Ornithological meandering

A poor attempt of a writer, when in a mood of solitude and neglect,
trying to overturn the inescapable run of the life, energising,
trying to fathom out the deep way that those that think might agree, or reject,
that in a certain form, alkali and acid might be one in neutralizing.

Yawning, I try to tell them of my good heart and thought, yes, and intransigence,
to dispose of, in hospital efficiency and hygiene, the lies, the rumours that get
have been inculcated amongst them, to brainwash by those of lesser intelligence,
to weaken the clean, masculine dignity of a simple, but cultivated human being, yet

one who wishes no-one harm or abrogation of duty, no out-stinging of humiliation,
yet thought by many to be an old, inadequate specimen of proto-humanity, without tolerance.
No, I cry out, that is not me, that is the manipulation of mind and manner; that is an aberration
of the truth, by those who seek simplicity and hurt, albeit in ignorance.

Press gang those people, lash them, bare back, crying, then begging by increment,
to the mast of Nemesis, who does, she told me, take my place in the argument.

In the tardy part of afternoon, common tailorbird with, I think, a bulbul came
with their mates, to disrupt, in arrogant way, a class on animal, plant cell, four types of tissue,
chloroplast, amoeba; they warbled away, inconsiderate of the young people trying to tame
a textbook they have just a semblance of normality, little understanding of concept and issue,

and to them, a useless-in-everyday-life language.

The night of the frog mana katak?

2007

The night of the frog; Rhiannon came from sofa to me in the rear;
how can a ‘jumping thing’ come out from the cushion foam?
On reflection, if porch netting ajar, front door mosquito net clear
I thought that a frog might be able to come into the home.

The frog, a young thing, was sitting on the floor, unaware
of the new excitement it was beginning to create;
it noticed me, and jumped across and into the air
to get away, the rear legs seeming to inflate,

ending up, cocksure, behind the business table.
I opened the glass French door, the mosquito net;
whilst nervous, it was quite clear that it was able
to, and wanted to try to escape, but yet

it went back again. I rattled the telephone wire connection
stretching behind the table, in awkward way, with my arm
to try to get the frog to do another window inspection;
She held the curtain, somewhat jumpy, to stop any frog harm

Then Katak, at long last, escaped onto the front porch, to wait
unconcerned, by the uninterested bicycle tyre there
maybe, for the breeze to bring in a mosquito bait
then, ready, I assume, to enjoy the rest of the night air

We pushed back the furniture; she had a frog-free peer
then got back, with some concern, into the now danger-free zone
whilst I, as usual, went back to the now warm-beer rear,
with the other garden amphibians, the night, thought, me, in tone

wife, in front bedroom, chats with half the local population.
the girl lounges, watching television; the boy using computer game;
I, watching the rear frogs watching night, nsect, think of the isolation
here; this time last year, I waited for health to appear, to tame

the mat-hugging monotony of the emptiness of infection
now, I ask, what is the point of trying, attempting in the first place
when the odd are stacked in a way that no-one without
power, influence can try to move, if they attempt in the first place
a theme that runs through wretched fabric, the cloth of the human race

a frog comes into the house; in the night, an emerging philosophy
quiet, except for a Hong Kong singer, of inconsequential tone;
I, in prejudice, think, inane lyrics; in amoeba-type insipidity
thug computer game; inane show; ubiquitous, quenching hand phone

the typewriter -
a dinosaur, I can’t resist it - of office tech meant, for many
teacher, lecturer, poet, office girl etc, a part of their time
the clattering, clicking, tearing paper, movement of the return key
the noise of amateur consistence, carbon copy of waning mime

the frog grunting stiletto again;

I quip; I have no idea - a young one trying to get a mate
the girl bids me, ‘Mee’, Mum, a happy-it-is-Thursday goodnight
that tomorrow, no school, a thing they by any means don’t hate;
a rest is as good as anything, one must concur, but right?

The frog tonight; what did he think?

