Grazing horse

March 2007

I come by without help, but with courage, to retreat
in a mutation of unthinking inequality;
the car comes back whining, the shuffle of shoes on the concrete
broadcast the shattering of peace and tranquility.

The quick snort of the hand break, the clack of the gear,
the prison key turning, the click of the entrance tell me
that the evening has gone on the breeze, up in the atmosphere,
to play cards with the those who know nothing but ignorance in pity.

I watch in admiration, a grazing horse, waiting for a young woman with the rope to try
to pack her things on its back, waiting for a warm, young breeze to come by.


07 20
On the old, grey, food-scar table, watching me
in the early hours of a sun, weak and warm,
a group of battered apples knot in concert washed-up company
in the refuge of a plastic, third-world, indigent corm.

A grating, mocking bird in the garden chirrups ‘cheap, cheap, cheap.’

Eat
A steel dog-bowl mackerel, with light stuffing of chili, came
with an ancient dish, a protracting spinach, green, and game;

a plate of imitation Chinese character bore the rice, now lime juice tame.

A toothpaste mug of water, in hydration, went through
the lunch, a lounging-couch quiet-just-me quarter past two.

Nebulous Neuron Who goes there, might go there.
I rest in the afternoon, on bamboo mat, in the rear; a shadow passes by
the bottom of the door. I shout to question, unknowing, ‘Who goes there?’

I hear Rhiannon, a brisk yet willowy squash racquet bint of thirteen, cry
in squeaking ignorance of common English parlance, ‘Go where?’

The ticket to where

On the morning of August 10 I bought…with cash, a single one-way ticket…
here now is the sports report…in this edition, rugby, cricket…
the counter man with beard, long hair… an early trip, I’m on my way…
a good away result for Ayr…the right back kept the ball in play…
Child nil, Adult one…to get to Heathrow for the plane…
St Mirren beat Hibernian…the match was played in heavy rain…
Fifty pounds (a bit extra) fare… no doubt conditions would apply…
signed Gethin Jones from Aberdare…a cracked rib, and elbow in the eye…
A line of numbers on the back…maybe important but nothing to me…
next year have an all-weather track… year-round training reality…
The Newport train now measured rate…platform-waiting, cool morning air…
Hong Kong the Cup, Taiwan the Plate…4 times holder, Golden Bear…
Cwmbran biscuit, then grazing through…Usk bird, town clock, ruin gaze…
Inter 3, Ajax 2…the Singapore Open delayed by haze…
Watch the Inter-City coming in…conductor buzzes train away…
Aberdeen get a well-earned win…10, 000 came to watch them play…
Increasing pace when Llanwern goes by…broke baguette of chicken into bits…
the centre scored the opening try …Tucuman were beaten by Biarritz…
Reading workmen, a crowding place…but thankful for the coach now waiting…
withdrawn from the two-thirty race…the Clerk of the Course instigating…
An under-hour of lightweight nap…refreshing prior to the check-in bore…
Boca three points to close the gap…bring a round up with the final score…
Whilst checking ticket, get seat by rear…gave Watford brother a hand phone ring…
now that the new season is near…might feel Wasps resurgent sting…
But no time to get through interchange…but means it’s more boring for me…
the back row we might re-arrange…East might come on at number three…
I engage in Canadian family chat…whilst waiting for tip-top security…
Trescothick useful with the bat…hit bowlers with impunity…
A long line of waiting for the plane…but rich Arab gets electric cart…
Sri Lanka third test spoilt by rain…the England batting ripped apart…
Hear and watch the pre-flight talk…then by the aircraft we scramble up…
racing at Leominster, Hereford, York… the first round of the Thomas Cup…
Watch other aircraft turn and queue…full thrust, the roaring, runway rumble…
the quarter finals, Greece are through…Malaysian hockey takes a tumble…
Then wave bye-bye to the English coast…wait for the next ten hours to go…
with 3 for 10, Warne was the toast…both openers gone was a major blow…
I try to get down into peace…when flight attendant interruption…
oh, Tiger’s sliced it, he’s in the rough…the Union’s new-alleged corruption…
Ah, bite to eat, relax, imbibing…watch part of Europe glowing bright…
that’s the end of the sports report…next bulletin at 10; for now, good night.

