Asia to Africa - no point, I know

30 March 2009

I, in the rear, watch
think of the wire to the fridge
in blurring inefficiency

they go off to a surrendering bed, but
I must remain here, thinking why
it might be like this or that

in analysis, the Nyeri rain
the Nanyuki bar, road to Isiolo
bringing me back home

the warmth of an Nkubu night
chopped pine, Mendelssohn, chess, monopoly too
the lights out at ten pm

the generator wanting to sleep
with the chorus of east African mosquito
other insect, the school uniform ostrich feather redundant

irrelevant to the time
elbow across north and south
Nanyuki bar of equator, but who cares, except me…

A fly in a bag / Trio / Miniature moon

March 2009 

 the hanging bag by the rear window in there, 

a fly buzzing in irritation, 

incomprehension at being unable to get out 

 wondering what it had done to be in this predicament 

 the opaque pale grey jamming its orientation 

 the walls in gentle tremor against the wing 

 the fish bone, meat bit just watch 

 they do nothing to help four fifty; but maybe high noon too 

 I chop carrot, apple get water - my tea 

 it got out 

I went to check after tea

Trio

25 March 2009 

by the rear in the half lit garden with four pm air 

two mynahs beat wing and bop on the concrete 

one oriental robin magpie, enquiring with a peck or two 

by corner tree in agitating motion 

a wary running bird poking but the name…

Miniature moon

March 2009 

On my right palm the

 blister from hoeing is like a miniature moon 

I can pick it, or keep it 

calm in its ignorance, 

in harmony with the earth 

but not with me

Bream on a plate

March 2009

pale post-steam pink,
the fin barb like Mohican hair,
taking the spoon, cutting through
in the way of a surgeon, extracting the meat,
a scale getting into the mouth…

yellow green mak tam leaf,
teeming garlic juice,

no rice

on the screen, in free fall,
leaf after leaf of orange autumn

A poem for a mug

I used to own a number of mugs, used to, please note
but they are gone now
thrown away by me
in quality cricketing way
in debris by the base of a tree
I imagine they’ll be there
in a hundred years from now
maybe being picked up from the jungle floor
examined by a young girl or boy
not yet even thought about

I can’t drink tea now; I shall have to
use my cupped hands to drink water
from the tap; that has the advantage though
in that I get
no insects in the mouth
unlike my containers of filtered water; they
attract insects like a bizarre magnet; maybe
it’s the lime I put in… I
hadn’t thought of that
yes, maybe it’s the lime.

I bought one mug
in a small Chinese shop
it had clear line etchings on it
quite exquisite, like the Chinese tea
I used to take from it; that’s gone too,
along with a Bugs Bunny mug,
a present from my students, oh
ten years back; they - the young people, I mean -
are good at gauging
a teacher’s mentality.

I’ll miss my mugs - I already am - and my tea
- I already am - and to make matters worse
they - the wretched pair of big birds - have refused to disperse
they are still up there
irritating
hooting
annoying me
non-stop, enjoying every minute
high up
in the tree

Refugee from a picture

March 2009

Here, hearing the bird group chattering on
on a bright morning, walking into
the town through park of rucking tree

ATM, bank, Post Office par avion, butcher for lamb

town hall clocking in on time
cattle market empty
car park of ticketing circulation

rugby, the Blorenge opposite
breaking industry and agriculture
the Ysgyryd Fach to the east by the railway track

the air clear, hot ready to bite you

back up to the top, heart pumping
take a lunch of sausage, bread, a pot of Rooibos tea
in the afternoon, tidy up the place, then writing

the night bringing
an oh la la woman to the shop for a pack
then taking her away from me

now walking back alone with my beer

Night with East Africa

12 March 2009

I put the computer on tonight, at 00.43
a time when no-one, nothing came

on the table, an insect, in lounging walk
I blow away, in kindness, not wishing hurt

hearing Benin Angelique, ‘Malaika’ in Dakar, enjoying it

no, you wouldn’t, would you

because you’re ignorant
that is why

the Wye, cool me

the…is…empty…now

Pot-pourri ici

23 50 11 March 2009

Pot-pourri ici des pensées dans le soir

une soir avec rien ici
sauf le chuchotement de l’eau par le plage
où les arbres proclament que la nuit respire

et moi-même
je reste ici, tout seul, une atmosphère
qui fait la paix, mais sans romance

ma femme est partie
et je pense, mais je ne sais pas que je pense
à moi, c’est assez normale

c’est tranquille ici, je n’ai pas de la plainte
étant avec les arbres, je suis heureux
j’ai la nuit par compagnie; elle ne me importune pas

en fait, j’elle adore
elle m’amène beaucoup de choses une personne ne peut pas
poésie sans mots, musique sans gens, bière sans tracasseries, par exemple

et maintenant la pluie vient encore avec beaucoup de puissance
amènent avec elle un orchestre
qui est, en même temps, pacifique et âpre

