WELFARE STATE
He lies in the sun,
proudly,
sometimes
roaring insufferably
loudly.
Rippling with strength
and beauty
and testosterone
he lazily surveys
his kingdom.
While by his side
his females lie
waiting his whim
with downcast eye,
adoring him.
He may be macho
but, when all is done
behind the throne,
behind the king
is his pride.
Far be it from me
To draw analogies
With those who wait
their Giro cheque
in our society.
But come the crunch,
whose job is it
to go and hunt
for lunch?
TOTEM
This owl sits in his own
Gleaming mahogany peace,
Swaying without movement,
Thrusting his talons
Deep into his dais.
Perched upon the mantelpiece
He views the living room,
Gazing around with the old wisdom,
The polished menace of the totem
The psychic power of the moon.
He swivels saucer eyes,
Takes the occasion
To preen his sculpted plumes
Waiting for night.
Then takes to muffled flight,
Swooping around the house,
Stooping upon the mice
Delivering death
THOUGHTS ON TIGERS
Tiger, Tiger, in the gloom,
Of the silent living room,
What was the greed and what the hate
That led you to this sorry state?
Tiger, stretched out on the hearth,
Fangs bared in a snarl of death,
Framed in a savage symmetry
And an immortal ecstasy.
Tiger, Tiger, once so bright
In the forests of the night,
Prostrate now upon the floor,
A decoration, nothing more.
Tiger, with your subtlety,
Hunting skills, and cruel beauty,
Never to be seen again
Save for staring eyes and skin.
SWANS IN PERSPEX
I remember:
I came across the brooch years afterwards,
drowning in the depths of the drawer
and took it up, feeling it like a jewel.
The stream flowed deep within the crystal
and the swans swam proudly.
And as I gazed Ladislaw came to my mind,
with all his peasant friendly force,
and certain knife carving, whittling away.
I felt the clash within his clumsy elegance,
understand as never before how his art,
may endure, not in bronze, but in Perspex,
I remember:
I gave it my love as a first gift,
a symbol of grace and of serenity.
But for old Ladislaw exiled from his home
like many Polish Air Force,
trapped in the time and the events of war,
with no ending, except in beauty
it was a threnody.
And now I see:
What then I would not,
brash as I was with young ego.
I see the sad contours of the Swans,
and hear his Swan Song.
The Sloth - A Perspective
You would be loath
if you were me
to blame so readily
the Sloth
Granted the way
in which he lives
may seem pejorative,
to some degree.
Leisurely in extreme
at least compared with us
whizzing around
in a perpetual fuss.
In sweated labour,
ending up distressed
with peptic ulcers,
and completely stressed.
You must agree that both
the two toed sloth
and three toed sloth
have the right frame of mind.
They take their time,
and live a swinging life
from tree to tree
gentle and carefree.
No sin in being lazy!
Letting it all hang out
We are the crazy ones,
rushing around
seeing life
upside down
or even inside out.
OUTSIDE SAFEWAYS
A mournful sound ,
dreadful and beautiful,
fit to bring tears to any eye,
evoking the black pit of Hell..
Oh woe! Oh woe! Oh cruel
doleful, awful harmony!
A concord of discord
that fills the courtyard.
A dirge by creatures
rent from their owners,
anxious and alone,
tied to the bars
of some timeless limbo.
Bassets, and Red Setters
in a clear brown baritone;
Bloodhounds just below
intone a bleary profundo;
and Labradors and Boxers
mellifluous with tenor.
Terriers and Yorkies barking mad
in a fine soprano passion
vie to hit the topmost C.
with coloratura Poodles clad
in highest fashion.
These are soft creatures, left
outside Safeways every day,
every breed and pedigree
some of them no breed at all
tethered just like animals.
So they sing in agony,
left in mutual misery,
feeling they must be bad,
to be thus bereft and torn
from their adored
mum or dad.
Saturday, 30 June 2001
THE OTTER AND I
He stands immobile.
Alert and predatory
in chiselled beauty
ready for the kill.
Merely mahogany?
No more, no less, you say.
And yet he questions me
With dark button eyes.
Tactile and sensuous and smooth
And in his savage way soothes
Bad feelings within me.
So that I am he.
And we’re together.
Me and the Otter.
Friday, 25 August 2006
MOLE
Portly person, short of sight,
steady progress through the soil.
doing breaststroke in the night,
"Scrape and shovel, scratch and wriggle.
What a really scrumptious weevil!"
Guided missile with its Radar,
sensitive to sound and odour.
careful and methodical.
"Dig and scrape and reach and rub!
I've found a highly juicy grub"
Whiskers locked on to the smell,
target ineluctable,
titbit so delectable.
"Double, double, double dug!
A most delicious tasty slug"
Unseemly heaps of crumbly soil,
left behind at intervals,
not where he is but where he's been.
The chagrin of the bowling green.
"Shove and shovel, scoop and squirm!
Half a mo, I've got a worm….."
