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.

Tonight I think...ha, ha

A Greek name, an unusual one, part of the alphabet;
a thought came, an unusual one, part of the work, but yet…

Here, on a cold night of autumn, near rural Abergavenny,
I am thinking of this and that, the risk factor of the onset of the game,
of unintentional critique, with a few beers too many,
thinking too of what, to coin a phrase, is in a name.

Catherine Pi,
now working with a puff-pastry passion for Greggs, happy to make
chicken and mushroom, but taking a bite of everything they bake.

Catherine Delta,
one indolent long-haul flight attendant, who spends time listening to
the rather nice Linda Ronstadt, ignoring work and the rest of the crew.

Catherine Gamma,
a radiologist, photographing neck, femur, tibia, knee
now weekend X-raying those that Catherine Beta put in casualty.

Catherine Eta,
one can assume, might be a bit overweight,
walking a tummy bulge chips take-away with jeans biting gait.

Catherine Iota,
with just a single GCSE, but a nice girl, though
not too bright, enjoying ‘yeah’, ‘maybe’, ‘oh, I dunno’.

Catherine Xi, or Catherine Tau,
with elegant, posh ease
might be mistaken for rich ballet-loving Hong Kong Chinese.

Poor Catherine Psi,
working through life in grease-streak garage attire,
changing oil, and putting air in a car or a bicycle tyre.

Here, on a cold night of autumn, near rural Abergavenny,
I am thinking of this and that, the risk factor of the onset of cirrhosis.
At least your parents, with a few gin and tonics too many,
didn’t register you, in a fit of Welsh psychosis,

Catherine Omega, for you would have undergone a public house mutation,
by popular peanut-crisp wisdom, through Brains brain to half-gone inebriation
to Catherine Omega-3 fatty acids with EPA and DHA fish oil 1000mg....., meaning


one would need a large cinema screen, and a title credit editor of quite exceptional ability.

Picture of Abergavenny

2005
Part 1 where I wake up
with the bird contingent, the top of the tree,
the squeaking bed, my own sniff and snort, trying to get
the accretion of congealed blood and mucus from my nose,

breakfast, then in jacket, maroon tie, long sleeve shirt;
this was foolish, the day becoming quite warm;
try listening to the weather report.

the bus stop, two hundred metres up in the Deri air,
on the corner, an old neighbour, her elderly companion talk,
we exchange greetings, I walk, the bus got there first, I swear.

I’m in the kiosk. ‘If you want to enquire about a bill, press one’,
the next few minutes, I press one, two etc, then spoke to a real person,
nice girl, helpful, but two, yeah two, weeks to connect…

I talk to a youngish well-built thing waiting by
the kiosk, patient, alone. I apologise for taking so long, but

with answer machine, what do you expect?
‘It’s okay’. I explained I was trying to reconnect.

‘It’s okay’. I was trying to make it clear
that it is a problem when phoning, to traipse up here.

‘It’s okay’; she seemed, on reflection,
to have no interest in my attempt at reconnection.

Maybe I should stick to the weather.

Nice day. Yeah. Horrible day. Yeah. Windy today. Yeah.

I thought next time I might try:

nice day; expensive, though.
horrible day, but it’s cheap.
windy today, pity about the cheese,

then I can see if I get the same reply.

Part 2 where I take off my jacket
in the park, going down the none-to-soft gradient to try
to pay the near expiry date electricity chit, go to bank;
a pretty young no-name tag woman served me.

‘Do you want me to stamp the top to show you’ve paid?’ ‘Okay.’
‘Where’s the top?’ ‘The top of what?’ ‘The bill…’
I didn’t have it. I think she thought me a bit thick.

But first, I tried my renewed ATM card, punching in. ‘Please wait.’
It gave me money. I thanked it; technology, one should appreciate.

Part 3 where I go
to the main Post Office, Mike, friendly, helpful chap;
airmail sticker, stamp, os gwelwch yn dda, counter three,
a letter to Malaysia; to Edwards the Butchers, around the corner.

Rob, dreaming - he said it, not me - three sausages, some meat;
how much? About two pounds; big pile on the scales, weight going
up, up, up, up, up…he though lb. I meant £;

in the window, a poster for ‘Welsh treats for spring’. I went out, going back by

the town hall cum theatre cum market clock, a quarter to one;
a group of maybe retirement people, parking on the wall here
with drink, fish, chip, one chap enjoying a can of Strongbow.

I went along, going past Sue’s Pantry; it registering with me
the first time I read it, not a café, but a place that sold lingerie.

Walking back by cattle market, rugby park,
pretty women, big tree, into Llwynu Road, a short cut,
a Proton, I’d seen once or twice before;

momentary reminiscing - not wanting it, though - coming to me here
by the Ysgyryd Fach; I take note of the train kicking into gear.

