Curiosity // by Alastair Reid

Curiosity

by Alastair Reid

Curiosity may have killed the cat; more likely

the cat was just unlucky, or else curious

to see what death was like, having no cause

to go on licking paws, or fathering

litter on litter of kittens, predictably.

Face It.

FACE IT. Curiosity

will not cause us to die —

only lack of it will.

Never to want to see

the other side of the hill

or that improbable country

where living is an idyll

(although a probable hell)

would kill us all.

Only the curious

have, if they live, a tale

worth telling at all.

Dogs say cats love too much, are irresponsible,

are changeable, marry too many wives,

desert their children, chill all dinner tables

with tales of their nine lives.

Well, they are lucky.

Well, they are lucky.

Let them be

nine-lived and contradictory,

curious enough to change, prepared to pay

the cat price, which is to die

and die again and again,

each time with no less pain.

A cat minority of one

is all that can be counted on

to tell the truth. And what cats have to tell

on each return from hell

is this: that dying is what the living do,

that dying is what the loving do,

and that dead dogs are those who do not know

that dying is what, to live, each has to do.

*****

I’m not typically into poetry — writing it or reading it. But this poem caught my eye in high school and I’ve loved it ever since. It’s graced a wall (printed out on tie-dyed paper) at various stops along the way and always has a prominent place in my mind.  

What do you think?

What does this poem say to you?

Chime in with your thoughts!

Cheers,
Jaime

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