memory prison

Y2K

the breeze blows soft along the beach
and makes me think about the sea
palm branches sway, at least they’re free
I wonder what went wrong for me
I cannot think now, I cannot reach

Y2K minus 3

on Dungun beach, my children play
young Ming and Ying, our little two
I think they might know what I once knew
it’s not the shellfish they want to chew
when waves crash heavy in the bay

Y2K minus 25

it seemed so easy, years ago
my bag, a ticket, then explore
Berber market or Red Sea shore
Nubian desert wadi floor
the Nile banks where date palms grow

hot naked road, glinting air
Friday fried fish breakfast meeting
shoulder patting, market greeting
outside tap, infection cheating
tomato, lettuce washed with care

umbrella peanut women urge
you buy a simple paper cone
weary floodlit football moan
cinema where few actors known
the points where north and coast track merge

railway workshop of broken train
cheap kettle boil, charcoal power
squash court recoil, wild swing cower
cycle oil, night dust hour
for hubbly-bubbly coffee grain

Y2K minus 20

high mountain Taif, mist escarpment
old golden souk with Arab men
the letter writers with their pen
money changer,get your cheque, then
perfume walk to bare apartment

post-buffet pool cue chat, or might
watch Pepsi films on in-house screen
my censored business magazine
the Crown Prince in his limousine
new Jeddah airport, Thursday flight

Cairo, Frankfurt, the Fenlands’ edge
Cheop’s Giza building feat
warm May Rhine house, garden neat
a picnic in the Suffolk wheat
patio buffet, acorn hedge

Johannesburg, gold Kruger mint
to rain soaked Durban passing through
a wet Transkei, a dry Karroo
with coloured sky of diamond hue
new Stellenbosch umbrella tint

Nairobi, jacaranda tree
Jacintha seamstress curtain cut
Nkubu track of dusting rut
grass roof, bent stick, round mud wall hut
Mombasa train to Tiwi sea

Y2k minus 15

the purple mountain, the High Plateaux
wind break pines where picnics sing
baguette, hot tea, roast chicken wing
soft desert breeze that warm skies bring
the scorpion that made us go

carrot couscous, Mecheria
the Douanes et Gendarmerie
cigar smoke, coffee, sweet mint tea
cold drought hit flat, floor number three
rationing was frequent here

Ain Sefra, Taghit, far Adrar
Saharan Atlas, harsh terrain
here summer wind beats up the grain
in sandstorm plays that ground the plane
good memories seem not so far

Y2K plus 200 0800 –0830 hour

my wife was warm this Friday morning
enjoying, as I touch her thigh
caressing, listening to her cry
a long time since we reached a high
my new time thinking out in awning

Y2K plus 202 0545 hour

but I know well it will not last
what will happen in a day or two
the moans, complaints, they’re nothing new
it is a place that we’ve been through
the few good times were of the past

Y2K plus 199 1750 hour

after work, when I come home
watch them going on their bike
play badminton, or chess game hike
read science book, eat ice cream mike
then in the bath, play with the foam

Y2K plus 199 2043 hour

I know she thinks that she takes care
at times, she is most kind to me
the children too, they would agree;
when she’s at work though, that’s when we’re free
of that I know she’s well aware

Y2K plus 199 2045 hour

the Proton brake, the padlocked door
but now we’re in computer cell
something clicks, and all seems well
listen to Johann Pachelbel
happy peace in memory store

Y2K ? 0230 hour

the breeze whips strong with thunder rain
the lightning makes the circuit blow
the candle, gentle yellow glow
harsh dark wet noise, no insects go
thoughts of escape come back again

Adlestrop...not only the name

Adlestrop. Not only the name     Edward Thomas (1885-1915)

adlestrop

just a name / for a game
where i look / picture book
want to see / poetry
when i look / in the book
adlestrop / steam train stop
why no go / i don’t know
whistle blow / steam train go
all birds fly / in the sky
oxfordshire / gloucestershire
young boy kissing mum
wasp on my tongue
co-op shop
cricket, making run
cowboy i enjoy
train spotting / name jotting
robin thrush / bird nest
willow tree

adlestrop
just a name / for my game
no it ‘s not / not for me / cannot be / memory