Part 4 where I go to the shop
the two hundred metre trek circa 9 pm here,
to get a chilled pack or two;
across the road, an attractive woman walking alone;

here, an equally pretty one,
in dentist top, skirt, long hair, buying a pack of lager.
I, waiting my turn, behind her, watching;

although late, she looked fresh and clean.
I wanted to unzip her, for inspection,
but no doubt she would have whacked a can against my nose.

Married? I don’t think so. Boyfriend… he’d have beer
in the house, right? Why four cans?
The first woman had disappeared, just like the evening.

The shop lager woman walked on in the night air,
a bare fifty metres in front of me, going away to where…

North East Gwent

2005

A late afternoon in early summer in the northern part of eastern Gwent

by the bus stop, two young girls chatter on a main road bench,
elderly western England man, smart, casual, clean;
I ask, ‘You live around here?’

‘I’m going to play bowls,’ was the reply.
After a few more like exchanges, I gave up; his transport came,
he wiped the spit away.

Gave bus man 70 pence; to my surprise, he gave me 5 pence back,
in other parts of the world, he could have bought a cup of tea;
to Richards for Lego. Shut - no, it’s not a misprint or typing error.

Everywhere shut; not everywhere, just 90% of the place;
clock in window, just after 5 30. I went to the Cibi Walk pen
with the two fence night-time.

Into Wilkinson’s for scissors, shampoo, myself, and ‘Amarillo’,
‘and sweet Marie who waits for me there’,
being alone at the moment, I would be happy with a sour Marie.

Twenty years ago, I did have a very sweet Maria,
in Inca, Majorca. What a pity, the epitome of beauty…to me.
Iceland, Wendy, expert at putting things into the bag.

Back by bus, the chap getting back his recent 5 pence;
old lady told me how town wasn’t the place it used to be,
she should know, forty plus years spent here.

The bus swaying coming down to the kiosk,
I told the remaining solitary passenger, ‘it’s just like a ship.’
No response; I disembarked with my shopping.

Past the apartment block, the same two girls on the bench,
nattering encore in the oncoming air,
maybe discussing their homework.

In a narrow walkway by the half valley, the evening got going,
a lonely, forlorn, crushed Oranjeboom beer can - not me,
in the trees, unseen birds chat; in the air, one in quiet flight.

My place; the end wooden pylon, go-nowhere cable,
you can oversee the area, for the slope sheers in courteous way
to permit one to watch the two or four carriage marching train.

This evening, no fortune, just the noise of traffic’s homeward affair,
houses are silent, just bird song, tree breeze
to rub the marigold and a tiny ground hugging flower.

Earlier, I went into the bathroom to shave off my hair,
the warm shower water stinging, angry
at the way I now look, cranium aglow.

Tonight, some good conductors play, or get a mention,
Wordsworth, Elder, Handley; orchestral finesse, power too,
Bournemouth Symphony, CBSO.

an early summer late afternoon in the eastern part of northern Gwent.

The evening scenario

July 2005

A broken, in a fit of temper, hand-phone
in the box of tissue, now alone,
watching near a pot of rooting hormone,
me.

Four cans of Bristol apple juice, abort,
crunched, like drunks, help me through, taut,
an evening of thorough melancholy thought,
for me.

La Pedriza now three quarters gone,
the chopping board there, half back dripping, and on
the draining area, pot and plate both try to con
me.

Photo Derek Harrison B Sc (Econ) (London)



Four boys, a girl, a Whitby pub where
Mart smokes, Pete bottle drinking, one eye Willie, Tish bare
thoughts in a pose of hush, each in long monochrome hair,
a long, lost photo, with me.

The evening light grows dim, the end of this morbid July,
the summer solstice has long gone by,
the wet clouds, wet Welsh air in reply
to me.

Near me, purple Y Llyfr Ffon, resting on its back
on the worktop of a house lost on a track
to endless nights that stretch in a rack,
it appears to me.

I walked back from the town in thick drizzle yet again,
self-inflicted misery maybe my swishing cane,
but I stopped by my wall to rest, in spite of the rain
that hit me.

A fruit fly walks around a discarded tin, to explore
the dimensions of the flip top upper floor,
I tap the tin with pen; the fly’s off, trying to ignore
me.

‘an evening’s pleasure, where art thou?’
Away, as earth turned by the plough
as it breaks it into fresh birth chow,
be nice for me.

I go in the garden to contemplate;
one hour Jen bathroom to incubate,
now I am, in this wretched July, irate,
annoyed with me.

A 10.10 shower on this cold summer night,
thinking why things might not be quite right,
yellow shorts glow warm and bright,
unlike me.

On the pink carpet floor, wireless channel two,
helping to get this cold night through,
wet winds chuff, then blow the trains to Crewe,
but won’t take me.