Collected Poems Read online

  [Editor’s Note: No diary entries for several weeks.]

  10 November

  K’ung Fu Tzu (or Confucius

  as now call himself) pop in

  on way to Aphorism Conference.

  Over dish of lapsang souchong

  he relate long boring parable

  about indecision and procrastination.

  Fifteen minutes later

  he repeat same parable.

  Fifteen minutes later

  heart sink as illustrious duffer

  embark once more on inane ramble.

  Consider three courses of action:

  Feign bout of sleeping sickness?

  Allow to finish. He is, after all, old man; then laugh softly

  like moth alighting on moonlit breast of young wife?

  Interrupt?

  Interrupting, I say:

  ‘Twice would have been quite enough.’

  Innocent remark have strange effect

  on esteemed Master

  who jot it down on back of hand, rise up and go.

  25 December

  Nothing doing at home

  so journey to mountains

  to find cave in which to meditate.

  All caves full.

  China big country

  and although many wise men

  only so many caves.

  Decide on course of action:

  Transcend to higher astral plane?

  Descend to hire private plane?

  Give idea elbow and give young wife

  nice surprise on panda skin?

  31 December

  Returning home along river-bank

  pause to make water

  against trunk of weeping willow.

  Suddenly, on rickety bridge

  see young wife in arms of Lin Fang!

  Heart stop, turning off water.

  End of rainbow spatter over feet

  disturbing nesting ducks, who take flight.

  Consider carefully what to do:

  Kill wife?

  Kill Lin Fang?

  Design dinner service?

  1 January 479 B.C.

  Confucius call at humble home

  on way to bamboo shoot.

  Very apologetic about misbehaviour

  of Lin Fang, favoured disciple.

  Young wife enter, looking sheepish

  (on all fours, going ‘Baa, baa’).

  Everybody laugh, and Confucius

  beg me forgive and forget.

  Chi Wen Tzu reflect on three choices:

  Forgive and forget?

  Forgive now, kill later?

  Have wife for supper with mint sauce?

  2 February

  T’ai Chi exercises interrupted

  by owner of porcelain factory

  who is much taken with design

  for plates. Except for flying ducks.

  He ask, why three different sizes?

  I explain there is a daddy duck,

  mummy duck and baby duck.

  He nod, but go away unconvinced.

  Wonder what to put in place of ducks:

  Flock of budgies?

  Swarm of locusts?

  Pair of bluebirds?

  22 February

  Waking with sublime images in mind

  arise and sit beneath mulberry tree

  to compose poem for young wife.

  It is entitled ‘Poem for Ning’.

  ‘Your eyelashes are like the finest willow-twigs

  Your cheeks are whiter than the lily

  Your teeth brighter than the scales

  of the Sacred Dragon

  Your brow smoother than polished jade

  Your body welcoming and transparent

  as a mountain stream.’

  Deservedly pleased with poem, wonder whether to:

  Show to young wife immediately?

  Put away until 2nd August and save

  money on birthday present?

  Change title and slip to exceedingly

  symmetrical daughter of factory-owner?

  28 February

  Young wife try to appease husband

  with gift of poetry book. Title?

  New Generation Chinese Poetry.

  Finding poems too long and impenetrable

  decide to invent short, snappy verse-form.

  With aid of abacus

  Chi Wen Tzu ponder on its construction.

  First, how many lines

  then how many syllables.

  Eureka! Haiku.

  [Editor’s Note: Having invented the haiku, Chi Wen Tzu wrote several thousand before going on to invent the sonnet, the villanelle, the limerick and the Malaysian pantoum. The few that have survived illustrate the wide breadth of his poetic vision, and seem almost to pre-date some of the best-loved poems in English literature.]

  There is some corner

  of a foreign paddy field

  Forever China.

  Wandering lonely

  as cloud. Then heart leaps. Behold –

  Golden pagodas!

  On snowy evening

  stopping by neighbour’s dark woods

  horse leaves steaming gift.

  Sing of dappled things!

  Freckled legs and pickled eggs

  Budgies’ wings. Nipples.

  In forest of night

  Panda! Panda! burning bright

  Soon, bedroom carpet.

  This is the night-mail

  crossing the border. Oh no

  Leaves on track – turn back.

  If you can keep head

  in time of Revolution

  – you will be a man(darin).

