To make a floating abattoir out of an ark.
This cannot go unpunished, and so tonight,
No custard with your apple pie, all right?
Let that be a lesson,’ adding with a smirk,
‘Giant slugs? Good riddance. Now get back to work.’
Bad Day at the Ark (III)
‘They’ve struck again,’ said Mrs Noah, disconsolate.
‘A Duck-billed Reindeer this time.
A doe. She had no chance, poor mite.
Sucked dry and covered in pollen,
she lay on deck like a squeezed shammy leather,
little Bambi, whimpering at her side.’
‘Those Killer Butterflies will have to go,’
said Noah. ‘With a wing-span of twelve metres
and heads the size of mammoths,
they are a liability to everyone on board.
Compared to these Cabbage White vampires
the Giant Bees were pussycats.’
‘And functional,’ pointed out his wife,
squeezing her toes into the luxurious pile
of the black and yellow striped carpet.
‘Mind you, those diaphanous wings
would make a smashing pair of window-blinds
for the nursery. Shall I give the lads a call?’
She picked up the skull of a ring-tailed
maraca and shook it vigorously.
Ham, Shem and Japheth came running,
armed to the back teeth and clad
in the bright red armour of the recently boiled
(and now extinct) Giant Lobsters.
‘Death to the blood-sucking lepidoptera,’
they cried (in Hebrew), and ran on deck.
But the beasts were nowhere to be seen.
Having mistaken the distant horizon
for a washing-line, they had fluttered off
to perch upon it and perished. (Honest.)
So Mrs Noah did not get the window-blinds
she had set her heart on for the nursery.
But, by way of compensation, her husband
made a fine set of rockers for the cot
using a pair of gleaming ivory tusks
taken from a Giant Sabre-toothed Hamster.
Bad Day at the Ark (IV)
It occurred first to the lemon-haired manatee
(sole survivor of a pair of poolside-dwelling bipeds)
as she and a male barefaced baboon
were in hiding from Shem, who, armed with a carving-knife
fashioned from the horn of a unicorn, was scouring the ship
in search of something tasty and intelligent for supper.
‘If this voyage lasts much longer,’ she whispered,
‘there will be no animals left to do God’s bidding
once the flood subsides.’ The baboon nodded,
letting his hand fall on to the silken flesh of her thigh.
The manatee removed his hand gently but firmly.
‘I think we should call a meeting, don’t you?’
The survivors convened that same night in the empty
brontosaurus basket, and what a sorry sight they were:
Gone the fabulous gryphon, the wingèd giraffe.
Gone the prairie dolphin, the golden-voiced terrapin.
‘I hate to say this,’ confessed the manatee,
‘but I really think that God messed up on this one.
To entrust the infamous Noahs with the task
of building an ark and leading us all to safety
was asking for trouble. I mean, just look at them:
purple-scaled, one-eyed, cloven-hoofed non-entities.
They can talk, yes, and they’re house-trained
but in terms of evolution they’re… they’re…’
She looked to the barefaced baboon for inspiration.
He winked and wiggled his long tongue lasciviously
‘… they’re way down the line.’ The animals yelped,
roared and belched in approval. ‘We must jump ship
before reaching dry land, otherwise they’ll carry on
where they left off, and consume us at the rate of knots.’
As if on cue, the wind dropped suddenly, and the rain
pitter-petered out. ‘It has to be tonight,’ she warned.
While the baboon and a few of his best primates
barricaded the Noahs into their sleeping-quarters,
the upturned shell of a blue turtle-whale was lowered
upon the now calm waters, boarded and sailed away.
The Ark and all therein perished, but the giant shell
was washed safely ashore, its precious cargo intact.
The animals gave thanks, and then wearily but joyfully
set off to the four corners of the earth to breed and multiply.
And last to leave were the new Adam and Eve –
The lemon-haired manatee and the barefaced baboon.
St Francis and the Lion
The man was sick. He had a history
of mental illness. What he was doing
let loose on the streets we’ll never know.
Care in the community they call it.
Wild animals, of course, couldn’t care less.
During the summer months the zoo closes
at 8 p.m. It is possible that he got in
after that by scaling the perimeter fence,
but more likely he was already inside,
hiding away, when the keepers locked up.
