As Masik speaks.

​AS MASIK SPEAKS
A prose poem
Huseyn Qurbanov

Once upon a time there lived a Poetess. Olga. Famous. The very one who writes poems about cats.

Her books stood in every house that had a cat. And where there was no cat — they still stood. Because after her poems, a cat would appear on its own.

She didn't live alone. With a cat. The cat's name was Masik.

Masik wasn't just a cat. He was an editor, a critic, and a muse — all in one fluffy face.

In the morning he woke first. He sat on the windowsill, looked out into the yard, and thought cat thoughts.

She woke up next and asked:
— So, Masik, what are we writing about today?

And Masik answered. Not with words. With his tail.

Tail thumps — we write about hunting. Tail fluffs up — about love. Tail tucked under — about autumn, and about how cold it is without a cat.

And the Poetess wrote. And everyone said: genius.

But one day the poems ran out.

She sat down at the table. Laid out a sheet. Picked up her pen. Looked at Masik.

And Masik looked at her, yawned, and turned toward the window.

There was no sign in his tail. It lay still, like a forgotten scarf.

She waited an hour. Then two. Then she wrote:

The cat sits on the windowsill…

Crossed it out.

And then Masik jumped down from the windowsill. Walked up to the table. And lay down right on the white sheet. With all his six kilograms.

Not as a muse. As a cat. Who was simply cold.

She wanted to shoo him away. But she listened.

Masik purred. Unevenly. Now long — mrrrr. Now short — mr.

Mrrrr — that's about the sun.
Mr — that's about the bowl.
Mrrrr mr mrr — that's about how scary it is to be nobody's, and how good it is when someone has called you theirs.

And in that silence, while the cat slept on the sheet, the Poetess suddenly understood everything.

And she wrote down the only thing that was true:

The cat sleeps — and the silence in the house
grows warmer.
In one apartment, two cats:
one of them is nobody's.

That day she wrote her most famous book.

It was called
As Masik Speaks.

There was not a single human word in it. Only:

mrrr
mr
mrrrr
murr

And all the cats understood. And the people — almost all.

Since then, the Poetess writes like this.

She no longer makes up poems about cats.

She simply puts a blank sheet on the table, calls Masik, and Masik lies down on top.

Because all the great poems about cats were already written long ago — by cats.

All that's needed is a person who stops being afraid to be nobody's, and just stays nearby.

Alın Ak / KaJe MeG