats in our lives. (K)
Oh brilliant, Bjorn… the wonderful tribute apart, the subtle lines in the middle – my father said
who had the privilege of books
to name our cats,
and to name a cat is a difficult matter…. were just too good!
“wonder how
I managed to grow old.”
A perfect encapsulation of our ephemeral, fraught, and tragic relationship with our fellow travelers.
Oh man, Bjorn. This is quite wrenching. It is difficult to name cats, who care not a whit what we name them. I had an orange and white cat who died a horrible death when I was a kid. Damn if I don’t still think about that cat, named Sunshine. How did we get old anyway? That I definitely think about every day. Thanks for this lovely poem.