The house is tight for the night

25 March 2007 c 2200

I enjoy ‘Come dine with me’; there are
a number of interesting menus, good commentary, witty
with people with imagination; tonight, mushroom,
bacon and cheese, lamb - I can always enjoy -
with vegetables, the deserting dessert, gooseberry pie.

Here though, the house is tight for the night now.

The latter was not to my taste, thinking of gooseberries years ago;
the rest was good, but the witticism…maybe a little forced, though.

Andrew phoned, interesting; much of the time I enjoy talking to him.
In some ways, we are quite alike; in others, we are not.
I try the housing in Coventry, but the connection,
or lack of it, is walking,
I cannot get through; third-world technology.

Here though, the house is tight for the night now.

I quip, for that, a hasty, thoughtless affront, is quite unfair,
a callous remark in the post-meteorological, breezeless, humid air.

The voice begins activity on the phone, 22 15.
It is time for another beer; my only refuge; my only lonely refuge,
I put the fan on swing, full blast, with global warming
the reality of oncoming mayhem, whatever some think;
the woman is now getting to the doors, window, light, the night tame.

Here though, the house is tight for the night now;
here though, the night is tight for the house now.

1922 1993 The man with golden hair

The train on the bridge, with copper wagons of empty clank
jolt over a barren winter arch; houses bare of warmth watch in time.
The mascara soot, the engine smoke perfume wait to rank
their way onto the rough theatre of a desolate country in blasé grime.

The slagheap, a wonder of the modern world, the Pyramid of Grime;
a cheap, warm, labour-grey morning, with no sun or spring; two families there
watch, unspeaking, but an ignorant dog ignores the malaise of the time.
The pastel part houses, without auto-identity, wait in the morning air.

On the corner by a lamppost, a mother and daughter wait in rank
watching the father go by the unlit pub; a discreet distance away,
another man waits, in patient retiring umbrella support, to thank
the aura of the French azure sky, by the bon appetit of Swansea bay.

The bleak brick, the wetting grass, watch a tawny time.
By no autumn trees, the vicar greets with a father’s care.
Quiet buildings wait, a grey atmosphere in smoking climb.
The haute couture chill wind and urchin rain keep the pub bare.

A young couple, in chic terrace-talk, hold each other, uncaring of the grime,
wait for the upcoming bus, by rigorous telegraph post, in rank.
The warm ochre house, the girl in bright ruby dress, watching in time
the train on the bridge, with jolting copper wagons of empty clank.

The Pelican

July 1970, Cambridge, UK

I

Evening in the Rift Valley

Setting Sun, orange skies,
Shadows appear, darkened plains
Cool, scented, even mysterious,
A lost world.
Insects scream and whistle
A leopard barks in the valley,
Hunting baboons. The warm wind
Rises over the Rift, hitting, powerful;
Standing motionless against the sky, above.


African Beggar
Squatting in the hot dry murrum dust
At the side of the road, white-haired,
His black blanket clutched round his pitiful brown body,
He stares vacantly out of his one reasonable eye.
His hands, claw-like, clasp his stick.
A reptilian film of dry skin covers his arms and legs.
Red suppurating sores, festering in the mid-day sun,
Pockmark his limbs, a feast for the
Dozen buzzing flies, treading on, and licking the delicacy.
His face, hideously distorted by leprosy, a mask of flesh.
The nose gone, the mouth a toothless hole, dried up.

The acacias offer no shade from the sun.