  Mongol hordes swoop down

  on missionary and wife.

  Noble six hundred!

  Oh my luve’s like red

  red rose, pink, pink carnation

  green, green grass of home.

  Do not go gentle

  Rage Rage Rage Rage Rage Rage Rage

  Against lots of things.

  Far out in cold sea

  And not waving but drowning

  Man see funny side.

  They mess you about

  Most honourable parents

  (But who gives a fuck?)

  4 March

  Young wife growing bored of late

  which cause much concern

  as memory of Lin Fang weigh heavily on loin.

  Too much time on delicate but idle hand.

  Confucius he say: ‘Woman without hobby

  like monkey brains without black-bean sauce.’

  So husband choose suitable pastime:

  Buy her noodle-work kit?

  Acupuncture-repair outfit?

  Piano?

  19 March

  Hearing chopsticks on piano

  enter music-room to find

  young wife at keyboard

  eating chow mein. Very angry.

  Chew over possibilities:

  Chastise young wife?

  Part-exchange greasy piano

  for new young wife?

  Invent xylophone?

  20 April

  Form company to market

  new line in tableware:

  ‘Blue Willow Pattern, China’.

  Chi Wen Tzu soon rich man.

  Already orders flooding in

  from all over country (like guests).

  To celebrate good fortune, throw party.

  Already guests flooding in

  from all over country (like orders).

  Tonight will be night to remember

  but am nervous, so consider three choices.

  Shall I:

  Assume lotus position and breathe deeply?

  Have sly puff on opium pipe?

  Hit plum brandy like no tomorrow?

  21 April

  Night to remember turn out to be

  nightmare wish to forget.

  Host, life and soul of party

  until midnight, when am overcome

  with urgent
need to meditate.

  Bathroom full, so stagger into garden

  in search of willow-tree.

  Hours later, awake in ornamental pond

  to sound of birdsong and heavy breathing.

  Filled with dark foreboding

  creep behind pagoda, where, to horror,

  discover young wife, naked with lover!

  No time to consider three thoughts.

  One thrust of sword through back

  of Ling Fang dispatch sinful couple

  to shamed ancestors.

  Heavy of heart, kneel at pond

  to wash blood from hands. Startled

  by ghostly reflection of unicorn.

  Turn suddenly. Nothing but shadows

  and faint thirrup of echoing hoofs.

  Pondering significance, walk back

  to house to send guests home.

  Imagine horror at sight of Lin Fang

  crosslegged on floor

  idly divining oracle bones!

  Calm self to think three times:

  Seek advice from Confucius?

  Identify corpse?

  Set fire to pagoda and head for hills?

  Decide on first course of action –

  But Confucius nowhere to be found.

  Resort to second course of action –

  Confucius in first stage of rigor mortis.

  Settle on third course of action.

  15 May

  Hills very pleasant this time of year

  Orchids in full bloom

  Distant sighing of temple bell

  But winter reigns in kingdom of heart.

  Nightmares of unicorn

  galloping across rickety bridge

  young wife, naked, clinging to flowing mane.

  In sky above, pair of bluebirds

  in eternal embrace

  skewered by single arrow.

  Drops of blood

  falling

  into porcelain saucer

  of moon.

  Rabbit in Mixer Survives

  A baby rabbit fell into a quarry’s mixing machine yesterday and came out in the middle of a concrete block. But the rabbit still had the strength to dig its way free before the block set.

  The tiny creature was scooped up with 30 tons of sand, then swirled and pounded through the complete mixing process. Mr Michael Hooper, the machine operator, found the rabbit shivering on top of the solid concrete block, its coat stiff with fragments. A hole from the middle of the block and paw marks showed the escape route.

  Mr Reginald Denslow, manager of J. R. Pratt and Sons’ quarry at Kilmington, near Axminster, Devon, said: ‘This rabbit must have a lot more than nine lives to go through this machine. I just don’t know how it avoided being suffocated, ground, squashed or cut in half.’ With the 30 tons of sand, it was dropped into a weighing hopper and carried by conveyor to an overhead mixer where it was whirled around with gallons of water.

