Paul Whitby

Paul Whitby

Paul Whitby is a casual animal rescuer and poet. His writing has been published in journals such as Cordite, The Lifted Brow, and Offset. He won the Ipswich Poetry Prize in 2021, and the Wyndham Writing Award the following year. His first book of poetry, Rats Live on no Evil Star, was published in 2013, and he won the Malthouse Theatre Award for Excellence in Creative Arts later that year. Previously a house sitter, Paul currently resides in Yarrambat, Victoria.

Inside Cat

It’s a cold winter’s day.
I’m at my parents’ house,
alone in front of the fire,
listening to the cat
eating her arsehole out.

I’m minding the place
while the olds are up north
at Gemini Resort.
I can’t complain, I guess,
it’s got all the comforts.

On still mornings like this,
the fog gives the trees
a ghostly presence.
I couldn’t say the time,
or even what day it is.

I have nowhere to be,
there’s nothing I have to do.
Centrelink lost interest
years ago. I got my wish:
I’ve been written off.

No-one depends on me
except the cat, and to her
I am everything.
If she could open my mouth
and climb in, she would.

She became an inside cat
a few years back,
and spent all her time
loitering near the door
hoping to escape.

Her existential meows
were harrowing.

Now, if she sees a bird
near the window,
it doesn’t even register.
Everything is equal
in its lack of value.

All she has is my lap
and her arsehole.

But she gurgles and slurps
and makes a meal of it,
while I sit here and listen
to each lap of her tongue
marking the time.

Canary Found

I found a canary today.
This is not a poem.

He was canary yellow
& he sang
like a bird.

He still is –
canary yellow, I mean.
Still sings, too.

Well not right now,
I mean in the mornings
When I open the blinds.

I’m not being funny.
Every word is true!

I didn’t find the canary.
He was there
to be found.

He was hanging around
outside a house.

He wasn’t hanging.
He was bouncing along
on the pavement.

(why is language
so draining?)

I rang the doorbell
and he flew to the porch
but no-one answered.

Then other stuff happened.
Went home
Got a blanket
Came back
Threw it over him
Brought him home

This is not a poem.
You don’t need the details.

I made fliers, did a
CANARY FOUND
leaflet drop.

It’s three weeks now
since I found a canary.

I did not find the canary.
The canary found me.

This is not a poem.
A poem is not a canary.