The lion compound is encircled by a low wall,
a ditch, and a fence seven metres high,
enough to deter even the most athletic
trespasser. The man, however, appears
to have had no trouble in scaling it.
Whether this was a dramatic suicide attempt
or whether he believed he had an empathy
with the beasts is anybody’s guess.
Although conclusions may be drawn from the fact
that he was wearing sandals and carrying a Bible.
The victim, who was in his early twenties,
has yet to be identified. Cause of death
would appear to be a broken neck.
The injury consistent with receiving
a single blow from a fully grown male lion.
St Francis and the Lion (II)
We haven’t spoken to him since that evening.
As far as we’re concerned he’s burned his boats.
At first he was all bravado
Trying to justify himself. But it didn’t wash.
He knew right away that he’d let us down.
From now on he’s on his own
and serves him right. Everybody is upset,
especially the young ones. Let him stew.
We knew that it was St Francis
as soon as he opened his mouth.
He spoke in our language, and beautifully.
Words that were music, that could dance.
But Mali was jealous right from the start.
Yawning, scratching and wandering off,
pretending not to listen. But he did.
You couldn’t help but be impressed.
He talked about love and about God
and about how one day, all the fences
would come down and we’d be free
to run wild for ever and ever.
It was then that the devil got into him.
We don’t know if it was fear or anger
but whatever it was, he suddenly
let out a roar and sprung upon the boy.
It was over before any of us could move.
No screams. No cries for help.
Motionless he lay. The sun loosening
its grip on the iron bars of the cage.
I suppose, in time, Mali will be forgiven
and he’ll return to the pride when the memory
has faded. Already the cynics are whispering…
‘
Mass hysteria… Hallucination… Once upon a time…’
The Father, the Son
It is unusual to find me here, in town.
I never did like crowds. The smell,
The dust, the racket. I can do without it.
But it’s a special occasion, and well,
I haven’t seen him in a long, long time.
Followed his career with interest, mind.
Well, hardly career, but he’s made his mark
They all have, and good on them I say.
The whole country needs shaking up
And they’re the boys to do it.
Things are coming to a head now.
History in the making, you can sense it.
That’s why I’m here. I may be old
But not too old to lend a hand
Lift a sword and strike a blow for freedom.
Question is, when push comes to shove
Will they stand and fight, or run for it?
They’ll not fight alone, that’s for sure.
The rank and file will rally round
Even though the odds are stacked against.
Too many leeches with too much to lose
The mobsters, the spies, the black marketeers.
Too many fingers in too many pies.
The backhanders, the sweeteners, the graft
The wheeler-dealers, the sultans of sleaze.
The ones who feed on the carrion of conflict
Who profit from the status quo
Who fuel the hatreds that keep
The tribes apart. Who know
That where there’s fear, there’s money.
Unless this Jesus can provide the glue
By all accounts he knows a thing or two.
Peace is what he preaches. A coded message
That’s clear to understand: There’ll be no peace
Until Rome has been driven from this land.
And my son knows that. That’s why
He got involved. To fight for the cause.
A chip off the old block and no mistake.
But smarter. Not like his old man, hot-headed.
He likes to plan. Take stock. Cool in a crisis.
Ah, there’s something happening now.
Can you hear the cheering? It must be them.
The crowd is ecstatic, and the soldiers,
Under orders, keeping out of the way.
Nervous too, a good sign that, I’d say.
But where’s my lad? Ah, there he is
At the back, following at a slower pace.
Looks strangely downcast, I must confess.
But no doubt the sight of his old dad
Will bring a smile to his face…
‘Judas!… Judas!’
Tsutsumu
Tsutsumu: The Japanese art of wrapping items in an attractive and appropriate way.
Dear Satoshi,
Thank you for the egg. Smashed in transit, I’m afraid.
The origami chicken that it came in, however,
although gooey was exquisite. How clever you are!
We hesitated for ages before gently dismantling
the Taj Mahal. Perhaps now we regret it.
My wife is over the moon with the curry powder.
It seemed a shame to unpick the delicate spinning-wheel.
Straight out of an enchanted castle, we thought!
The plastic thimble will surely come in handy.
The walnut tree was so lifelike
we considered replanting it in our little garden.
Thank you for the walnut.