Tynewydd

Yes. Adlestrop

a book of colour poetry
that was a special place
pictures
a present at that early age

council house, no car, or tv
just book, train, wildlife

the birthday Raleigh bike I knew
had scratching, was not brand new

but, of course, no children knew why
mum’s money was in short supply

railway wallpaper in my room
I didn’t notice winter

long back garden, grass, flower
where summer went on and on

when you’re only a few years old
there is no bitter winter

embankment blaze, firemen
sparking trains ran near the house

one mile away, the castles went
to Newport, Hereford, and Crewe

forgotten now just what he said
but catapult my neighbour’s head

angry noise from my mother
now the time she made my brother

thick hedgerow, bird nest, willow tree
on rusting metal cut my knee

in unkempt wilds, roaming
tonight I checked, have the scar

rocks of walnut on orange mat
cowboys, indians

painted figure, a holster gun
feather,

transfers of birds by kitchen door
paraffin heating landing

by Avondale, train spotting
with the book, name-number jotting

platform, broken station
waiting Granddad’s train, elation

didn’t see us as he flew past
gradient meant he went so fast

August Coleg Harlech where
cascading grounds breathe warm sea air

tough castle, sky, rock coastline meet
pricking beach

Bertrand Russell philosophy
that didn’t mean a thing to me
but earnest adults flock to him
the youngsters play in musty gym

pipe-smoking bike-clip Granddad brought
me to his work hut in the port
where, with a saucer he showed me
how quickly one could drink hot tea

walk with Dad to Ninian Park
there was no dank dull autumn dark

western avenue, where I saw
Heinz tins tumbling to the floor

warm terraced house, school, Canton pub
railway bridge, crowds, football club
floodlights, grandstand, bright grass pitch where
fast orange ball flew through the air

Singapore

Then, Llanyrafon away
my father now teaching in Singapore

we flew there old Britannia turbo prop
watch the fuel burn
when the start-up rotor began to turn

In those days of the whispering giant
the pilot and crew were not reliant

on computers to adjust trim or flap,
but had to fly the thing and read a map.

Sitting backwards, twenty hours or more,
from London winter to warm island shore,

and on emerging from the tired plane,
met first hand the belt of tropical rain.

Into car, and then to the Guest House, where
I wore shorts all day and my feet were bare.

the hot air
or insect chorus in whirring tree

the wet morning of warm perfume rain
pungent fruit basket by raw monsoon drain

Chinese umbrella varnished with oil
polished wood flooring, mosquito coil

hot night street-market, smell and noise kissing
bouillabaisse fair, bright gas lamps hissing,

chattering commerce, bargaining price
eating from rice bowl, chopstick pecking

grey Chinese housewife, shopping bag
Indian sari, Malay skirt flowing

my father brought back a hawker curry
wrapped up in, I think, a banana leaf
chicken or fish, maybe in those days, beef
although, of course, I didn’t eat a lot
after I found out that it was too hot
my eating tools were downed in a flurry
ice cool water was sunk in a hurry
he though I were rather silly.
the truth was then, I knew nothing of chilli

Bukit Sedap

the flat in Bukit Sedap by the narrow-gauge railway
had shutters where the night cicak came
used by the Japanese in World War Two

garden flotsam, palm frond, dry copra husk
cream frangipani with warm sticky aroma
orchid, hibiscus, rough grass cutting you

the roar and clanking of the Johor train.

one day, I was bitten
by mosquitoes, on a wet kampung track
stupidly careless, shirtless in the sun
with the kebun, who was Indonesian
whose wife, our amah, Saouda, was Malay

the first second-hand car, two-tone light grey
registration number 2061
push started once early morning
by white navy men, the battery

back at that time, I didn’t understand why
my thankless father just raised his hand, kept chugging
but didn’t slow and go back and thank them

parents went off once, left me in the car
I played around with the gear
then blissfully unaware of the clutch
their puzzlement showing why
after the shopping, the car wouldn’t go

once, the kitchen brush I put
just under the amah’s quarters wire

it broke; there followed a terrified cry
as with one mighty bang, the lighting went out

rough communal garage, an open-air
concrete floor-wooden post- tin roof
no-licence mother

engaged car to post with a hefty blow
heard the raking scraping noise

flat downstairs, Georgina and Julian
their father had a pale green Citroen
a navy commander, Australian

Chinese prayer table, tea chest from Tanglin
on Bras Basah Road, was taught violin
by Mr Bacsafra, LTCL,
who got me grade one, grade two

Tang, on Orchard Road, super shop from where
came my weather set
and a train set, Marklin, from Germany

and in almost mint condition now
I refuse to let anyone else play.

although now that I have children of my own
maybe they can use it

In the Island Golf Club swimming pool
learned breaststroke, backstroke, crawl, and butterfly.