Why?
The barons of capitalism thought little of break and holiday;
that’s why they made money
a love of their work
a rich-memory old age, health, creating for generations to come

enjoying an 80 year acquaintance with business, appreciating
a life of active honey
it was lots of work, little play makes me
a happy boy; it was their rule of thumb

By the beach picture 1, picture 2

An evening in the fog by the beach

I wait in the garden, the mosquitoes trying to get a bite
whilst I try to photograph a blushing bird or two
but escaping by virtue of sharp eye and thought
the fungi on the base of extinct tree, a worm escaping

I try to photograph a small bird, the camera
from time to time retracting, without warning
the bird in self-defence eyeing a new joint to hang out in
a choice mansion, the bamboo tree

The Malay girls opposite are students, I think
with fasting-break bite grub in small hanging bag
come back on bike, baju kurung waving in the air
another woman, short sleeve, man go past on the desert track

With a dog in tow, scratching kerb grass, a pretty Chinese woman
greeting me, walking on in slight embarrassment, maybe
my son and comrades, bicycle cowboys, enjoying the zero-breeze
a group of young Malay men go by on taut motorcycle

I watch, through a gap in the palm tree
the setting sun winding up for the night, the filthy air, hazy, thick
here, where the half-light of the extinct evening might almost be gone

A fog in the evening by the beach

My wife came back with a bag of three eggs
I waited in the car in evaporating cheer
before she came out, complaining, a surprise, she was hot
it wasn’t just me who had a tough time

where heat and humidity throw out a beating exhaustion
Jalan Pantai, a gloom on sea, air, cars with lights on pre-7 pm
Malay group beginning to eat, under mock-mushroom umbrella
motor-bike in tow, a couple in love’s gaze

to Kuala Dungun, going in slow, air con moaning
the new and old buildings, the bright-lit Green Apple
burgers and chips no doubt, of generous ration
I, in ignorant prejudice, not having gone there

watching the workers, the absence of customer, then
in the Fuji shop, behind the counter, the mother of two
former young girl students.of mine, the dual-carriage traffic-bare
check on absent progress of daughter’s French book

which is why she is out now 22 07

along Jalan Paka of empty restaurant, although the Pattani
a Thai-Malay, was full, a popular place, others inferior
a small portion of customer, watery table, undercooked chair
through narrow lane near-collision motorcycle race

yet another cold night at this juncture,
yet another Hamburg cold beer, on high
here, where the half-light of the extinct evening might almost be gone

Taiwan Farewell

17 December 2006 A Sunday morning

Taiwan Farewell

the children went to Kuantan two days ago
to spend a week with aunt down there
to study, swim, and in general, enjoy
the place of love, no worry nor care

there was no rough surf on the beach
I didn’t watch the trees, nor hear the roar
I didn’t think to be on my own
I knew I had to get out to teach

awake around five thirty, as customary
take water to get the kidney kick-start
brush teeth, shave, kettle, back to bed
with thigh between her legs, apart

but hearing the rough surf thrash the beach
watching the trees in the breaking roar
I know I’m going to be on my own now
to think of things no man can teach

a warming sweet way with spoons of hone
a breakfast of cocoa, and raw porridge oat
with the early light marching into the morning
no doubt thinking about the new day’s bloat

but hearing the rough surf thrash the beach
watching the trees in the breaking roar
I know I’m going to be on my own now
to think of things no man can teach

a warm shower gets the cool day away
shorts and tee shirt, khaki, green
a dab of cologne from Japan
the feel of fresh, alert and clean

but watching the trees in the breaking roar
hearing the rough surf thrash the beach
I know I’m going to be on my own now
to think of things no man can teach

the squeaking grill, tearing away
in noise that would wake up a railway tramp
the spray in choking super-megacide
I wait, mosquito-free, by the terrace no-fly camp

but I know I’m going to be on my own now
hearing the rough surf thrash the beach
watching the trees in the breaking roar
to think of things no man can teach

Chloe, year two; check body parts
no, not that; bird feather, claw, beak
trunk, soft-stem plant, from the day before). Now
magnet can repel, attract, be strong or weak




but hearing the rough surf thrash the beach
watching the trees in the breaking roar
I know I’m going to be on my own now
to think of things no man can teach

Yi Qin with non-stop, flick-back hair
then atom, compound, element
the earth’s resources we excavate
then chat with her Mum, trim, elegant

but watching the trees in the breaking roar
hearing the rough surf thrash the beach
I know I’m going to be on my own now
to think of things no man can teach

a break, with greeting hydrate water
some typing on the word machine
before a tummy-bare Miss Hiew
tests graph of function, half-knowing, but keen

but hearing the rough surf thrash the beach
watching the trees in the breaking roar
I know I’m going to be on my own now
to think of things no man can teach

