!!!!!!!HOPPY BIRD DAY!!!!!!!

just shy of
almost 21 inches high
she perches on my arm

sobs into my shirt cuff
her 4th birthday looms large

for her
& us
...the big 04!

she cries she doesn't
want to grow old
& die!

fears her birthday as
the Grim Reaper himself
calling in person

"Birthdays..." I console her
are just like breathing
in&out

stop 'em & - you're gone!
you don't have birthdays then
no more you!

birthdays are how you
keep making you
happen!

my little eyassvall tears & snot
brightens up at this
sniffs & sniffles

I tell her
you are the sky
all endless & blue

time the wings
that lets you
fly

Death, snickers
standing by my shoulder
"Ahhh...ya old haggard ya

that's a nice pretty lie
to dry
a nestling's tears."

I watch her fly
into the endless blue
of her self

smile as she
embraces
her now

I hop on one
leg
hoppty hop

"HOPPY BIRD DAY!"
I shout against the glare
of time and sun

she squeals
excited now
as to the who

she is
going to
be

both of us
hopping down
the path together

HORROR SCOPE

Turned the key
and the darkness exploded

into "SURPRISE!"
apparently I was

" a jolly good
fella!"

The room rocked....lit up!
It was all streamers and bunting.

******* I hate
my birthday...and parties.

My Mars was in retrograde
in my third house so

it was no
surprise.

My commitments, ideas and
short-distance travel...were shot!

All the planets
had turned up.

I was a Cancer but
with a Leo rising.

I had thought my moon
was in Venus but

there it was in the kitchen consoling
Pluto being thrown outta the Planet Club.

Uranus was being chatted up
by Kevin Bailey

discussing haiku
and tilt and ****.

Uranus was drunk as a skunk
rolling around the room on its side.

A Māori chap addressed
the sky-king-star as Whērangi

and it sobered up
its southern collar blushing.

My horror scope told me:
"There was a light and easy atmosphere

with today's planetary energy."
but I hadn't expected this.

"Ok you guys..party's over
everyone out...now!"

The planets reeled down the road
not in alignment...singing drunkenly.

"Jeez!" I said
in a Woody Allen voice.

"I hate my birthday.
And surprise parties!"

HORROR SCOPE

Turned the key
and the darkness exploded

into "SURPRISE!"
apparently I was

" a jolly good
fella!"

The room rocked....lit up!
It was all streamers and bunting.

******* I hate
my birthday...and parties.

My Mars was in retrograde
in my third house so

it was no
surprise.

My commitments, ideas and
short-distance travel...were shot!

All the planets
had turned up.

I was a Cancer but
with a Leo rising.

I had thought my moon
was in Venus but

there it was in the kitchen consoling
Pluto being thrown outta the Planet Club.

Uranus was being chatted up
by Kevin Bailey

discussing haiku
and tilt and ****.

Uranus was drunk as a skunk
rolling around the room on its side.

A Māori chap addressed
the sky-king-star as Whērangi

and it sobered up
its southern collar blushing.

My horror scope told me:
"There was a light and easy atmosphere

with today's planetary energy."
but I hadn't expected this.

"Ok you guys..party's over
everyone out...now!"

The planets reeled down the road
not in alignment...singing drunkenly.

"Jeez!" I said
in a Woody Allen voice.

"I hate my birthday.
And surprise parties!"

HORSE OF A DIFFERENT COLOUR

Auden & Isherwood
strolling in China

trying to soak up
The War

by the process of
osmosis

staining it
with words

observe
(at first what seems)  

green horses

but turns out to be
only white horses

painted green
for camouflage purposes.

That evening in Canton
also offering them

the futility of two men

trying to put a rat
into a bottle

a woman who lived
in a beehive

pouring water
into a sieve.

War knocks
over the inkwell

spills
into men’s lives

covers the white pages
of their wishes

makes the idea of Hell
...all   too   real.

The spilt ink eating
the words of men

who send letters home
and die in pain

never to return

only in other’s memories
& useless dreams

marble memorials

while green horses
champ the grasses

the bridles & the bits
clanking & glinting

in the hot sun
of Now.

as this last lost evening
dies.

HORSE OF A DIFFERENT COLOUR

Auden & Isherwood
strolling in China
trying to soak up

The War
by the process of
osmosis

staining it
with words
observe

(at first what seems)  
green horses
but turns out to be

only white horses
painted green
for camouflage purposes.

that evening in Canton
also offering them
the futility of two men

trying to
put a rat
into a bottle

a woman who lived
in a beehive
pouring water into a sieve

War knocks
over the inkwell
spills into men’s lives

covers
the white pages
of their wishes

makes the idea
of Hell
all too real

the spilt ink
eating
the words of men

who send letters home
and die in pain
never to return

only in others' memories
& useless dreams
marble memorials

while green horses
champ the grasses
the bridles & the bits

clanking & glinting
in the hot sun
of Now

as this last lost
evening
dies


*

Sonnets from China was originally published in a considerably different form as “In Time of War.” “In Time of War” was a sonnet sequence included in Journey to a War (December 1938), a book by Auden and Christopher Isherwood that included a travel diary, photos, and a long poetic commentary.