I wait for Wei Ting

and Chloe circa March 2007 begin/Sept 2007 I wait patient, the air warm, the powering fan turning high the insecticide radiation, slowing in pungency the birds bursting through foliage, as if thinking to score a try crunching colour into gear in tee-shirt, tight shorts, on the crossbar of table, legs resting bare relaxing, quiet new reading half to herself, without pressure I watch from away, by the end of the patio where warm foliage birds bursting through on Friday, Chloe meandering in, but happiness not embarking here a no-eat breakfast effort; at first, not much interest but comprehension of Science book, a pleasure now coming near relaxing on the bare patio, quiet reading, new to type of plant, leaf, colour, or animal fur or paw I like to watch the young memory hitting top gear; then, she’s off, crunching on the lane, now hot, raw meandering Science coming near What is the point of unsubtle indoctrination passing off by the main newspapers as formal education? What is the joint between those who, with logic and intellect, get the gist? But those lost without wisdom and knowledge are running away in the earth’s mist turning through pressure, now embarking in meandering memory near

The Reign of the Rain

20 March 07

The patio floor of night-cicak grey,
the southeast sky a menacing grey,
the window frame, a two-tone grey,
with the plunging, light-provoking rain.

The bulbul pair in perching grey,
the water filter coating grey,
the garden rake is waiting grey,
with the plunging, coagulating rain.

The palms rise up on background grey,
the flooding of a tarmac grey,
my tee shirt of a tight-hug grey,
with the plunging, irritating rain.

The roof top graining pipe flowing grey,
the mosquito net, a keep-out grey,
the post box in a merging grey,
with the plunging, low-fat, upright rain.

The post-breakfast kitchen table grey,
the floor covering is water-from-the-dishes grey,
the prepare for midday fresh-fridge grey,
with the plunging, tomato-lettuce rain.

The thick clouds break in the thunder grey,
our talking turns to can’t-hear grey,
a picture of a cold-war grey,
with the plunging, bombing-rocket rain.

We talk of country frontier grey,
the Pyrenees and Andes grey,
then waltz on to old-time music grey,
with the plunging, ruan, pipa rain.

The birds wait it out in tree-wet grey,
a solo petite-run mongrel grey,
the girls wear gear-against-water grey,
with the plunging, motorcycle rain.

Waiting here in a prison grey,
the fingers type computer grey,
It’s not this-time-of year-wet grey,
with the plunging, uninspiring rain.

I wash thaw gut red snapper grey,
the noise of turning-mixing grey,
the bubble of a steam-rice grey,
with the plunging, whining, hungry rain.

Thought of once upon a moment in time

2007
Part 1 Yearning in the night

In a moment of thought, lying on the couch, in weighty monotony,
I flick the TV control, but I think nothing here to interest me;
if it went off air for good, I wouldn’t care...

I have spent four plus hours on editing, yet
the exhaustion does not come; why tonight could I not
keep away from the path of the bottle?

It was 11 30 when I opened a can; I lay on the sofa,
completely awake, unable to think of the sleep as an option.
I cannot sleep without it.

That is a lie, for I can, but it kicks in near alarm clock time,
throwing me a wretched condition,
with neither enough sleep, nor enough pleasure before it.

Ah, I yawn, for the first time tonight, or...check the time;
It is now, on a windless and humid night, 01 07 in the morning;
if I go to lie down, I will worsen the condition.

The alcohol is beginning to kick in, although the typing,
whilst mini error-inclined, is surprisingly clear of
gratuitous mega inaccuracy.

My right ankle worries me; the antibiotics to trim
the swollen area are not seeming to be efficient,
maybe tomorrow will see an enhancement.

Come on, kick in, kick me to sleep.
I yawn again, a good sign; maybe sleep will take
me away in next to no time.

I am going to shower before bed; but that is nothing new.
I am aware of being too tired to be angry tonight,
and that is a good hint that I am on my way.

What is happening to the squeaking machine?
Now, it seems back to normal, to let me
continue on my odyssey alone.

