Submit Your Poems
Get Your Premium Membership

Best Famous Cat Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Cat poems. This is a select list of the best famous Cat poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Cat poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of cat poems.

Search for the best famous Cat poems, articles about Cat poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Cat poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See also: Best Member Poems

Go Back

by Edward Lear | |

The Owl and the Pussy-Cat

The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea
  In a beautiful pea-green boat,
They took some honey, and plenty of money
  Wrapped up in a five-pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above, And sang to a small guitar, "O lovely Pussy, O Pussy, my love, What a beautiful Pussy you are, You are, You are! What a beautiful Pussy you are!" Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl! How charmingly sweet you sing! O let us be married! too long we have tarried: But what shall we do for a ring?" They sailed away, for a year and a day, To the land where the Bong-tree grows And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood With a ring at the end of his nose, His nose, His nose, With a ring at the end of his nose.
"Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will.
" So they took it away, and were married next day By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince, and slices of quince, Which they ate with a runcible spoon; And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand, They danced by the light of the moon, The moon, The moon, They danced by the light of the moon.

by Sylvia Plath | |

Morning Song

Love set you going like a fat gold watch.
The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry Took its place among the elements.
Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival.
New statue.
In a drafty museum, your nakedness Shadows our safety.
We stand round blankly as walls.
I'm no more your mother Than the cloud that distills a mirror to reflect its own slow Effacement at the wind's hand.
All night your moth-breath Flickers among the flat pink roses.
I wake to listen: A far sea moves in my ear.
One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral In my Victorian nightgown.
Your mouth opens clean as a cat's.
The window square Whitens and swallows its dull stars.
And now you try Your handful of notes; The clear vowels rise like balloons.

by Sylvia Plath | |

Lady Lazarus

I have done it again.
One year in every ten I manage it_____ A sort of walking miracle, my skin Bright as a Nazi lampshade, My right foot A paperweight, My face featureless, fine Jew linen.
Peel off the napkin O my enemy.
Do I terrify?------- The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth? The sour breath Will vanish in a day.
Soon, soon the flesh The grave cave ate will be At home on me And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.
This is Number Three.
What a trash To annihilate each decade.
What a million filaments.
The Peanut-crunching crowd Shoves in to see Them unwrap me hand in foot ------ The big strip tease.
Gentleman , ladies These are my hands My knees.
I may be skin and bone, Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.
The second time I meant To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut As a seashell.
They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
Dying Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.
I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.
It's easy enough to do it in a cell.
It's easy enough to do it and stay put.
It's the theatrical Comeback in broad day To the same place, the same face, the same brute Amused shout: 'A miracle!' That knocks me out.
There is a charge For the eyeing my scars, there is a charge For the hearing of my heart--- It really goes.
And there is a charge, a very large charge For a word or a touch Or a bit of blood Or a piece of my hair on my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.
I am your opus, I am your valuable, The pure gold baby That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.
Ash, ash--- You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there---- A cake of soap, A wedding ring, A gold filling.
Herr God, Herr Lucifer Beware Beware.
Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air.

by Emily Dickinson | |

Papa above!

 Papa above!
Regard a Mouse
O'erpowered by the Cat!
Reserve within thy kingdom
A "Mansion" for the Rat!

Snug in seraphic Cupboards
To nibble all the day
While unsuspecting Cycles
Wheel solemnly away!

by Emily Dickinson | |

The Whole of it came not at once --

 The Whole of it came not at once --
'Twas Murder by degrees --
A Thrust -- and then for Life a chance --
The Bliss to cauterize --

The Cat reprieves the Mouse
She eases from her teeth
Just long enough for Hope to tease --
Then mashes it to death --

'Tis Life's award -- to die --
Contenteder if once --
Than dying half -- then rallying
For consciouser Eclipse --

by Emily Dickinson | |

A little Dog that wags his tail

 A little Dog that wags his tail
And knows no other joy
Of such a little Dog am I
Reminded by a Boy

Who gambols all the living Day
Without an earthly cause
Because he is a little Boy
I honestly suppose --

The Cat that in the Corner dwells
Her martial Day forgot
The Mouse but a Tradition now
Of her desireless Lot

Another class remind me
Who neither please nor play
But not to make a "bit of noise"
Beseech each little Boy --

by Robert Burns | |

370. Song—Sic a Wife as Willie had

 WILLIE WASTLE dwalt on Tweed,
 The spot they ca’d it Linkumdoddie;
Willie was a wabster gude,
 Could stown a clue wi’ ony body:
He had a wife was dour and din,
 O Tinkler Maidgie was her mither;
Sic a wife as Willie had,
 I wad na gie a button for her!