Here is one of Auden's magnificent sonnets from that journey...

HERE WAR IS SIMPLE

Here war is simple like a monument:
A telephone is speaking to a man;
Flags on a map assert that troops were sent;
A boy brings milk in bowls. There is a plan

For living men in terror of their lives,
Who thirst at nine who were to thirst at noon,
And can be lost and are, and miss their wives,
And, unlike an idea, can die too soon.

But ideas can be true although men die,
And we can watch a thousand faces
Made active by one lie:

And maps can really point to places
Where life is evil now:
Nanking. Dachau.

HORSE OF A DIFFERENT COLOUR

Auden & Isherwood
strolling in China

trying to soak up
The War

by the process of
osmosis

staining it
with words

observe
(at first what seems)  

green horses

but turns out to be
only white horses

painted green
for camouflage purposes.

That evening in Canton
also offering them

the futility of two men

trying to put a rat
into a bottle

a woman who lived
in a beehive

pouring water
into a sieve.

War knocks
over the inkwell

spills
into men’s lives

covers the white pages
of their wishes

makes the idea of Hell
...all   too   real.

The spilt ink eating
the words of men

who send letters home
and die in pain

never to return

only in other’s memories
& useless dreams

marble memorials

while green horses
champ the grasses

the bridles & the bits
clanking & glinting

in the hot sun
of Now.

as this last lost evening
dies.

HORSE OF A DIFFERENT COLOUR

Auden & Isherwood
strolling in China

trying to soak up
The War

by the process of
osmosis

staining it
with words

observe
(at first what seems)  

green horses

but turns out to be
only white horses

painted green
for camouflage purposes.

That evening in Canton
also offering them

the futility of two men

trying to put a rat
into a bottle

a woman who lived
in a beehive

pouring water
into a sieve.

War knocks
over the inkwell

spills
into men’s lives

covers the white pages
of their wishes

makes the idea of Hell
...all   too   real.

The spilt ink eating
the words of men

who send letters home
and die in pain

never to return

only in others' memories
& useless dreams

marble memorials

while green horses
champ the grasses

the bridles & the bits
clanking & glinting

in the hot sun
of Now.

as this last lost evening
dies.

HORSE OF A DIFFERENT COLOUR

Auden & Isherwood
strolling in China

trying to soak up
The War

by the process of
osmosis

staining it
with words

observe
(at first what seems)  

green horses

but turns out to be
only white horses

painted green
for camouflage purposes.

That evening in Canton
also offering them

the futility of two men

trying to put a rat
into a bottle

a woman who lived
in a beehive

pouring water
into a sieve.

War knocks
over the inkwell

spills
into men’s lives

covers the white pages
of their wishes

makes the idea of Hell
...all   too   real.

The spilt ink eating
the words of men

who send letters home
and die in pain

never to return

only in others' memories
& useless dreams

marble memorials

while green horses
champ the grasses

the bridles & the bits
clanking & glinting

in the hot sun
of Now.

as this last lost evening
dies.

HOSPITAL VISIT

"So, you're back?"
I smile weakly.

"Ahhhh now, don't be like that!"
Death smirks.

I shrug non committedly.

"You still sore about that heart attack?"
Death laughs.

"I was just playing around
seeing how you'd take it"

Death explains..

"Oh so that was what that was all about>
You got a sick sense of humour!"

Death shrugs non committedly.

"Oh come come now..!"
Death blurts out.

"I did give you
your self back!"

"So you did...so you did!"
I grin.

"And to what
do I owe this visit?"

I dare to ask.

Death strokes my hair
pushed it back

off my forehead
wet with sweat.

"Shhhhh..." soothes Death "...shhhhh!"
like a wave in love with a shore.

Lady Death kisses me.
"Do you love me?"

"Yesssss...."
my voice whispers...falters.

There is now.

And then.

No more.

"Now, that Missy...
...is a Trout Possum kiss"
"Welll...I admit...I'd been Alabama'd!"

"You're kissing me
like you're my husband!"
"Well, I'm gonna be...ain't I!"

"Well, I guess!
Give us a taste of that
kiss again!"

"That's the trouble with Troy
one kiss always leads to another!"
"Couldn't wait to say: "I DO!"

"It's been nothing but
50 years of kisses!
Hot **** those Trout Possums!"

"The best kiss?
Is the one that hasn't happened yet
but is just...about to!"

HOW BECOMING OF ME!

The world set about
changing the 14th of July

into the 15th
of July

for no good reason but
time demanded it.

Time was indeed
a hard task master

and wouldn't take
NO for an answer.

"Alright...alright!"
complained the world.