Part 2 extrapolating the inner refrain in the air

I used to play it - on disc - an old work, from the old house,

the pipa plucking at the long-lost heartstring to bring
the sun to zenith temperature, the arpeggio notes ring,

there are pictures in a book, of a snow mountain, with desert aridity,
a Chinese flute, xindi, warbles, like a tiring bird into humidity,

the winging flock of ducks fly away in my thought,
the lotus, the thin ripple of the water embrace, quiet, taut,

I imbibe an unusual tea - it looks like a date, or pebble, but
in hot water, a flower opening - from a glass of slender-stem cut;

a shower, in gesticulating soap, the erosion of the sweat churn,
hanging out the dhobi at foolish mid-morning time; I return

in green crab, starfish against the aquamarine of the ocean gyro,
in a cool, pale shirt, buoyed up in recent time by a leaking biro;

the erhu is biting at the rein to escape the grass plateaux,
galloping away, eating the wind with the bow and arrow;

the guzheng enjoyment to explore, in modest wooden polish pace,
the emotion of the many strings of the slowing, fading race;

through the window,
the air can barely whisper a challenge to the tree.

Mathematics 101

Bicycle + (∞ asphalt + √ speed + sand x000) = crash (cut knee x hot water = 3 agony)

‘Falling off a bike is not a good experience, but it does improve your cycling skills.’
‘I am battle-hardened.’
‘I need to go to physiotherapy to learn to walk again.’

Henry Homer, aged 15, Thursday 8 March 2007

To Mathematics tuition yesterday afternoon
to study plus and minus indices,
the tyres whirring on the asphalt, in tune
with the birds of the breeze
in the hurting sun, high and hot.

A post-lunch shower, then two forty-five went by,
he went out in the full sun, with three
or four pals, to work out if the horizontal was a or b, or x or y
algorithm in rigidity
in the hurting sun, high and hot.

Not too slow, that’s what he told me, but not too fast
when tyre went on strike, refusing to grip
in the full sun’s late pm blast,
he heard, and felt, the road rubble rip,
in the hurting sun, high and hot.

Going along the sandy, asphalt top
the bike then went collapsing to the right,
in a turning, mechanical bop,
gripping the sweating handlebar tight
in the hurting sun, hot and high.

The others laugh in a non-mean way
out a scraping skin, wincing
as kneecap matches the road top to play
a biting accent as the sting goes in, pinching,
in the hurting sun, high and hot.

Back home to tell me of the prang, in quiet mourning,
the knee cap pouring a lick of blood; I watch
the trouser roll up to exhibit the pawning
of the skin for a rough scrape-graze blotch,
in the hurting sun, hot and high.

My group too, in anguish; one girl, left by mother, crying.
I try to find out what is wrong, but they don’t, they can’t tell me.
I make a chant, they join in; it works, laughter, but it’s trying.
We talk of plants and animals, invertebrate, fly, mosquito, bee
in the hurting sun, high and hot.

Now, the next afternoon’s setting light is getting near;
take 10 pm coach for a capital two-night break
from the coast, to watch the highlands chill appear
in pewter and tea point in time; but I ache
in the hurting sun, hot and high.

The amah whips up nasi goreng; the wok
on the metal ring, rice-freeing scraper bang
in perpetual, cheap, gamelan harmony; then, knock
in chopped fish ball, carrot, garlic; a rough, pungent tang
in the caring sun, warm and gone.

Get bronze

Thursday 5 April 2007 22 22


I am hot, sweating, melting, in an ignoble air and base humidity.
I order the reopening of the glass window that young boy shut a few minutes ago.
Chloe, a weekend regular, in chubby embarrassment, came to tell me
that she will not come tomorrow, Primary Sports Morning, but that, I already know.

But I didn’t enlighten her, being happy to walk here and chat.
I told her to run hard, maybe get a Gold Medal, see if she can trounce
the rest; she comes, much of the time, quite cheerless to class, but I change that
with a warm-up infantile joke, to go back with bright, breezy bounce.

I am breaking my own rule, of not permitting the mug next to the computer, tonight.
this is something I tell the children; the danger of dropping liquid keyboard imbecility;
right, right the water now is glistening in anticipation of watching me ignite
in a burst of most uncouth, open-minded, non-racist electricity.

The green and white leaf of the hibiscus wink on a bright birdsong morning break,
the washing machine rotates in efficient motion and elegant monotony.
I wash up the grim, battered wok, bleak breakfast trappings, eating the air to take
the penchant for the warm light green of a remote, hazy sun-brush tree.

The next morning, she told me she got bronze.