She has an e’e, she has but ane,
 The cat has twa the very colour;
Five rusty teeth, forbye a stump,
 A clapper tongue wad deave a miller:
A whiskin beard about her mou’,
 Her nose and chin they threaten ither;
Sic a wife as Willie had,
 I wadna gie a button for her!

She’s bow-hough’d, she’s hein-shin’d,
 Ae limpin leg a hand-breed shorter;
She’s twisted right, she’s twisted left,
 To balance fair in ilka quarter:
She has a lump upon her breast,
 The twin o’ that upon her shouther;
Sic a wife as Willie had,
 I wadna gie a button for her!

Auld baudrons by the ingle sits,
 An’ wi’ her loof her face a-washin;
But Willie’s wife is nae sae trig,
 She dights her grunzie wi’ a hushion;
Her walie nieves like midden-creels,
 Her face wad fyle the Logan Water;
Sic a wife as Willie had,
 I wadna gie a button for her!

by Robert Burns | |

84. Address to the Deil

 O THOU! whatever title suit thee—
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie,
Wha in yon cavern grim an’ sootie,
 Clos’d under hatches,
Spairges about the brunstane cootie,
 To scaud poor wretches!

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee,
An’ let poor damned bodies be;
I’m sure sma’ pleasure it can gie,
 Ev’n to a deil,
To skelp an’ scaud poor dogs like me,
 An’ hear us squeel!