"I'm doing it ...see!"
it sulked none too pleased.

The world had quite liked
being the 14th of July.

Was sad to see it
...go.

The world wouldn't have
minded if

it had stayed
the 14th of July for ever.

I was only one
of the events

that would comprise
the 15th of July.

It was 1956
and Doris Day was singing

"Ce sera...sera!"

And so it was
I became

me!

HOW BECOMING OF ME!

The world set about
changing the 14th of July

into the 15th
of July

for no good reason but
time demanded it.

Time was indeed
a hard task master

and wouldn't take
NO for an answer.

"Alright...alright!"
complained the world.

"I'm doing it ...see!"
it sulked none too pleased.

The world had quite liked
being the 14th of July.

Was sad to see it
...go.

The world wouldn't have
minded if

it had stayed
the 14th of July for ever.

I was only one
of the events

that would comprise
the 15th of July.

It was 1956
and Doris Day was singing

"Que Será, Será"

And so it was
I became

me!

HOW BECOMING OF ME!

The world set about
changing the 14th of July

into the 15th
of July

for no good reason but
time demanded it.

Time was indeed
a hard task master

and wouldn't take
NO for an answer.

"Alright...alright!"
complained the world.

"I'm doing it ...see!"
it sulked none too pleased.

The world had quite liked
being the 14th of July.

Was sad to see it
...go.

The world wouldn't have
minded if

it had stayed
the 14th of July for ever.

I was only one
of the events

that would comprise
the 15th of July.

It was 1956
and Doris Day was singing

"Ce sera...sera!"

And so it was
I became

me!

HOW BECOMING OF ME!

The world set about
changing the 14th of July

into the 15th
of July

for no good reason but
time demanded it.

Time was indeed
a hard task master

and wouldn't take
NO for an answer.

"Alright...alright!"
complained the world.

"I'm doing it ...see!"
it sulked none too pleased.

The world had quite liked
being the 14th of July.

Was sad to see it
...go.

The world wouldn't have
minded if

it had stayed
the 14th of July for ever.

I was only one
of the events

that would comprise
the 15th of July.

It was 1956
and Doris Day was singing

"Que Será, Será"

And so it was
I became

me!

She dances naked
dressed only in the sound of
wind chimes & bracelets.

HOW COULD THE STARS. . .

How could the stars
have forgotten you?

You who held them in
the surprise of your eyes

floated them through
your wind blown hair

& untangled them
from the tortured branches
of trees

when they had lost their way
or forgotten who they were.

You who had spoken of them
when they were silent

& couldn’t find words

spoke to them so tenderly
shaping them into poems.

Now the sky is bereft.

Only the darkness speaks

as the stars search
...seek for you

HOW COULD THE STARS. . .

how could the stars
have forgotten you
you who held them in

the surprise of your eyes
floated them through
your wind blown hair

& untangled them
from the tortured branches
of trees

when they had lost their way
or forgotten
who they were

you who had spoken of them
when they were silent
& couldn’t find words

spoke to them
so tenderly
shaping them into poems

now the sky is bereft
only the darkness speaks
as the stars search...seek for you

HOW COULD THE STARS. . .

How could the stars
have forgotten you?

You who held them in
the surprise of your eyes

floated them through
your wind blown hair

& untangled them
from the tortured branches
of trees

when they had lost their way
or forgotten who they were.

You who had spoken of them
when they were silent

& couldn’t find words

spoke to them so tenderly
shaping them into poems.

Now the sky is bereft.

Only the darkness speaks

as the stars search
...seek for you.

HOW GRAMPS AND  GRANMA GOT TOGETHER

she had an ego
that could be seen
from space

a mind that could strip
an apple of its skin
in one perfect coil

but today she was feeling
like a faded
carbon copy of herself

and it was this
vulnerability
that so unnerved the others

not knowing whether
it was a ruse or a trick
on her part

could she really
have a heart when
she was not biting heads off

I not being afraid of her
I dared to take
care of her

she too surprised
that I simply
walked around her defences

as if they weren't
there and won her
with a simple "You ok?"

HOW GRAMPS AND  GRANMA GOT TOGETHER

she had an ego
that could be seen
from space

a mind that could strip
an apple of its skin
in one perfect coil


but today she was feeling
like a faded
carbon copy of herself

and it was this
vulnerability
that so unnerved the others

not knowing whether
it was a ruse or a trick
on her part

could she really
have a heart when
she was not biting heads off

I not being afraid of her
I dared to take
care of her

she too surprised
that I simply
walked around her defences

as if they weren't
there and won her
with a simple "You ok?"

