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By Scarlet Torch and Blade

Chapter 19: THE BELL
By Anthony Euwer
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Poetry

About This Book

A varied poetry collection presents lyrical meditations on open landscapes, woodland life, and the forces of fire and weather. It is organized into thematic sections that range from expansive outdoor scenes to domestic moments, playful verse, a sequence devoted to individual tree species, and a group of poems reflecting travel and longing abroad. Imagery often centers on natural details—trees, animals, rivers, and mountain tops—while occasional narratives depict human labor, community, and small, ironic observations. Tone shifts between solemn, celebratory, and whimsical, and several poems combine illustration with short rhymes to evoke mood and place.

THE BELL

I am a cat and I am cruel! But beautiful! My fur Is soft. I have deep amber eyes And a most pleasing purr. I am a plaything for a child To pinch or squeeze or pull Or to adore with soft caress, For I am beautiful.
I am a cat and I am cruel! The upper Nile knew me, Roaming and wild. Then hunters came, I was no longer free. For Egypt had great granaries, So came a plague of rats, They held us sacred like their gods For Egypt needed cats.
I am a cat. Since Pharaoh’s day I am what men call tame, But deep in me the lust for gore Is lurking just the same. Stroke me, I purr—my claws relax, I drowse—but for all that The murderer in me sleeps not, Sleeps not, for I’m a cat.
My mistress too is beautiful, Blue-veined with snowy skin, She smooths my fur and cuddles me Close to her dainty chin. An amorous perfume clings to Her soft gown’s silken mesh— I only want to smell her blood And eat her pretty flesh!
I love to watch the agony Of some affrighted thing, Life ebbing scarlet, bit by bit, Through my slow torturing. I am a cat—this is my life, To be a pet until The age-long urge bestirs my soul And I go forth to kill.
Through velvet black the paws of me Touch oh so soft and noiselessly. The burning amber of my eyes Pierces the night; the rose-moon dies. I hear a twitter in the vine, My throat is parched—it craves red wine. I lift a foot—and all is well Until—until—I shake my bell! For she has tied a bell on me, A bell—a bell—a bell on me, A tinkly bell to tell on me, To tell—to tell—to tell on me; The bell that foils each move I make, The bell that tells my prey awake, The single dingle jingle-bell The little tittle-tattle bell, The bell that holds my stroke in check, The cursed bell around my neck.