Gunfight at the OK Corral
Wyatt Earp, Doc Holliday in a fight

Headmistress Mrs E M Boswell MBE
my prefect badge stripped from me
because of talking on the outside stair.

now, a teacher myself, I think unfair
to cause so much hurt to a young boy
the same teacher asked the class to find out
what ‘raining cats and dogs’ meant

I cheated, because my father helped me
by looking it up in the dictionary
two of us were bothered enough to get the answer
he gave the other a star; I got nought

Malaya

the Causeway, the Gap, then up Fraser’s Hill
where warm days contrast with sunset nip

winding road climbing to two thousand metre
where light mist, tall fern, bamboo tree meet

in tropical range, jungle row, bungalow
old English style

forest fringe nine holes, golf clubs for hire
walk back for dinner, evening log on the go

Malacca, Segamat, east coast Mersing
pineapple lorry

I had the chance in Kuala Lumpur to meet
Capucine, William Holden…

Italy

time to say goodbye to that time Singapore
we went back to Wales, but this time by boat
through Bombay and Suez, then Italy

Esther and Chas waving us off from the quay
a now flickering film capturing the moment
those days no soundtrack, a sea-ballet mime

Italian ship, Indian Ocean
alphabet pasta table by the trio
the ship bouncing

many were seasick, but not hero me
on deck, watching twenty thousand tons ploughing
through open ocean, foam over the bow

engine room, white propeller shaft yearning
for a quick tea break from routine
Night of the Iguana

there are times these years come back to me

but from now, I’m in reminiscence fade away
hazy or lazy they move away
a few hours exploring Bombay
the ship bunkering
The Gateway to India welcoming
built in the British imperial game

North-east Africa coast haze
brief stop at Port Said, the canal the ship’s width
but from here, the brain keeps rejecting
requests, and has trouble recollecting
the horse carts of Messina

unconnected points on my tapestry

three weeks to Naples, Montecassino church, Roman Pompeii
Mediterranean hotel room
I take off part of my thick eyebrow hair
thinking the opening razorblade fun.
parents not exactly pleased with their son

car journey through Europe, a blank
French customs post flag, ciao Italy

chequering tablecloth, Paris café
lorry men fading down memory way...

Croesyceiliog

then to Jones West Monmouth
where blazer badge, cap and tie
cold indoor pool, hard playground romp
misery rugby on wet hill
watched the All Blacks beat Pontypool / Cross Keys
11 points to zero

Bryn Eglwys
where my angry mother swatted me
with a wooden spatula on my arm for being

out too late; she thought no joke
but the nice part was when the thing broke


then, many years later by an old dry Cotswold half-wall waiting here
bare land where farming birds raucously call to the air

off the main road, some miles after the antique-shop Stow
a place windswept in summer, in winter, a blanket of snow

a flask of tomato soup, fresh buns, hot Cambridgeshire tea.
through Cheltenham, Gloucester, Ross-on-Wye

next time I’m back I must make an effort
to stop at the now unused station and read the poem

I wonder what Thomas would make of it now
if he were able to see the shunted sleeping railway

but that’s a promise many times broken, with regret
it would be a nice pilgrimage for we two

for my not-too-old mother passed away some years back
in Bronllys, but not before they were both able to go

back to Singapore, enjoying their time
maybe recollecting when they too, were a young father and mother

when they were in tropical love in that small flat where
the night breeze came kissing the slow turning fan air

of course I don‘t know

a quiet Gloucestershire hump bridge
bare hedge, autumn leaf tree
broken railway, Monmouthshire
a book of poetry, me

No, I won’t forget Adlestrop

‘no-one came… Adlestrop...the name.’

no it’s not / not for me / cannot be / memory / poetry / come to me
you don’t know / where I go
come to me / memory / going on / going on …

Au revoir, Mesdames, Messieurs

9m, 19f, December 1998

ah, you Diploma in Chef Training, then section three
teaching you was always a pleasure for me
three semesters ago, but that time has run free
herbes et épices, légume et fruit

we had a class once in the late afternoon here
under coconut trees with hanging fronds near
the campus and wooded mist hill to the rear
arranger, ajouter, émincer, garnir

Monday, I forget, but Wednesday was three
in language lab two overlooking the sea
queueing up, squinting, the bleach balcony
merci, peut-être, non, ça va, mais oui

talk, clown, and laughing, your usual way
of enjoying yourselves right through the day
you managed to combine hard work and play
je mange, je ne crois pas, je n’ai pas, j’aurai

your class, there was no oasis of calm in there
using Bienvenue en France to work as a pair
watching the small screen, lounge on the chair
pomme, chou-fleur, oignon et fromage gruyère

but today you are finishing here in Terengganu
the time going away, time going through
with your chosen profession now in front of you
croquante, amère, ou gras, aigre, cru