Non? Okay, I’ll try again, j’essaie encore

EK

11 March 2009




Exiting KLIA on a hot night of aircraft thunder runway
engines kick in, we kick out

the engines quieten, then pick up

the flaps go down, the leading edge whining out

the night beginning to paint pinpricks of ground light

a road appearing, then a car, then a fence



the thud of the runway, 





air brake, reverse thrusting



extra kerosene
the shuddering goes as quick as it came
job complete

here,
the smell of ubiquitous airport
emanating kerosene and perfume
the bi-lingual departure information
African robe, Arab business suit
Caucasian jeans, sports gear
women on show, women hidden away

I look at the pretty KLM girl, but she’s a cardboard cut-out
rather the way I think I am now

4 30

the population of earth
thinking they are on the go
through the window
coach bringing in new
taking out transit
a catering truck, fire engine, petrol tanker
unclear in the orange haze
of a beginning morning here
one plane, then another, another run and go

the half-awake runway watching them, irate

Music out in Africa

8 March 2009

1
pine chop chunks cook in adagio
resin coming out in gentle smoke aroma

the weak light bulb
enough for the chess game

the Mendelssohn concerto
on the scratching turntable

the floor of polishing cement
the teak rhino watching
the generator will stop now
near ten

2
Walking with heavy tape recorder bulk
thick button, weak battery
with Mozart flute and harp

hearing the clarinet warble back then
a long time before the film
with school and house
was thought about

watching the gazelle, giraffe, zebra
by the lake of lotus and tilapia
in the Rift.

3
A party with the nurses in Igoji
Bert Kaempfert swinging away
with staccato trumpet
cheese wire strings biting in
coffee tree, mud track
groaning of the car
the hint of yet another blast of rain
axe, arrow flint
women with banana bunch
on their back

The poem that went to court

March 2009 

The court in Merthyr was packed up high; it hadn’t had this type of case before. 

Prosecuting, Mr Wyn Griffith Price QC, asked for the maximum sentence, to deter potential future ‘copycats’ - to much laughter in the gallery - trying the same thing. 

Mr Griffith Price Wyn QC, for the defence, said his client had no money, was full of remorse, a character of no importance, with no criminal record, here, or in any other country.  

The jury were out for two hours, one minute. 

 ‘We find the defendant guilty.’ 

The judge, Mr Justice Griffith Wyn Price, looked up, and spoke.

‘In my time as a High Court judge, I haven’t come across a case as bizarre, as terrible as this. The jury have found you guilty by a majority of ten to two. You are to get the maximum sentence I can handout - ten years, without parole, to be detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure in an anthology of vanity publishing‘  

adding, in a grim tone, ‘I repeat, without parole; take it away.’

‘The rat in a hat hit the cat with a mat’ was taken away in handcuffs, by two prison officers, one a woman. 

The two barristers picked up their paperwork, put pen in pocket, arranging to meet for dinner in Crickhowell that night in The Bear.

23 out of 24

Much of the time in here,
gazing in half-thought at nothing,
hair matching the bed, desk, chair;

he knew they were waiting,

hot cooking oil again -
that happened the first week -
a beating, mutilation,

not the ultimate though,

that was too nice for him;
he knew that, oh yes, he knew that,
why he had a four man escort, one in riot gear.

the click, open door, the tray;

‘the cake’s from your mother, scum,’
picking up the mug, spitting the weak tea back in.
‘no sugar, they don’t put sugar in for you.’

the closing door, the click; he bit in,

the broken knife cutting into gum
roof, lip, tongue, now screaming,
the blood like the jam in the cake,

hearing them laughing, the banging,
trying in agony to take the bits out,
the thought now coming that he didn’t have a mum.

1 March

Oh,
I know;
I know nothing, no-one can be bothered with it;

you might get a brief item at nine or ten pm,
much of the time, the weathermen talk of ‘the west’;

it doesn’t exist, except for the
rugby, but 95% of the Earth get
by well enough without the game.

A political appendage of little worth;
if you were to operate on it,

rather like an appendix,
no-one would notice.

But the yellow one will continue to come into flower,
bringing something to the place;

I keep thinking that, but why…