Translator's Vacation

Dear Dima fans,

This is his translator. I've been on vacation the past few days and won't be able to translate Dima's poetry until I am reunited with him in a couple of weeks. If possible, he will dictate his poetry to me over the phone if he gets incredibly inspired. Otherwise you will have to wait until a week into 2008. Dima would like to wish everyone a Happy New Year.

Happy Holidays from Dima and his lowly translator!

Mr. Blog

Mr. Blog is a cat
He writes faithful and true
And on the Internet he wrote
a blog for You.

And who pray is this You
that doubts Mr. Blog is a cat?
Oh if he only knew that
You doubt what cats can do

Like typing and blogging
Online many cats can write
Mr. Blog believes your doubting
Is a furball of a mouse he'll bite

So the picture shows
Clearly paws on the keys
And a voice in his head cried: Mr. Blog
Believes what he sees

And a devil's voice cried: The eyes
The eyes play tricks

Translator's Note: While he was writing his poetry, I snapped this shot of him. He really liked this picture and knew it would be the proof he needed to show others that it is he who is the author. It took him a few days to write a poem based on this photo. His inspiration was Stevie Smith, a British poet who was close to George Orwell.

I Am Content

I am content
With sunlight upon my face
Here is my smile for you

My troubles are none
My memories are sweet
My victories are won
My meals--always meat

I am content
I offer my contentment to share
There is plenty of it to go round

It lasts all day
As long as I'm awake
It never goes away
I don't mind if you take

I am content
My thoughts are as warm as my face
Wherever I am, it's a wonderful place

Door of Mystery

The door I came from
Stands silent everyday
Beyond it adventure
In a cage and a car

Usually I remain home
While humans come and go
Walking in and out
Their shoes on and off

Friends and family
Come from that door
Bearing smiles and gifts
To eventually share food

Some days the door traps
My companions for days on end
They send someone to rescue me
From my hunger and my thirst

Why must they leave daily?
What keeps them away?
Why do they often return
at such predictable times?

One day I will learn to open that door
Then I will reveal its secrets to the world
Its ability to deliver special guests
Its ability to control the lights
Its ability to trap my companions
Its inability to keep them forever
Soon I will know
Yes, that is my destiny
The cat that will solve its mystery

Chaise Rouge

If when my caretakers are sleeping
and the fan and its light
turns on mysteriously
and the moon shines a parallelogram
upon the desert sand carpet--
I find the red chair inviting me
after I take a midnight snack from
my midnight bowl

So much depends upon
this red chair
in material made for my scratching
next to the computer desk

I have sat down all night
and shed all over it
Forgive me
it was so fuzzy
and so warm

Translator's Note: As William Carlos Williams climbed over the top of Dima's poetry book, carefully he turned a page and then another and then slammed it shut. "Be careful to be original," he whispered to my cat before he stepped down into the pit of the empty flowerpot.

This poem is dedicated to 2 WCW fans--Adam and Patrick, both of the Badger State.

Living Ball

There is no question it is alive

I see the ball
Multi-colored, fuzzy, breathing

Out of the corner of my eye
I catch it in motion
But as I fix my gaze
It returns motionless
Taunting me in its stillness

But it lives, I swear to it
Professional in its inertia (or lack thereof)
It plays the patience game
However I too can remain static

The faceless ball waits.
Ready to pounce, I only inhale
...and exhale
With eyes fixed on any movement

In the meantime...
Footsteps pass on the floor below
Wind gusts blow around the parked cars outside
The clouds dim the shaft of light entering the living room
Suddenly the room hushes as the refrigerator stops running
But the ball is not phased

Neither am I
As the central air switches on
Blowing on the tufts of hair on my ears
I hear the ball laughing
Its many tufts remain still

But then...
A pulse makes the ball twitch
And I am on it
And it's caught in my jaw
Then torn by my back paws
I have it thoroughly tortured
It cannot escape me

...not even from the other side of a closed door

String

for
chasing
to
play
with
long
or
short
any
color
moving
fast
like
the
tail
of
a
rodent
moving
slowly
like
a
sneaky
snake
but
string
is
not
meat
I
shall
not
eat

Translator's Note: Dima has recovered from swallowing a bunch of string. While he was recovering, this concept came to him. He wants this to be published all around the cat blogosphere to raise awareness of the complications with string digestion.

Cat At Bat

The outlook is sunny for Dima every day.
There is never a score, but he always wants to play.
When his favorite ball is in the middle of the room
He wakes up in the morning and towards it goes zoom!