Great is thy pow’r an’ great thy fame;
Far ken’d an’ noted is thy name;
An’ tho’ yon lowin’ heuch’s thy hame,
 Thou travels far;
An’ faith! thou’s neither lag nor lame,
 Nor blate, nor scaur.
Whiles, ranging like a roarin lion, For prey, a’ holes and corners tryin; Whiles, on the strong-wind’d tempest flyin, Tirlin the kirks; Whiles, in the human bosom pryin, Unseen thou lurks.
I’ve heard my rev’rend graunie say, In lanely glens ye like to stray; Or where auld ruin’d castles grey Nod to the moon, Ye fright the nightly wand’rer’s way, Wi’ eldritch croon.
When twilight did my graunie summon, To say her pray’rs, douse, honest woman! Aft’yont the dyke she’s heard you bummin, Wi’ eerie drone; Or, rustlin, thro’ the boortrees comin, Wi’ heavy groan.
Ae dreary, windy, winter night, The stars shot down wi’ sklentin light, Wi’ you, mysel’ I gat a fright, Ayont the lough; Ye, like a rash-buss, stood in sight, Wi’ wavin’ sough.
The cudgel in my nieve did shake, Each brist’ld hair stood like a stake, When wi’ an eldritch, stoor “quaick, quaick,” Amang the springs, Awa ye squatter’d like a drake, On whistlin’ wings.
Let warlocks grim, an’ wither’d hags, Tell how wi’ you, on ragweed nags, They skim the muirs an’ dizzy crags, Wi’ wicked speed; And in kirk-yards renew their leagues, Owre howkit dead.
Thence countra wives, wi’ toil and pain, May plunge an’ plunge the kirn in vain; For oh! the yellow treasure’s ta’en By witchin’ skill; An’ dawtit, twal-pint hawkie’s gane As yell’s the bill.
Thence mystic knots mak great abuse On young guidmen, fond, keen an’ crouse, When the best wark-lume i’ the house, By cantrip wit, Is instant made no worth a louse, Just at the bit.
When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord, An’ float the jinglin’ icy boord, Then water-kelpies haunt the foord, By your direction, And ’nighted trav’llers are allur’d To their destruction.
And aft your moss-traversin Spunkies Decoy the wight that late an’ drunk is: The bleezin, curst, mischievous monkies Delude his eyes, Till in some miry slough he sunk is, Ne’er mair to rise.
When masons’ mystic word an’ grip In storms an’ tempests raise you up, Some cock or cat your rage maun stop, Or, strange to tell! The youngest brither ye wad whip Aff straught to hell.
Lang syne in Eden’s bonie yard, When youthfu’ lovers first were pair’d, An’ all the soul of love they shar’d, The raptur’d hour, Sweet on the fragrant flow’ry swaird, In shady bower; 1 Then you, ye auld, snick-drawing dog! Ye cam to Paradise incog, An’ play’d on man a cursèd brogue, (Black be your fa’!) An’ gied the infant warld a shog, ’Maist rui’d a’.
D’ye mind that day when in a bizz Wi’ reekit duds, an’ reestit gizz, Ye did present your smoutie phiz ’Mang better folk, An’ sklented on the man of Uzz Your spitefu’ joke? An’ how ye gat him i’ your thrall, An’ brak him out o’ house an hal’, While scabs and botches did him gall, Wi’ bitter claw; An’ lows’d his ill-tongu’d wicked scaul’, Was warst ava? But a’ your doings to rehearse, Your wily snares an’ fechtin fierce, Sin’ that day Michael 2 did you pierce, Down to this time, Wad ding a Lallan tounge, or Erse, In prose or rhyme.
An’ now, auld Cloots, I ken ye’re thinkin, A certain bardie’s rantin, drinkin, Some luckless hour will send him linkin To your black pit; But faith! he’ll turn a corner jinkin, An’ cheat you yet.
But fare-you-weel, auld Nickie-ben! O wad ye tak a thought an’ men’! Ye aiblins might-I dinna ken— Stil hae a stake I’m wae to think up’ yon den, Ev’n for your sake! Note 1.
The verse originally ran: “Lang syne, in Eden’s happy scene When strappin Adam’s days were green, And Eve was like my bonie Jean, My dearest part, A dancin, sweet, young handsome quean, O’ guileless heart.
” [back] Note 2.
Vide Milton, Book vi.

by Robert Burns | |

58. Epitaph on Holy Willie

 HERE Holy Willie’s sair worn clay
 Taks up its last abode;
His saul has ta’en some other way,
 I fear, the left-hand road.
Stop! there he is, as sure’s a gun, Poor, silly body, see him; Nae wonder he’s as black’s the grun, Observe wha’s standing wi’ him.
Your brunstane devilship, I see, Has got him there before ye; But haud your nine-tail cat a wee, Till ance you’ve heard my story.
Your pity I will not implore, For pity ye have nane; Justice, alas! has gi’en him o’er, And mercy’s day is gane.
But hear me, Sir, deil as ye are, Look something to your credit; A coof like him wad stain your name, If it were kent ye did it.