And that salmon! The magic you weave with paper!
It seemed to shimmer with life and jump for joy.
Sadly the slice of sashumi was well past its sell-by.
When the life-size model of a Toyota Landcruiser
was delivered, we were as tickled as the postman!
Our thanks for the jasmine-scented car-freshener.
Finally, a note of apology.
It was only after we had broken the string,
torn off the paper, and smashed open the box,
that we realized we had destroyed your gift
of a beautiful box. Sorry.
Spoil-sports
There’s always someone who spoils things, isn’t there?
We are all enjoying the story
and someone has to shout out something silly.
We are all there in good time
and someone has to be late
spoiling it for everybody else.
There we are, all dressed up, gone to a lot of trouble
and someone had to show up
looking like I don’t know what.
They do it on purpose, we know that.
Just to make themselves feel important.
When not destroying plant-life
they’re using sawn-off shotguns.
Blowing up aeroplanes
Not paying their TV licences
Throwing my satchel into the canal
Reporting me to Mr Clark, and I hadn’t done anything.
***
My wife and I run a little business.
Exotic plants. Carnivores mainly. Venus flytraps,
that sort of thing. The place is always full
and we take the time to explain how,
once trapped within the plant, the insects
are broken down by enzymes and the proteins
extracted, leaving only the decaying husks.
People find it fascinating, especially children.
But as soon as your back is turned
there is always someone who thinks it’s funny
to introduce foreign bodies. Chewing-gum,
sweet-wrappers, lolly-ice sticks, pencils,
even a chicken tikka sandwich once.
They do it on purpose, we know that.
Just to be different, just to spoil it for everybody else.
Pen Pals
As you can imagine, a man in my position
Receives a lot of mail. My poor wife, on the other hand,
None at all. Until recently that is
When the postman dropped her a line.
His motives, I am sure, were altruistic,
And her reply, written that same morning,
Prompted by feelings of courtesy.
His letter by return, however, was ripped open
In a manner that could be regarded as unseemly.
And when my wife took breakfast
Locked in her room, composing a reply
I should have spotted the danger signals.
But, being absorbed in various projects, did not.
In fact, I delighted at seeing her fulfilled,
The loose ends of her days gummed down.
It was BURMA at the beginning of the third week
That set the alarm bells ringing. Although
Not widely travelled, I am a man of the world.
And the thought of My Angel, Being Undressed
And Ready for Postman Pat spurred me into action.
Our nearest pillar-box is at the end of the road
And that morning I crouched behind it, until,
Just before noon, she approached, the ink not yet dry.
And as she offered the profane wafer to its iron lips
I leaped out and snatched it from her grasp.
In the privacy of my rooms I tore open the letter
And confronted her with its contents.
‘Pen pals,’ she insisted. ‘We are only pen pals.’
‘Pen pals,’ I pointed out, ‘don’t make plans
To cavort in the back of Delivery Vans.’
I insisted that the relationship be terminated
Immediately, and dictated the following:
‘Dear Ken,’ (for Ken it was)
‘I wish to break off this ludicrous affair,
This adultery-by-proxy. I will have my revenge
You bastard. Yours, Audrey’ (for Audrey it was)
‘P.S. Another letter to follow.’
I made her post it that same afternoon
And next morning I posted the letterbomb.
The sorting office was out of action for several days
And my wife arrested the following Monday.
But now, thankfully, everything is back to normal.
Old-fashioned Values
I have old-fashioned values
Prefer things the way they used to be
When good manners were a premium
And there was a sense of community
Front doors could be left wide-open
And children play out in the street
Everyone on first-name terms
With the bobby on his beat
No beggars huddled in doorways
No muggers in the dark
No syringes in the stairwells
No rapists in the park
On a crowded bus a man would stand
To offer a lady his seat
Vegetables came fresh from the land
There was gravy and innocent meat
No holes in the ozone layer
No AIDS or BSE
No serial killers in Gloucester
No violence on TV
I have old-fashioned values
Prefer things the way they used to be
When the world wore a smile
And I was young, in nineteen eighty-three.
Light Sleeper
My wife is such a light sleeper
That when I come home late
After a night out with the boys
I always remove my shoes
And leave them at the bottom
Collected Poems Page 17