Nobody watches as he licks his paws with spit
That ball will not sit silent as it is about to be hit
But then after a while it rolls under the couch
Dima stares and meows as he stares with his crouch

From the bedroom awake his master and his lady
They hear him meow, "Let's play the game, I'm ready."
Dima allows them to break fast for a little chat
But when they are finished Dima is at bat

His master or his lady retrieve the ball out from under
The desire to play resounds from the cat like thunder
He waits for the ball to pitched at the couch
And for the first round, the cat struck out

There is no other cat to replace Dima at the plate
He satisfied to stand there, to hit is his fate
After a few innings, the cats bats the ball
Although there are no home runs, that's all

The score is zero and he is content
As long as his baseball energy has been spent
Now we can go to eat his morning meal
To him that game was a really big deal

Translator's Note: Dima decided to write about himself in third person as an experiment to see if he could view himself as human. I told him that the poem does seem very human-written, but there are some elements that are completely feline. I hope it wasn't lost in translation.

The Feline Acrobat

At my request
I am tossed into the conditioned air
Of my high-ceiling'd habitat
I like to be lifted
By freshly cleaned sheets off the ground
I am the feline acrobat

First on my paws
Then on my back
Then on my belly
Then back on my paws

Dizziness I acheive
Great heights I attain
Meows of joy I confer

First on my paws
Then on my back
Then on my belly
Then upright on my paws

I desire to be flipped
I desire to be flopped
I desire to be swung
I desire to be dropped...
Gracefully, I am the feline acrobat

Surrounding Me

Objects on the floor
Wooden frames holding family photos
Bits of shredded corrugated cardboard
Multicolored ball always calling to me
Pile of human clothing next to a bag of human clothing

Stuff on the wall
Cases of shelves of books
Evidence of traveling
Barely noticeable fingerprints
Barely noticeable traces of my feline fragrance
One dead bug mysteriously killed
It could have been suicide

Things in containers
Crunchy meat things for my food
Burbling upside-down bottle of water
Pockets of discs covered in the scent of another cat
Rumbling metal box with winter inside
Unstable white monstrosity in the bathroom
Always threatening to tumble on me

These things surrounding me
Keep me company when the lord and lady
Are out and about breathing the air that often blows in from the windows
I never wonder what's for breakfast

Translator's Note: This poem was inspired by Gertrude Stein's "Tender Buttons" poetry. He came upon Ms. Stein's work when I was listening to an album of the same name.

Welcome Welcome

Welcome again,
Guests from afar.
Take a look at how myself I carry
Around this table you'll find me tarry.
Where are you from,
Guests from afar?
Were you driven here in cages?
I know the drive takes like ages.
Guests from afar,
You must be impressed.
This place is my own
It keeps my temperament at rest.

His Master's Crown

Throughout the day,
his master walks without his crown
But when darkness falls
and his master journeys into his dreams
His crown creeps into his chamber
to curl around his head until dawn

Translator's Note: I was a bit flattered by this poem, but perhaps he was flattering himself even more. Just look at the picture he chose. Is he the crown or the king? But I may agree that his worth is equal to that of a bejeweled crown made of pure gold.

Massage for a Sea Cow

Condemned to surface water dwelling
As boats speed clumsily
The manatee way of life is threatened
Our social comforts drop away

Until a cat from up the Mississippi
Provides a tender touch
From deceivingly sharp claws
The bliss of life returns

Translator's Note: Dima oftens recites this poem while performing his nightly ritual of massaging our plush animals. He also massages our plush monkey, Hong Kong, not in the picture. I predict a monkey massage poem in the making.

Clipped

Painlessly
my claws were
blunted

Translator's Note: This must be a kitty haiku. First experience for me. Dima warned me about these.

Monday Rain, Monday Pain

Rabies, do I know you?
I do not know rabies.
I do not have rabies!

One moment at home
The next in a cage
The next in a car
The next at the vet!

New places and new faces
Voices of cats
Meow and cry
But I do not see them

Suddenly freed
and on a table
Hands all around me
Some stroking, some poking

Then...
the shot!

It does not phase me
It does not raise me
I sit calmly and comfortably
The strangers depart

Proudly inoculated
I am returned home
Back in the bag
Immune from the rabies

First Poem

Cat

Translator's note: I asked Dima if there was more to this poem, and he said no. I asked him what the difference was between the word "cat" and his first poem. He then gave me a prolonged stare as if I should know the answer.