HOW GRANNY MET GRANDA

She bored of being
bored: suddenly a
man with two-tone tan shoes

the proverbial
butterflies in the tum
"Yum!" she smirks "Yum...yum!"

she undid the top two
buttons of her blue blouse
such dangerous décolletage

the two-tone tan man
crossed one leg over
then the other then: back again

oooops she
spilled her gin
down her cleavage

he, she saw
couldn't help
but see

"Silly silly old..."
she scolds herself
"...clever me!"

he takes out
an initialed silk handkerchief
dabs betweeen her *******

both of their minds
thinking only of the one thing
"Sin!"

HOW HIS SHOES SHINE


Outside, it is
:1835.

A man is having
his shoes shined

at the last tree
before the corner of

Rue de Temple.

He's there at least
a good 15 minutes.

He can see his face
reflected in the toe tip

of his right foot
looking back up at him.

All the other humans
have vanished into smoke

become ghosts
of ghosts.

Anything that moves is lost
in the long exposure.

Daguerre holds
his breath.

Time has a habit of
disappearing.

Daguerre seizes the light
arrests it in its flight.

Nearly 200 years later
the man is still

having his shoes shined.

HOW MANY MILES. .?

I try to
get back
to

the you
before you
died

you flicker
in the candlelight
I am trying to

not let the forgetting
happen
to you

but you begin to
fade and
falter

you tell me
to let you
...go

that it will be
easier
for me

but I would rather
own
the pain of this love

hold you all the tighter
smuggle you in a dream
across death's border

you are beyond Babylon
...the many miles to...
the childhood rhyme

I told you
"Can I get there by candle light..?"
I ask the dark

"...there and
back again..."
the emptiness echoes.

each night I fetch
your ghost
feeding it my pain

to keep you here again
only to have to
return you

when morning
brings a new day
you can never know

*

Brian was about ten or eleven when Jennifer Johnson's beautifully elegant and achingly sad novella HOW MANY MILES TO BABYLON  came out...I used to tell him the story and read bits to him. He had asked me why the book was called that so I would recite the little rhyme for him and then he would often repeat it to himself.

How many miles to Babylon?
Three score and ten.
Can I get there by candle-light?
Yes, and back again.
If your heels are nimble and light,
You may get there by candle-light.

HOW MANY MILES. .?

I try to
get back to

the you
before you

died.

You flicker
in the candlelight.

I am trying to
not let the forgetting

happen
to you

but you begin to
fade and falter.

You tell me to let you
...go...

That it will be easier
for me.

But I would rather own
the pain of this love.

Hold you all the tighter.

Smuggle you in a dream
across death's border.

You are beyond Babylon
...the many miles to...

The childhood rhyme
I told you.

"Can I get there by candle light..?"
I ask the dark.

"...there and back again..."
the emptiness echoes.

Each night I fetch
your ghost

feeding it my pain
to keep you here again

only to have to
return you

when morning brings a new day
you can never know.

HOW NOT TO SWEAR WHEN ONE IS SWEARING

After I hit it
with a hammer

my old thumb takes on
a now cartoonish character

pulses and throbs
grows biggerandbiggerANDBIGGER.

My three year old
gasps in astonishment

that an adult would/could
do such a silly silly thing.

"Bold Daddy!" she scolds "Bold Daddy!"

My mind screams in silence but
my tongue longs

to utter in the demotic
a good old fashioned Anglo-Saxon

ffffffffffFFFFFFF...word!

I somehow( don't
ask me how )

gaze into my little one's
baby blues

delete the expletive
carefully in slow motion

substitute the first
thing that pops into the mind

the first( as it happens )
of Mr. Joyce's thunderwords.

None of Eliot's
"  Shantih     shantih     shantih "

I had the presence of mind to
"Finnegans Wake" it!

"BABABADALGHARAGHTAKAMMINARRONNKONNBRONN
TONNERRONNTUONNTHUN­NTROVARRHOUNAWNSKAN
TOOHOOHOORDENENTHURNUK!"



"Funny Daddy!" she chortles "Funny Daddy!"

Now whenever things
go wrong and

they will go wrong
( as sure as words is words )

she begs me
to "...do the thunder!"

Waits for her little
bit part so she can

chime in with her
". . .TOOHOOHOO..."

and I gather her up
in my arms and we

both declaim
as one

". . .THURNUK!"

HOW NOW RED BALLOON?

The balloon
crossed the road

on its own
cautiously at first

then becoming
a little braver.

There wasn't a human
in sight.

The balloon was
red.

Why did it cross the road?
You would have to ask a chicken.

It made its way
into a nearby field.

just out of reach of
a host of thistles

angry at the invasion
of their territory

A bee followed it
across a ditch

bemused at  such
a  solo flight.

The balloon came to rest
on the back of a huge

black and white
heifer.

And there
it remained

as I passed
and hurried by.

Cow and balloon
as one.

Living on in
my mind

all these 40 years
later.

HOW NOW RED BALLOON?

The balloon
crossed the road

on its own
cautiously at first

then becoming
a little braver.

There wasn't a human
in sight.

The balloon was
red.

Why did it cross the road?
You would have to ask a chicken.