Big Brother comes; we then retrace
the unknown course of inequality
with variable, fixed, and ratio
if we know a, we can find out b

but watching the trees in the breaking roar
hearing the rough surf thrash the beach
I know I’m going to be on my own no
to think of things no man can teach

the garden would grace Robin and his merry men;
a bright point of yellow, orange arrow too
bring a polychrome monsoon camouflage
to the everywhere rain-rousing hue

but hearing the rough surf thrash the beach
watching the trees in the breaking roar
I know I’m going to be on my own now
to think of things no man can teach

a breezing lunch, just reclining
on the sofa, watch her try
on trainers; passport, money, bag
she kisses me a warm goodbye

but I know I’m going to be on my own now
hearing the rough surf thrash the beach
watching the trees in the breaking roar
I think of things no man can teach

the amah’s gone, the washing done
just the clicking keyboard, quiet fan close by
the forlorn piano, abandoned phone
the whole waits to break down and cry

but I know that I’m on my own now
hearing the rough surf thrash the beach
watching the trees in the breaking roar
I think of things no man can teach

the twilight expands, the trees scrum and turn
in the onslaught of the non-stop rain
the flooding way, the half-washed car
I think of her warmth again, again

watching the trees in the breaking roar
hearing the rough surf on the beach
I know that I am on my own now
to think of things no man can teach

The unknown frog

Waiting for tuition on the patio, 

I noticed it lying front-down there, 

arms and legs that would no longer go 

jumping, or swimming in the post-dusk air. 

 At first, I thought it might awake, 

but then, as the hours of teaching went by, 

I knew that it would no longer take 

the mosquitoes’ whine and evening cry. 

Next afternoon, I got the hosepipe, 

for it was still, there, blocked by some wet leaf array; 

in gentle fashion, I caused the blockage to wane, bit by bit, 

watching it, and it, now float away. 

 It then went around the corner to the next stretch of drain, 

the water gushing, that by the time that I went through the palm tree leaf, it was rushing to near the exit leading right out to the monsoon drain; through cement walls, the grill here the flow helping it on its way through; maybe the water, too, shed a tear. 

Then I pause, in my brain, a thought. 

I would let it spend an extra night, 

the final in its wet, raw algae court 

under the stars, who were watching, tight. 

 Hence, I left it for one last moon game, 

to spend a bit longer by its house; 

there it had played, caused no trouble, wandered around half-tame… 

next morning, there was no sign of it where it spent, I think, much of its time here in the pipe that takes the bathroom overflow. 

I didn’t know it long, or its name, 

but felt a tear to watch a undamaging garden inhabitant go. 

The next night, by the door of rough paint and notch 

came two others to share the wetness of their communism; 

one got into my shoe, arms spread out, to watch, 

who knows, like a sports spectator, eager in optimism. 

 The regulars of ‘The Rear Light’, out they go in hunting place for insects, in drought or rain, notifying me, with some content, now I know that other frogs would come and go again.

30 April Air

A mug of warm see-through water rests on the lounge table
keeping company with the hand control that wait there
for the evening’s flickering reflection on screen, able
to erase the afternoon’s science and tourism molecule air

The ‘girl’, in brief respite from the capital’s pollution and rush
a post-school woman now, in tee-shirt, tight shorts, legs bare
the midday heat ablaze, leaf, insect, air, they think of hush
we talk, lounging a little on the patio chair

Two science boys come, mid-afternoon, one with bee-sting anatomy
the heat-to-yawn missiles come through the spectrum of the air
we talk of the SI unit, prefix, light year, simple (very) astronomy
then Linnaean name, so who knows what, no matter where

Their mother perching in Toyota, ‘from Japan,’ okay
‘Ah, what car comes from Sweden?' - a post-class bit of fun -
‘I don’t mean the cake shop, the country.’ I map-arm the air away
‘A Sweden cake car.’ I shoot them both with my invisible gun

Then, indoors; not much escape from the sun’s raw air
a quick sofa rest, then an igniting thought of make-up rain
an early shower, to speed up the sunset heat, bare
but within minutes, the pores pour out again

Earth evening

the hibiscus way

By the new earth twilight, I was there? Oh, I think two or three days ago

I wandered through the garden onto the gray car porch to check out
in post-tuition, unwise mosquito-inviting bare leg and arm
the flowering plants in the front were about
hanging, sprouting, all, it seemed to me, calm

quite content in their own chaos they call their habitat
I watched the small ixora try to grow to a respectable height
put in there by my father, but now, some ten years following that
they struggle in tough soil, nutrient-bare, in accepting and tolerant plight

but without much accomplishment to free them in a new miniature birth
the palm tree shelter from the western sun, old branches, now weak
brittle, crisp, hang and fall, with a theatrical crash, to the tight, mean earth
then, a hibiscus, hanging in a poignant, weary way, I clasped in gentle technique