  From there the rabbit was swept to a machine which hammers wet concrete into blocks by pressure of 100 lb per square inch. The rabbit was encased in a block eighteen inches long, nine inches high and six inches thick. Finally the blocks were ejected on to the floor to dry and the dazed rabbit clawed itself free. ‘We cleaned him up, dried him by the electric fire, then he hopped away,’ Mr Denslow said.

  Daily Telegraph

  ‘Tell us a story Grandad’

  The bunny rabbits implored

  ‘About the block of concrete

  Out of which you clawed.

  ‘Tell every gory detail

  Of how you struggled free

  From the teeth of the Iron Monster

  And swam through a quicksand sea.

  ‘How you battled with the Humans

  (And the part we like the most)

  Your escape from the raging fire

  When they held you there to roast.’

  The old adventurer smiled

  And waved a wrinkled paw

  ‘All right children, settle down

  I’ll tell it just once more.’

  His thin nose started twitching

  Near-blind eyes began to flood

  As the part that doesn’t age

  Drifted back to bunnyhood.

  When spring was king of the seasons

  And days were built to last

  When thunder was merely thunder

  Not a distant quarry blast.

  How, leaving the warren one morning

  Looking for somewhere to play,

  He’d wandered far into the woods

  And there had lost his way.

  When suddenly without warning

  The earth gave way, and he fell

  Off the very edge of the world

  Into the darkness of Hell.

  Sharp as the colour of a carrot

  On a new-born bunny’s tongue

  Was the picture he recalled

  Of that day when he was young.

  Trance-formed now by the memory

  His voice was close to tears

  But the story he was telling

  Was falling on deaf ears.

  There was giggling and nudging

  And lots of ‘sssh – he’ll hear’

  For it was a trick, a game they played

  Grown crueller with each year.

  ‘Poor old Grandad’ they tittered

  As they one by one withdrew

  ‘He’s told it all so often

  He now believes it’s true.’

  Young rabbits need fresh carrots

  And his had long grown stale

  So they left the old campaigner

  Imprisoned in his tale.

  Petrified by memories

  Haunting ever strong

  Encased in a block of time

  Eighteen inches long.

  ***

  Alone in a field in Devon

  An old rabbit is sitting, talking,

  When out of the wood, at the edge of the world,

  A man with a gun comes walking.

  Happy Ending

  Out of the wood

  at the edge of the world

  a man with a gun

  comes walking.

  Feels not the sun

  upon his face

  nor hears a rabbit talking.

  Over the edge

  at the end of it all

  the man stands

  still as stone.

  In his hands

  the gun held

  to his mouth like a microphone.

  The rabbit

  runs to safety

  at the sudden cry

  of pain.

  As the man lets fly

  a ferret

  into the warren of his brain.

  A Joy to be Old

  It’s a joy to be old.

  Kids through school,

  The dog dead and the car sold.

  Worth their weight in gold,

  Bus passes. Let asses rule.

  It’s a joy to be old.

  The library when it’s cold.

  Immune from ridicule.

  The dog dead and the car sold.

  Time now to be bold.

  Skinnydipping in the pool.

  It’s a joy to be old.

  Death cannot be cajoled.

  No rewinding the spool.

  The dog dead and the car sold.

  Don’t have your fortune told.

  Have fun playing the fool.

  It’s a joy to be old.

  The dog dead and the car sold.

  In Good Spirits

  This icy winter’s morning

  I rise in good spirits.

  On all fours I exhale

  a long white breath

  that hangs in the air

  like a shimmering rope.

  Under which, with arms akimbo

  and eyes ablaze, I dance the limbo.

  Nothing Ventured

  Nothing ventured

  I rise from my hangover

  And take
a walk along the towpath.

  The wind is acting plain silly

  And the sky, having nobody to answer to

  Is all over the place.

  The Thames (as it likes to be called)

  Gives a passable impersonation of a river

  But I remain unimpressed.

  Suddenly in front of me, a woman.

  We are walking at the same pace.

  Lest she thinks I’m following her, I quicken mine.

  She quickens hers. I break into a run.

  So does she. It’s looking bad now.

  I’m gaining on her. God, what happens

  When I catch up? Luckily, she trips

  And sprawls headlong into a bed of nettles.

  I sprint past with a cheery ‘Hello’.

  ***

  Out of sight, I leave the path and scramble

  Down to the water’s edge, where I lie down

  And pretend to be a body washed ashore.

  There is something very comforting