It made its way
into a nearby field.

just out of reach of
a host of thistles

angry at the invasion
of their territory

A bee followed it
across a ditch

bemused at  such
a  solo flight.

The balloon came to rest
on the back of a huge

black and white
heifer.

And there
it remained

as I passed
and hurried by.

Cow and balloon
as one.

Living on in
my mind

all these 40 years
later.

HOW NOW RED BALLOON?

the balloon
crossed the road
on its own

cautiously at first
then becoming
a little braver

there wasn't a human
in sight
the balloon was red

why did it cross the road
you would have to
ask a chicken

it made its way
into a nearby field
just out of reach of

a host of thistles
angry at the invasion
of their territory

a bee followed it
across a ditch bemused
at  such a  solo flight

the balloon came to rest
on the back of a huge
black and white heifer

and there it remained
as I passed
and hurried by

cow and balloon
as one
living on in

my mind
all these 40 years
later.

*

Wish I had a time machine and could go back..get out of the car and see if the red balloon and the black and white cow ran away with each other and had cow/balloon children and lived happily ever after.  

There was also, now you mention it, a laughing dog. And when we went to eat we were both dishless and spoonless. The cat on the fiddle was playing the Divil came down to Cork.

HOW ONE MR. TONY PERKINS GOT HIS COMEUPPANCE!

** ** ha ha
Louisiana floods

destroy the home of
Church leader who

says God sends
natural disasters

to punish gay people.

See him escaping
in a canoe

from a deluge of
"almost Biblical proportions."

I love God's
sense of humour

when outing a bigot
and an idiot.

Good for God.

HOW QWERTY CAN ONE GET?

tactactac - tack!
goes one letter after

an other each
tactactac - tack

becoming a clickety
clackety word.

The typewriter
spits out sound

and sometimes sense
each line ending in the clack

of the returning carriage
the ping of its bell

the poem snatched
from the machine's jaws

snatched from the nothing
from whence it came.

The page wearing its new words
like some glorious clothes

that changed
the whole character

of what could be
said.

HOW THE BLACK SHINES

He remembers
the particular

glance of sunlight
off a bird's wing

so that the black
shone

for that second
and forever

and how he had stolen it
from the living tapestry

of that only moment
and if one were to go back

it would be found
to be missing

thieved from Time
and how now

the typewriter keys
raise their angry little fists

and strike the page
in rage

and the tiny ting when a word comes
to the end of a line

and the stolen sunshine and
the shining of black

become
the words

that are offered
now

this seeing at seven
become a bird of words

startled to find
itself now

on the snowdrift
of a page

snatched from the memory
of a child who is

no longer a child

HOW THINGS ARE BEFORE BOOKS WERE

Lost
without a book

I journey
homeward

nonchalantly
reading the sky

translated into sunset

the poem
of a flock of crows

leaving one tree for another
(very similar)  

& then back again
in another

second

raindrops
like sonnets

reciting themselves
over and over

with passion &
great conviction

writing themselves
on my reflection

as the window
holds me captive

& I learn
their literature

the language of

how things are
before books were.

I tell these things
to my self

as I fall asleep...fall asleep...fall asleep.

Dream...dream.

HOW THINGS ARE BEFORE BOOKS WERE

Lost
without a book

I journey
homeward

nonchalantly
reading the sky

translated into sunset

the poem
of a flock of crows

leaving one tree for another
(very similar)  

& then back again
in another

second

raindrops
like sonnets

reciting themselves
over and over

with passion &
great conviction

writing themselves
on my reflection

as the window
holds me captive

& I learn
their literature

the language of

how things are
before books were.

I tell these things
to my self

as I fall asleep...fall asleep...fall asleep.

Dream...dream.

HOW THINGS ARE BEFORE BOOKS WERE

Lost
without a book

I journey
homeward

nonchalantly
reading the sky

translated into sunset

the poem
of a flock of crows

leaving one tree for another
(very similar)  

& then back again
in another

second

raindrops
like sonnets

reciting themselves
over and over

with passion &
great conviction

writing themselves
on my reflection

as the window
holds me captive

& I learn
their literature

the language of

how things are
before books were.

I tell these things
to my self

as I fall asleep...fall asleep...fall asleep.

Dream...dream.

HOW TO COUNT TO OVER FOUR...HUNDRED BILLION!
( for Maureen )


she makes
a nest
in my lap


with Teddy,
her blue blanket
a twig and a stone she adopts

the twig is
her newest
bestest friend


she watches
THE KING AND I
from this eyrie


thumb in mouth
she
soaks it all up


the world
decanted
into music


later
as I kiss her
goodnight


stars cluster
about her
bedroom window


"How many
stars are there?"
she enquires


"Oh, I don't know...over
400 billion I
...suppose!"

she starts to count
what she can see
reaches ten and then


begins again
ten is all
she can count


then sleepy she
whispers
"etc., etc., etc.!"  