peering close at the anther, yellow tip, the filament, a thin burgundy
the thicker style and the waiting stigma in the insect-caring evening air
a group or ten of small orange berries, and tiny lilac flowers watching me
maybe wishing an insect might treat a mate or two, but none seemed to care

or they thought other people might smell and taste better; I was, of course, rather wet
at that time of the pre-shower early night, a layer of unwashed grime
maturing its way throughout the warm afternoon, incessant, to get
a fine, sticky coat, a perfect fit, massaging humidity in unremitting time

by the new earth twilight, oh, I think two or three days ago

Geese

They, with arrogance, march in self-adorning majesty

tyrant and empress of the track, oppressor of the tympanum, in cocky poise
honking in gratuitous fashion, unconcerned about the noise

a plethora of guttural pollution, stretching necks bending
to beat the new grass for a titbit of questionable hygiene, unending

in their absence of thought for the rest of the population here
the Chinese boy on bike, Malay girl on walk, Toyota in first gear

A short wing flaps in irritable gripe, wayward as they stop for a bit
to gaze, finding interest in the rough road-top of coarse, loose grit

or in a rusting chain fence; there’s intellect for you, pomposity



compare them with the dusky cows of a wet, coconut tree twilight, where

without much tact, they crash through the undergrowth like a commando
bump, break, keep going, (for the most part), uninterested in posing in their ego

just silent-running, unassuming, keeping in a tight, linear group
unaware that I, apropos of the primary posse, am now trying to recoup

their attention, a continual struggle, but in a nice way; they are, in truth
more interested in the motion of the garden, passing neighbour, bike youth

than the key word reading scheme, or mathematics, or colours of the rainbow
I, impatient, watch them work out, in meaningful humour, content when they come and go

Geese, they amuse me

a pity when they’re gone; now, we get naked thunder in the twilight air

Away with a crumb

one morning, when August was almost through
three sparrows attacked the broken baguette
a robin magpie came by the rear door, too
to watch them eat, and thought it might get

away, with a crumb

it turned around to look at me,
enquiring, then re-booked its place
half-opposite the rustle-prone bamboo tree
peering, watching the tap water race

away, with a crumb

I broke a part of wrapped white bread to
put in the sink, then turned the tap on
with groaning, the water came on cue
I looked, but my bird, it had gone

away, with no crumb

it was no matter; in truth I didn’t care
for I know full-well it will return again
in the hot and non-stop hungry air
in tree-break force breeze, in warm light rain

to come for a crumb

then, at the time when I terrace teach
it hops right up close along to peer at me
listening, no doubt, to find out if I reach
the requisite perspicacity

then, back for a crumb

I meet the meat

Memory of a reflection

Meat
in thought, thought in meat, thought meeting meat, meat meeting thought.

One
appetizing, firm, juicy burger, home-made by the butchers, succulent, in the bag.

A
half kilo of chunky lamb, ready for the pot, with cumin, or coriander, or the turmeric I had bought

in
Stokes, from young things, with happiness, them and me, with some vegetables. The tag

on
the shelf a knowing way to tell you what is, and what isn’t OK, that might be right

for
you; the packs, enough to last for three meals, the first now,

on
an evening of wireless music, albeit a cold night

of
little (well, maybe quite a lot of ) cheer, whilst the wind and cold tow kow

to
get back the meat.


A
crisp, short baguette, picked with choice, from the local store in equanimity;

a
bottle of Strongbow, well-chilled to the core. Watching the cooking, the aromas ply in cheer.

The
bus on the way into town and back, chatting, dropping me

off
by the Newlands, cold, damp, and near.


The
noise of the fridge whirring, trying not to let me down, aged infirmity.

The
gas fire, and the glow on the mantelpiece, with the dancing china girls, the clock, time’s corm.

The
orange from the street, through the half-drawn curtains, of uncertainty.

A
wander up the stairs for a night shower, hot, invigorating, then tracksuit, socks, two t-shirts, warm;


Back
down for the music, and dinner of meat.

There,
the summer of Derek’s photographs of Cumbria make the desktop colour, warm, hearty, bright.

I
am squatting on the oatmeal mat, trying to write, to beat.

out
thoughts. And all this on a warm, overcast September night,

the
final one, here on the east coast, of thunder, lightning, and rain...

I
cannot continue in two places; or maybe I can. Maybe I’m right about the forthcoming monsoon.

But
you mustn’t think that you cannot regain

the
warmth of the rest of the year, when tree, bird, and wind play in a tropical tune

to
get back the meat.