HEDGEHOG
The day blushes, declines
all further dalliance with the light,
and the small folk of the night
peer forth, timid for their life.
The hedgehog goes tapping
tip-toes along the path
then, silent in four wheel drive
across the grass.
His panoply of prickles swaying,
he rolls from side to side,
shy and rotund,
black button eyes twinkling,
like a character from Dickens.
Damp chamois nose crinkling
at the delectable smells
that surge and creep
from the compost heap,
and new-turned earth.
Ears hidden like dark shells,
swivelled on soft sounds
of deliquescent slugs,
and worms that squirm,
and round shiny bugs
in an ungainly panic.
9 September, 1998
THE GECKO ON THE CEILING
(A tropical interlude)
It was like a cameo
carved in crystal time.
And I lay long,
sweating and supine,
in Hong Kong
Staring in a trance
staring with fixed eye
and immobile mind
at the lizard on the ceiling,
caught in mid dance.
Seeing no movement,
awaiting nothing,
inert as a thing,
a non-event.
But I was content,
with fellow feeling
for the gecko
on the ceiling
It was a cameo,
carved out of time.
THE CONDOR
The condor slides
down hollow heights
fondling with grace
the contours of the wind,
pinions out-spread
and frayed.
The condor glides
a pure idea of flight,
in sheer space,
soaring in thermals,
swaying on pinnacles
of twisted air.
Slow and serene,
he rides the Andes,
scanning the scene
with laser eyes
the swoops to seize
food that dies.
THE CHEETAH
On the veldt,
the cheetah stands.
A thing of beauty,
balance, elegance,
symmetry
Swift and svelte,
focussing his hopes
upon the antelopes
nearby grazing.
And he, tensing,
sensuous, graceful,
lithe and lethal,
a guided missile
Aimed and waiting
to launch into action,
become a virtual
poem in motion.
A killing creature,
a machine fashioned,
over the years,
of grace and beauty.
and cruelty.
Poised there
In all his elegance.
A WOOING GO
Henrietta Van den Trogs,
A virgin princess, fond of frogs,
Looked in the mirror one fine day
And horror stricken, saw some grey.
The dreadful image made her wince!
It was high time she got a Prince!
She looked again at her reflection,
Hardly a sight to rouse the passions
Of any passing Prince or King.
In all a most unlovesome thing!
Face like a horse, alack, alas!
How would she ever find a match?
Too late! Too late! Alas, alack!
Then sudden inspiration struck:
She'd find a frog to kiss, she thought.
A grateful Prince would blossom forth.
No sooner said, she fled headlong
Down to the lake where rushes throng
And water lilies bloom in beauty.
'Twas there she saw a frog on duty,
Glistening like an emerald.
A lovely sight! She was enthralled
And kissed him straight without decorum,
Saying with love: "My place or your'un?"
"Mine!" croaked the frog, swelling with pride,
While she shrank slowly to his size,
Then followed coyly in his wake
To their new pad across the lake.
THE ORANG UTAN (PONGO PYGMAEUS)
Pongo pygmaeus,
like some of us
has a big brain,
and in the main
is quite a clever feller
But unlike us,
Pongo pygmaeus,
has little vice
and spends a life
at leisure
in Paradise.
Orang-utans,
are hedonist, epicurean,
lissom and free
plucking the blossoms
of the day,
The young orangs all swing
from branch to branch.
and sing and dance,
while elders sit,
pontificate and think
If we but knew
they sang and talked
and danced and thought,
like what we do
We’d seize our chance,
imitate their ways,
give them our thanks,
Alas, given our history
we’d soon make them slaves.
The Orang-utan (Pongo
pygmaeus), lives in Borneo and Sumatra.
Its name is Malayan and
means "Man of the Woods. "
There is an island legend that
Orangs can speak but do not do so for fear humans will put them to
work.
VIPER
Remorselessly.
Forked tongue
stroking the air
tasting the fear.
Focussed on the prey
its smell and sight,
mesmerised
close by.
Jaws gaping unhung,
venom drooling
anticipation.
A fatal lunge.
Writhing and convulsion,
slow peristalsis.
Finally peace
and satisfaction.
THE PINK FAIRY ARMADILLO
I do not believe in fairies
At the bottom of my garden
Flitting and floating on the breeze.
Ethereal as butterflies
Sipping nectar, casting spells.
Shy, elegant and feminine
But the real fairies that I know.
Have heavy bony armour shells
And feast upon the ants and snails.
I’ll have no more with fairy tales!
Pink Fairy Armadillos
Live close within their desert burrows.
Protected by their carapace,
Living within this sordid space,
With unforgiving sand for pillows,
What did transform them to this state
Consigned them to a dreadful fate?
The details would take far too long.
Suffice to say a fairy spell went wrong!
The Pink Fairy Armadillo is found in central Argentina where it inhabits dry grasslands and sandy plains with thorn bushes and cacti. It has the ability to bury itself completely in a matter of seconds if frightened. It feeds on worms, snails, insects and larvae, or various plant and root material.