*

So my little one watches THE KING AND I..and who does she want to be? Why Yul of course. She goes around with her bathing cap on to mimic his baldness and with her hands disdainfully on her hips saying "etc., etc., etc.!" She also is under the belief that "etc., etc., etc.!" is some form of number and can be used when you can only count to ten and you need to count countless stars.

HOW TO COUNT TO OVER FOUR...HUNDRED BILLION!
( for Maureen )

She makes a nest
in my lap.

Teddy, her blue blanket and
a twig and a stone she adopts.

The twig is
her newest bestest friend.

She watches THE KING AND I
from this eyrie.

Thumb in mouth she
soaks it all up.

The world decanted
into music.

Later as I kiss her
goodnight

stars cluster about her
bedroom window.

"How many stars are
there?"

"Oh, I don't know...over
400 billion I suppose!"

She starts to count
what she can see

reaches ten and then
begins again.

Ten is all
she can count.

Then sleepy she
whispers

"etc., etc., etc.!"

HOW TO MAKE A BREXIT-EXIT PIE

( for David Olaf Carney )

Put in as much
Gove as one can take.

"Not a lot...not a lot noooo
no **** it....that's too much!"

One can make it too toxic!

Sprinkle in enough barmy bumbly
Borisisms

to make one gasplaughchoke
in total disbelief.

Then, come what May...
round up the usual suspected

lies lies and damed lies
enough to fill a "Blunderbus!"

Leave out the petty Pretti one this time out.

Cook on a slow Conservative heat.

Ooops you upped the Auntie
way to high!

Even the lies are becoming
transparent.'

Ouick...more lies more lies more lies!

Oh my good Conservative God they are
becoming see through....what will we do!

Looks a bit burnt about the edges!

Looks decidedly
un-tasty and incredibly inedible.

And when the Pie was open
the liars began to sing!

Oh wasn't that a truly terrible dish
to sit before

the dissed United Kingdom.

Face it - things is looking Grimm!

"The United Kingdom - Le Royaume-Uni
NUL POINTS.....NUL POINTS!"

HOW TO MAKE THE RIGHT DECISION AT THE RIGHT TIME

The clock shaves off
another bit of time

tick by tick by tick
it doesn't give a tock.

A patina of time
covers the dusty ornaments.

The eaves drip.
Nature's clock.

I measure time
by how long it takes

the cuckoo's voice
to travel

from the background
to the foreground

of this storm
tossed morning.

I feel myself as
if I am

the personal measurement
of boredom.

A fly lands
on a bishop's mitre.

Washes its hands
assiduously.

Then buzzes off
in case it catches religion.

The chess pieces
resume their silences.

I feel like a female mammoth
frozen in a block of ice.

Time refuses to move on
sti...sti...ICKS.

My husband plays chess
with himself.

Can never tell whether
he's winning or losing.

"I'm a Gemini..!"
he explains.

Like duh.
"I'm just a poor little Cancer!"

He is beating himself up
about beating himself.

I watch him move from
one side of the table to

the other
like a Buster Keaton movie.

An eyelid twitches but
is instantly repressed.

The eyebrow about to be
raised...instantly isn't,

He is a bad loser.
Even to himself.

A hand raises a King
and a Queen is taken.

His lips
a taut straight line.

I am only wearing a thong.
Getting goosebumps.

I chew a Swano 4906.
Bitten to shreds.

"Five...I said...five letters!"
Loudly just to annoy him

Beginning with an O and
ending with OP.

"Stowed cables
below water line!"

What kind of clue is that!
I haven't got a clue.

"Harold honey!"
I yell.

"Orlop!"
he grunts.
"Orlop deck!"

Never taking his eye off
of his other self.

"Who would have thought..."
I think to myself.

"That *** and money
could become boring!"

A pillowcase on the line
***** for help.

It has lost a peg
Holding on by a peg.

The wind makes it pregnant.
Its belly billows.

It swells and takes off
like a ship setting sail.

Jumps over the wall
chasing an horizon.

"Me an' all!"
I thank it for the tip.

Decide to leave
Harold honey

by Tuesday
at the latest.

HOW TO MAKE THE RIGHT DECISION AT THE RIGHT TIME

the clock shaves off
another bit of time
tick by tick by tick

it doesn't give a tock
a patina of time
covers the dusty ornaments

the eaves drip
Nature's clock
I measure time

by how long it takes
the cuckoo's voice
to travel

from the background
to the foreground of this
storm tossed morning

I feel myself as if I am
the personal measurement
of boredom

a fly lands
on a bishop's mitre
washes its hands

assiduously
then buzzes off
in case it catches religion

the chess pieces
resume
their silences

I feel like a female mammoth
frozen
in a block of ice

Time refuses
to move on
sti...sti...ICKS

my husband
plays chess
with himself

can never tell whether
he's winning or losing
"I'm a Gemini..!"

he explains.
like duh
"I'm just a poor little Cancer!"

he is beating
himself up
about beating himself

I watch him move from
one side of the table to
the other

like a Buster Keaton movie
an eyelid twitches but
is instantly repressed

the eyebrow
about to be
raised...instantly isn't

he is a bad loser
even
to himself

a hand raises a King
and a Queen
is taken

his lips
a taut straight line
displays no emotion

I am only wearing
a thong
getting goosebumps

I chew a Swano 4906
bitten to shreds
"Five...I said...five letters!"

loudly just to annoy him
beginning with an O and
ending with OP

"Stowed cables
below water line!"
what kind of clue is that!

