Tonight when I knelt down next to our cat, Zooey, And put my fingers into her clean cat's mouth, And rubbed her swollen belly that will never know kittens, And watched her wriggle onto her side, pawing the air, And listened to her solemn little squeals of delight, I was thinking about the poet, Christopher
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The nights were long and cold and bittersweet,
And he made a song for the hell of it.
She stood by the window, a heavenly light
Who created havoc for the hell of it.
He used to fondle every skirt in sight,
Then he fell in love—that’s the hell of it.
Now there’s a courtyard with an abject knight
Yodeling his head off for the hell of it.
O poor me, my Lady, my hopeless plight!
She married a prince for the hell of it.
Honorable, unsatisfied, illicit—
Why bring it up? Just for the hell of it.
The fever spread from poet to poet
Who burned in the high-minded hell of it.
But the Untouchable had him by the throat,
And he stopped singing for the hell of it.
Love is a tower, a trance, a medieval pit.
When I lost you, I knew the hell of it.
Born in Chicago on January 20, 1950, Edward Hirsch is a poet and literary advocate. His second collection, Wild Gratitude (Knopf, 1986), received the National Book Critics Circle Award.