by Robert Burns | |

89. The Ordination

 KILMARNOCK wabsters, fidge an’ claw,
 An’ pour your creeshie nations;
An’ ye wha leather rax an’ draw,
 Of a’ denominations;
Swith to the Ligh Kirk, ane an’ a’
 An’ there tak up your stations;
Then aff to Begbie’s in a raw,
 An’ pour divine libations
 For joy this day.
Curst Common-sense, that imp o’ hell, Cam in wi’ Maggie Lauder; 1 But Oliphant 2 aft made her yell, An’ Russell 3 sair misca’d her: This day Mackinlay 4 taks the flail, An’ he’s the boy will blaud her! He’ll clap a shangan on her tail, An’ set the bairns to daud her Wi’ dirt this day.
Mak haste an’ turn King David owre, And lilt wi’ holy clangor; O’ double verse come gie us four, An’ skirl up the Bangor: This day the kirk kicks up a stoure; Nae mair the knaves shall wrang her, For Heresy is in her pow’r, And gloriously she’ll whang her Wi’ pith this day.
Come, let a proper text be read, An’ touch it aff wi’ vigour, How graceless Ham 5 leugh at his dad, Which made Canaan a nigger; Or Phineas 6 drove the murdering blade, Wi’ whore-abhorring rigour; Or Zipporah, 7 the scauldin jad, Was like a bluidy tiger I’ th’ inn that day.
There, try his mettle on the creed, An’ bind him down wi’ caution, That stipend is a carnal weed He taks by for the fashion; And gie him o’er the flock, to feed, And punish each transgression; Especial, rams that cross the breed, Gie them sufficient threshin; Spare them nae day.
Now, auld Kilmarnock, cock thy tail, An’ toss thy horns fu’ canty; Nae mair thou’lt rowt out-owre the dale, Because thy pasture’s scanty; For lapfu’s large o’ gospel kail Shall fill thy crib in plenty, An’ runts o’ grace the pick an’ wale, No gi’en by way o’ dainty, But ilka day.
Nae mair by Babel’s streams we’ll weep, To think upon our Zion; And hing our fiddles up to sleep, Like baby-clouts a-dryin! Come, screw the pegs wi’ tunefu’ cheep, And o’er the thairms be tryin; Oh, rare to see our elbucks wheep, And a’ like lamb-tails flyin Fu’ fast this day.
Lang, Patronage, with rod o’ airn, Has shor’d the Kirk’s undoin; As lately Fenwick, sair forfairn, Has proven to its ruin: 8 Our patron, honest man! Glencairn, He saw mischief was brewin; An’ like a godly, elect bairn, He’s waled us out a true ane, And sound, this day.
Now Robertson 9 harangue nae mair, But steek your gab for ever; Or try the wicked town of Ayr, For there they’ll think you clever; Or, nae reflection on your lear, Ye may commence a shaver; Or to the Netherton 10 repair, An’ turn a carpet weaver Aff-hand this day.
Mu’trie 11 and you were just a match, We never had sic twa drones; Auld Hornie did the Laigh Kirk watch, Just like a winkin baudrons, And aye he catch’d the tither wretch, To fry them in his caudrons; But now his Honour maun detach, Wi’ a’ his brimstone squadrons, Fast, fast this day.
See, see auld Orthodoxy’s faes She’s swingein thro’ the city! Hark, how the nine-tail’d cat she plays! I vow it’s unco pretty: There, Learning, with his Greekish face, Grunts out some Latin ditty; And Common-sense is gaun, she says, To mak to Jamie Beattie Her plaint this day.
But there’s Morality himsel’, Embracing all opinions; Hear, how he gies the tither yell, Between his twa companions! See, how she peels the skin an’ fell, As ane were peelin onions! Now there, they’re packed aff to hell, An’ banish’d our dominions, Henceforth this day.
O happy day! rejoice, rejoice! Come bouse about the porter! Morality’s demure decoys Shall here nae mair find quarter: Mackinlay, Russell, are the boys That heresy can torture; They’ll gie her on a rape a hoyse, And cowe her measure shorter By th’ head some day.
Come, bring the tither mutchkin in, And here’s—for a conclusion— To ev’ry New Light 12 mother’s son, From this time forth, Confusion! If mair they deave us wi’ their din, Or Patronage intrusion, We’ll light a spunk, and ev’ry skin, We’ll rin them aff in fusion Like oil, some day.
Note 1.
Alluding to a scoffing ballad which was made on the admission of the late reverend and worthy Mr.
Lihdsay to the “Laigh Kirk.
[back] Note 2.
James Oliphant, minister of Chapel of Ease, Kilmarnock.
[back] Note 3.
John Russell of Kilmarnock.
[back] Note 4.
James Mackinlay.
[back] Note 5.
Genesis ix.
[back] Note 6.
Numbers xxv.
[back] Note 7.
Exodus iv.
[back] Note 8.
Boyd, pastor of Fenwick.
[back] Note 9.
John Robertson.
[back] Note 10.
A district of Kilmarnock.
[back] Note 11.
The Rev.
John Multrie, a “Moderate,” whom Mackinlay succeeded.
[back] Note 12.
“New Light” is a cant phrase in the west of Scotland for those religious opinions which Dr.
Taylor of Norwich has so strenuously defended.