I haven't got a clue
"Harold honey!"
I yell

"Orlop!"
he grunts
"Orlop deck!"

never taking his eye off
of his other self
watching his every move

"Who would have
thought..."
I think to myself

"That *** and money
could become so
boring!"

a pillowcase on the line
***** for help
it has lost a peg

holding on by a peg
the wind makes it pregnant
its belly billows

it swells
and takes off
like a ship setting sail

jumps over the wall
chasing its own
horizon

"Me an' all!"
I thank it
for the tip

decide to leave
Harold honey
by Tuesday...at the latest

calculus battle clue 6 down
“tanquam ex ungue leonem”
N E W T O N I fill it in - done it

HOW UNPLEASANT TO KNOW MR. CROW

"Hello!" said the crow.
"Hello?" I answered

thinking: ("Talking to crows
is a bit of a no-no?")

"Do I know you?"
I asked politely.

"I'm Ted Hughes' CROW
....you know!"

"I didn't know that!
I admitted.

"You look like every other crow there is to know."
I impolitely pointed out.

"Every crow is CROW!"
it pointedly pointed out.

"Say...something Ted Hughes-ish then!"
I challenged it.

"In the beginning was..."
"...scream!" crow screamed

and then a load of begatting
to give the Bible a run for its money.

Nothing and Never both begatted
to make crow.

It made me remember the only time
I had been in Mr. Hughes' presence.

One shift leading into another shift and yet another shift so that
it was falling with tiredness I was.

Was it on Thursday I was
to meet the girlfriend

on Friday Street or
Friday I...just didn't know no more.

Ted grasped the podium
with crooked  hands

as if he were Tennyson's EAGLE
or a Heathcliff grown old.

He glared down on me.
I trying not to fall asleep.

He like a cliff come alive
as if rocks could talk.

His words....CROW'S words.

Ted now
merging into the crow

gazing upon me as if
I were carrion.

Crow now losing his human voice.

His raucous caw
echoing inside my head

as he takes to the skies.

I should have listened to
what my mum said.

"Don't talk to strange corvids!"

HOW UNPLEASANT TO KNOW MR. CROW

"Hello!" said the crow.
"Hello?" I answered

thinking: ("Talking to crows
is a bit of a no-no?")

"Do I know you?"
I asked politely.

"I'm Ted Hughes' CROW
....you know!"

"I didn't know that!
I admitted.

"You look like every other crow there is to know."
I impolitely pointed out.

"Every crow is CROW!"
it pointedly pointed out.

"Say...something Ted Hughes-ish then!"
I challenged it.

"In the beginning was..."
"...scream!" crow screamed

and then a load of begatting
to give the Bible a run for its money.

Nothing and Never both begatted
to make crow.

It made me remember the only time
I had been in Mr. Hughes' presence.

One shift leading into another shift and yet another shift so that
it was falling with tiredness I was.

Was it on Thursday I was
to meet the girlfriend

on Friday Street or
Friday I...just didn't know no more.

Ted grasped the podium
with crooked  hands

as if he were Tennyson's EAGLE
or a Heathcliff grown old.

He glared down on me.
I trying not to fall asleep.

He like a cliff come alive
as if rocks could talk.

His words....CROW'S words.

Ted now
merging into the crow

gazing upon me as if
I were carrion.

Crow now losing his human voice.

His raucous caw
echoing inside my head

as he takes to the skies.

I should have listened to
what my mum said.

"Don't talk to strange corvids!"

HOW UNPLEASANT TO KNOW MR. CROW

"Hello!" said the crow.
"Hello?" I answered

thinking: ("Talking to crows
is a bit of a no-no?")

"Do I know you?"
I asked politely.

"I'm Ted Hughes' CROW
....you know!"

"I didn't know that!
I admitted.

"You look like every other crow there is to know."
I impolitely pointed out.

"Every crow is CROW!"
it pointedly pointed out.

"Say...something Ted Hughes-ish then!"
I challenged it.

"In the beginning was..."
"...scream!" crow screamed

and then a load of begatting
to give the Bible a run for its money.

Nothing and Never both begatted
to make crow.

It made me remember the only time
I had been in Mr. Hughes' presence.

One shift leading into another shift and yet another shift so that
it was falling with tiredness I was.

