Portsmouth

Friday 14 May 2021

a platform of impatient breeze

Basingstoke to Portsmouth train

to bring back a maybe memory

of undergraduate time again

the Guildhall lions in silence roar

I amble on, in nonchalance

by cider people midday haze,

pecking pigeon petulance 

pink leg jogging girls go by 

the ribs of parading pier

water hissing pebble beach 

the scent of fish and chips appear

a half-gone bus stop, quacking lake

apartment row of opulence

back through wrought iron Southsea front 

by breezing ferry elegance 

those many years, they half-come back,

of bleary real ale memory

of Mott the Hoople Friday night

of European geography

Beach rock

alarm clock marimba, the early bird warble 

whispering sunlight beginning to roam 

open the window, breathe in the new air

the night, fait accompli, on the way home 

warm up the car, engine now ticking

your hand on my thigh, next to me here

garden flowers waving a goodbye

crawling along, in au revoir gear

picking up, cruising along by the beach

off-and-on sun through flickering tree 

half-angry sea hitting the breakwater

the scavenging, bickering bird bonhomie 

enjoying the sea, the Mercedes warm hum

windows open, we are eating the breeze

pit-stop café, a cup of black coffee

cheap chair, cracked plate, croissant en prise 

on the beach walking, the sand soft and warm

a boutique horizon of pink, orange, cerise

of salt spray aroma, the hiss of the surf

of the gentle arousing of the half-languid breeze 

piano rumba (half-awake night)

piano rumba in the tropical night

whispering overture of insect bite 

a tropical bird in a rhythm up high 

in a sunset horizon of a quiet goodbye

come to me here, come to me here

rumba, rumba in my half-awake night

by the water edge, one insect jumping high

the fish dance with misting moonlight

one nocturnal bird in whooping cry

rumba rhythm with me in the night 

the oboe breeze in the yellow wheat

the bird, insect, in buzzing fight

painting the plain, the sun ending its beat

rumba rhythm with me in the night 

the cool earth breeze purring alone

the conga, güiro, keeping timber tight

the iron timbre of the quiet trombone

rumba rhythm with me in the night 

the cirrus flute hanging up high

hunting the plough, the hawk, the kite

the melting of the mountain ice coming nigh

rumba rhythm with me in the night 

plat du jour (adapté du poème ‘Cargoes’)

عطبرة

Atbara railway junction, hot morning market

tomato rinse under a weak street tap

with a platter of spring onion, 

brown beans, cucumber,

Nile fish, olive oil with flat bread wrap 

الطائف

Mazda truck with box of dates, oranges from Egypt 

rocky Taif café in the gritty wadi air 

with a warm tin of Pepsi, 

half-chicken from rotisserie

clove-spicing saffron rice, Hejazi workman fare

Kerület IX

Haller Mester csomópont, brutalist apartment block

Keleti yellow tram with ticket punch machine

with a casserole of chicken breast, 

new potato, green courgette

carrot, garlic, turmeric, purple aubergine

Terengganu

walking in the sunrise, a windswept Jalan Pantai

rocking fishing boats on the pungent estuary

with a banana plate of oily rice, 

peanuts, cucumber, 

curry chicken thigh and a cup of Boh tea

Royal Berkshire

high-class Thames by Caversham, of swan, duck, pigeon 

in the warm Alto Lounge of hoi-polloi renown 

with a pot of hot English tea,

a plate of sauté mushroom,

tomato, sausage, fried egg, crispy hash brown

Kuala Dungun

there, Seberang, south China sea,
wave breaking beach, wind sweeping tree

buoy, men, boat,
net, rope, float
estuary, Kuala Dungun

Malay girls, multicoloured skirts,
sarong fishermen, old rag shirt
mango, lime, fish,
prawn, slime
market, Kuala Dungun

sewing girls, hot gas fire,
squeaky trishaw, hissing tyre
talk, laugh, moan,
coins, car, phone
sounds of Kuala Dungun

Chinese school, brick grill bank,
terrace shops, peeling plank
paint, gold, book,
hardware, hook
buildings, Kuala Dungun

iron mountain, inland road,
mining men ate up the lode
train, ship, ore,
money awe
back time, Kuala Dungun

muggy, sweaty coffee shop,
wet cold marble table top
smoke, soup, mee,
toast, egg, tea
breakfast, Kuala Dungun

roast chopped duck, rich plum sauce,
tau fu, yam cake, rice, main course
bream from sea,
Chinese tea
cuisine, Kuala Dungun

waves crash sand, winds blow strong,
warm air muffles Chinese song
feel alone,
old dogs groan
night time, Kuala Dungun

techno-Kerteh, petro-breeze,
airstrip, tower, fencing, trees
bags packed go,
tears will flow
goodbye, Kuala Dungun

coast horizon, eastward look,
technician, salesman, oil rig cook /
Fokker low,
lights aglow
no more, Kuala Dungun

parking now, shrieking whine,
aircraft turn, air cut fine
rotors slow,
time to go
feeling, Kuala Dungun

seat belt click, crew of four,
airframe tremble, engines roar
runway rush,
airborne hush
thinking, Kuala Dungun

