They Hate

They hate holy laziness,

Salubrious sloth, ecstatically

Motiveless frenzy.

They hate beautiful strangeness,

Undogmatic freedom,

Delicate strength,

Nervousness transformed into courage,

Impossibly hidden music,

Inexplicable unslavish unlabeled sweetness.

Maybe they hate the animal

That is exquisitely least 

And most animalistic.

They hate a casually outrageous survivor

Who survives tactfully without trying.

They hate a chimera who is paradoxically pure,

An animal that is all animals, all elements--

Earth, air, fire, water, rodent, snake, bird, flower.

They hate hypnotically unpredictable love.

They hate dignity that is not obsessive.

They hate unkillable wonder

That is supposedly commonplace.

They hate an animal who owns

Both porphyry palace and alley of ordure,

Unfazed by either.

They hate the being that floats like a wafted petal,

Or that decides to be curvaceously steadfast as a rock,

Or that decides to sparkle or become utter shadow.

They hate this finally benign dependable voyeur.

They hate the hugeness of its gemlike gaze,

Or when it makes Buddha-eyes--wise, calm, half-closed.

They hate to be judged, but theirs is the judgment.

They hate the intimacy of its mythic aloofness,

Not knowing the politeness of its deep charm.

They hate this elegant peace,

Even more elegant speed.

They hate this reality.

They hate this metamorphosing surreality,

Regal silliness,

Suave magic.

They hate cats.

It is wrong to hate cats.

They don’t know how to interpret.

They don’t know how to touch.

It is wrong to hate cats.

They hate cats.

© Stephen Margulies, 2013

Kuniyoshi Utagawa, "Okabe," c. 1844

Image from Wikimedia Commons

A cat at a temple could be a witch in cat form, as shown here.

There were those who despised cats because they were said

to be the only animal not to weep when the Buddha died.