Was it on Thursday I was
to meet the girlfriend

on Friday Street or
Friday I...just didn't know no more.

Ted grasped the podium
with crooked  hands

as if he were Tennyson's EAGLE
or a Heathcliff grown old.

He glared down on me.
I trying not to fall asleep.

He like a cliff come alive
as if rocks could talk.

His words....CROW'S words.

Ted now
merging into the crow

gazing upon me as if
I were carrion.

Crow now losing his human voice.

His raucous caw
echoing inside my head

as he takes to the skies.


I should have listened to
what my mum said.

"Don't talk to strange corvids!"

HOW VERY VERY

"One moment he was there..."
said his shadow who

had witnessed
the whole thing.

"...and the next. . . not!"

I was disembodied
floating about on the air

as thoughts do
existing in the here-not-there.

chasing now a leaf as it
makes its way about the square

or a caterpillar
sitting on a deckchair

all by itself
alone

or the journey of a piece of Wrigley's Spearmint
from chewing gum to spat out on a flagstone

before jumping ship
to the sole of a gentleman's shoe

or the metamorphosis of a cloud
from camel to now cow

or a piece of sunlit evening
squeezing itself through leaves

chasing itself
upon a wall.

My shadow was just about to go
find a policeman...saying:

"I appear to have lost
my person!"

When with a thump I was
back inside my

self again!"

"How interesting...!"
I was telling my very boring friend.

"How very very
interesting. . !"

HOW VERY VERY

"One moment he was there..."
said his shadow who

had witnessed
the whole thing.

"...and the next. . . not!"

I was disembodied
floating about on the air

as thoughts do
existing in the here-not-there

chasing now a leaf as it
makes its way about the square

or a caterpillar
sitting on a deckchair

all by itself
alone

or the journey of a piece of Wrigley's Spearmint
from chewing gum to spat out on a flagstone

before jumping ship
to the sole of a gentleman's shoe

or the metamorphosis of a cloud
from camel to now cow

or a piece of sunlit evening
squeezing itself through leaves

chasing itself
upon a wall.

My shadow was just about to go
find a policeman...saying:

"I appear to have lost
my person!"

When with a thump I was
back inside my

self again.

"How interesting...!"
I was telling my very boring friend.

"How very very
interesting. . !"

HUMAN DOMESTICUS


she pours herself
into his lap
curls...curls again

she tries to teach
him how to speak Cat
something he is not good at

she although she
understands can not as yet
speak Human

she can get the gist
of what is said
especially if its her name

he takes lessons
in purring which is enough
to make her laugh

"No..no...no!" she hisses
"You are not getting
the correct tone!"

she wonders why
she bothers
he'll never learn

he strokes her
between her ears
"Mmm!" she mms

"Oh yeah...oh yeah
now
yer talking!"

The **** crows
the morning into being

whilst behind the henhouse
Auntie wrings a chicken's neck.

What runs around
yesterday

is today
eaten.

"Humans..." thinks the cat
"...are not what they seem!"

HUP! ONETWO THREE!

a herd of pylons
march across countryside
car radio blares Col. Hathi March

She let go
of her name

watched it drift
away

a thing on the tide
separate to herself.

A thing now
to be

denied.

She undid
her self

watched it
now fall to the floor

kicked it
carelessly to one side


as if stepping out
of a dress

she had worn for far
too long.

She unclasped her love
of the world

put it aside
carefully and with

a little regret.

And then
she stepped into

her death
as if she were

stepping into
a bath.

“So, this is
it? ”
she laughed.

HWAET  SCEAL IC SINGAN? SING ME FRUMSCEAFT!!

(What shall I sing.... . .sing me creation!)

And she sang to him.

And she sang of him.

She sang of the love she had created for them.

She used birds for words & the rain that had fallen.

She used flowers & tears & interwove them.

She used sighs & hours & the loneliness within them.

She used moonlight & pain & what remained

...when she was far from him.

She sang of a love that had dreamed of being

...& hadn’t yet awoken.

She sang of herself & called to him ....called to him.

And she sang of him.

And she sang to him.

She sang of the love ...that belonged to them.

She sealed it with tears & the fears of her heart

...breaking.

She sang him

Creation!

HWAET  SCEAL IC SINGAN? SING ME FRUMSCEAFT!!

(What shall I sing.... . .sing me creation!)

And she sang to him.

And she sang of him.

She sang of the love she had created for them.

She used birds for words & the rain that had fallen.

She used flowers & tears & interwove them.

She used sighs & hours & the loneliness within them.

She used moonlight & pain & what remained

...when she was far from him.

She sang of a love that had dreamed of being

...& hadn’t yet awoken.

She sang of herself & called to him ....called to him.

And she sang of him.

And she sang to him.

She sang of the love ...that belonged to them.

She sealed it with tears & the fears of her heart

...breaking.

She sang him

Creation!