Mooncake beach

1130pm 14 September 2000
Moon Cake Festival, Kwang Hwa Primary School, Kuala Dungun

once more around the Moon Cake came
to a windswept school on an eastern beach
but, for me, it was much the same
with emotions yet again out of reach

the parents chatter, gossip, smile,
when round the court they wait for free
evening entertainment trial
and it was here I met Marie

and there, to my complete surprise,
she shook my hand unshakingly
and held on to it, making me surmise
that she really was quite keen on me

coloured bulbs wash every tree
children running here and there
microphone cacophony
of raucous female shredding air

boring speeches start the night
no one listens to the farce
Your Honour, try to polite
I really wish the time would pass

first, children town trek, lanterns glow
this the highlight of the night
then, a less than teenage fashion show
costumes, music, tacky, trite

schoolgirl models now in full swing
get up from chair, and try to peer
but not at young mascara thing
interesting to me is Marie’s nice rear

then, in the course of my thrilling night,
I trek the basketball arena where
I meet a woman, her jeans cut tight,
tall, clean looking, with long tied hair

I didn’t pay, so not too sure
the exact price of the entrance fee
but to keep the fangs from stomach door
we get a plastic bag of nibbles, free

and, as have had no dinner, now half past nine
try a crispy salt tomato snack
that makes my mouth taste of sun bleached brine
must drink tasteless winter melon pack

then big lady mother, small girl in tow
offers me one more packet drink
loving mother, thank you, not now no
smile, and try hard not to think

acrid smell of candle smoke
with plastic bottles burning too
children think that it’s a joke
hoping night is never through

the music sends my mind outside
to a European concert hall,
then cricket, where I thump a wide
my century off a four run ball

the moon now much higher in the sky
the light glazing on the watching sea
allowing me to reflect on why
my hand was taken by Marie

once more around the Moon Cake came
with emotions yet again out of reach
but, for me, it was much the same
in a windswept school on an eastern beach

Rock painting

2005

Here, in the cave, I struggle to take care of the offspring;
You expect me to feed them on your ‘wild’ chicken wing?

Rubbish. You tether them to a nearby tree.
Two minutes to get their meat. Don’t lie to me.

Get out, you lazy man, and find food we can eat.
Get us fresh ostrich eggs, gazelle, or zebra meat.
I want something tender, I can chew.

We are sick of eating leaf, nut, and root pâté.
You call that an excuse? You keep chipping away.
I hope a cheetah will eat you.

Other men get out and hunt. You spend your time tainting
the home with foolish matchstick-men painting.
It’s horrible, kitsch.

You think art on a rock can bring food on the plate?
Get out; get food, before I use your ear for bait.
You’re horrible, bitch.

It’s Africa, you fool; of course it’s hot. Then wait for the rain.
I told you to get a place in the highlands. You have no brain.
I don’t have enough money.

Even a mother hyena gets to eat meat and bone marrow.
They manage to get it without a bow and arrow.
Get us some fresh honey.

No, I won’t. I require it here. You make your own knife.
None of the other men would dream of asking their wife.
How can you think you are a man? You think you are an artist? You are so weak.

Other husbands bring food. Where is mine?
Go and get. Or I’ll throw you to the porcupine.
How can you think you are a woman? I hope you get caught in the vulture’s beak.

You can’t. Animals are too alert to be caught in a trap.
You would not recall where they were; you can’t read a map.

That’s not important. I can watch the sky at night.
The fool thinks he is a Polynesian. His brain’s not right.

You cannot be serious; that would be cheating.
They are our neighbours. What would the family be eating?

No, you go out, like a man, and get me something to eat.
No, a lion won’t bother you. You’re too thin, no meat.

The woman goes on as if she were in a market place.
With one like this, there’s no future for the human race.

Are you muttering about your problems again?
Nothing, light of the grasslands and foothills, just thinking about when it will rain.

Get out, useless fellow. Take that and your paintbrush too.
You might become famous? Next time people are going to know about you?

New computer haiku / Haiku of Why, Wye, Y

abc, z, op
insert, enter, tab, up, break
m, z, q, p, home

Why, I write tonight

Wye, I think stone bridge, oxbow

Y, penultimate

3.10 pm

Photograph: Richard Homer 2010

Here, now, alone on the worktop of a half-asleep floor;

I hear the wind pick up a tone or two

the windows quake in gentle empathy

quiet, choir rain flickering on the beat

I think of nothing, empty

Here, now, in a post-tengah-hari bite of egg, chia, green tea;

I hear the ambiguity of the fan, whirring,

in the barking lane, the odd, tiring car

3 10 pm, a long time to night cheer

I think of nothing, empty

31 December 2012

Here, in pouring rain, the night is kicking in;

in the rear, making an effort to enjoy the glass of cold Stout,

right elbow swollen, maybe by

the morning effect of too many chords of E,A, B,

about as much as the keyboard can manage in near retirement.



Here, in pouring rain, peering through the mosquito netting,

a frog comes to wish me a happy new year, a two leg kissing,

I thank her; maybe, she just wants mosquito cuisine

Ai Hwa is out, the norm, Henry, Rhiannon in Subang Jaya.

I phoned to remind them to go quiet in the night



Here, in abating rain, I hear dog, neighbour bark

then quiet comes back; or maybe no;

before the rain, thinking it retired at the wrong time,

making an attempt to arrange the rhythm of the oncoming new year, here