Penang, five star necklace clientele preen?
Pahang, and the more laid back beach resort scene?
Port Klang, on a cruise ship or the merchant marine?
céréales, avoine, blé, orge et farine

your chef training is something that you’ll not regret
although you don’t have much experience yet
both interesting work and good money you’ll get
beurre, confiture, crêpe, croissant, baguette
or further your studies, and get a degree
then the future is open to what you could be;
whatever you do, best wishes from me
un poulet, un canard, moule, huître, nouille

you taught me a lot, maybe more than you know
when you were chattering, time never went slow
it was a pity when the time came to go
café au lait, sucre, chocolat, eau

inspiration and effort gave you your goal yesterday
the longest Swiss roll in the country on display
a speech by the Provost got the thing underway
présent et futur, je mange, mangerai

I bought some for my children as some of you know
and they enjoyed it so much, finished most in one go.
going from the plate like the sun melting snow
bonjour et bonsoir, bonne nuit, a bientôt

it’s nice always for them to try something new
my daughter ‘kek ini, sangat sedap’ - that’s true
your effort put you among the culinary few
un des gâteaux le plus meilleurs que mes enfants ont eu

the hall, most time empty, now sweet tooth replete
your expert fruit carving an optical treat
the icing cake metres were soon in retreat
thym, poisson au four, gingembre, pomme frite

then when you’re a big name on the local chef scene
and you’re interviewed by some in flight magazine
and like Anita, you’ll be on the RTM screen
malaise, indienne, chinoise cuisine

a first class marble gown penthouse up high
a weekend retreat kampung house, Kuala Krai
an elegant spouse watching Mercedes go by
orange, mangue, poire, banane et papaye

alors, bonne voyage, you roam who knows where
but don’t forget bird hill and the south China sea air
the old Molek Inn memory of professional flair

et le phrase, je pense, le plus régulière


Monsieur, je ne comprends pas, je ne peux pas faire

The Ancient Orient / The Modern Orient

8 pm circa 950 beginning of the Song Dynasty

In the garden of the Prefecture residence, under willow tree, cut grass scent breeze,
insects whirring, occasional bark of the sentry, evening at ease,
third wife, Celestial Glory, in pearl coloured gown, showing top of breast, soft and fair,
playing classical music on the zhongruen, ‘Cheng Mei-wei laments the dryness of the desert air’,
first wife, Morning Harmony, reading poetry,
lowers eyes in demure fashion, intellect broad, intense, yet free,
second wife, Passion Flower of the Night, gown partly open, showing thigh,
feeding pet baby squirrel imported African nuts, teaching it to reach high,
children playing chess under watchful eye of matron, maids wait with tea.

Peng you,
I think of you and the times we had together
at the Imperial Chancellery at Fuzhou,
the dinners of roast honey duck, stuffed fish, yam cake, fresh asparagus, a jug or two. How
were those nights of talk and argument, the weekends of bliss in tranquil weather.
(pulls back sleeve of golden silk robe, quietly sips from porcelain tea bowl)

I think of Rhododendron Blossom, the long hair
of a maiden as she gazed into the cool lake, where
the heron shook the drops of its back, itself bathing,
the mountain eagle flying on the wing.
Ah, the moment that my love gave birth.

You were much better than me at university,
top in Literature, Morals, Philosophy.
I am surprised you chose to be a judge, albeit in the High Court.
the quiet life of a scholar and teacher - I think what you could have taught -
would have suited a man of your breeding, education, and worth.

I admire the height that you reach.

(claps hand for maid, gently hold petals of morning glory toward the lamp, nods in thoughtful way)

My paper on herbal remedies was well received at court;
maybe I’ll be appointed the Royal Pharmacologist.
I jest, for I know there will be an admonishing retort;
you are right, that life would not suit me.

I keep well enough here, with my three women, the children too.
The moon is clouding over, rain I fear. Morning mist
is usual this time of year, as is malaria; the air is thick, one can almost chew.
I have work, some research; I salute you with my tea.

(official wax seal by scribe, leans back in teak chair, opens book on history)

The Modern Orient 8pm, circa 2003

(Fifteen years into the Homer Dynasty)

In an open restaurant, a dirty street next to monsoon drain, with municipal rubbish tip. 

First and only wife (groan), one hand on teenage-tight jeans hip.

 Nescafe tee-shirt complete with ten hours of Malaysian heat and humidity, 

other hand on hand-phone, shouting in verbal nitro-glycerine acidity. 

Mosquito whining, bone of table’s last occupants’ meal waiting for someone to collect. 

Raucous Taiwanese soap opera on the TV, sub-zero intellect.

Flea-bitten dog urinating against car tyre, three metres away.

Customer ready to go, sniffs loudly and deeply in throat, pulls up sweaty tee-shirt, bares hairless stomach

picks up chopstick, scratches arm, 

throws burning cigarette into road, yells at gormless, TV-watching, nose-picking, Form Three part-time waitress of dubious hygiene

puts receipt in pocket with change, spits out toothpick