Now Available! – Peter And The Hare’s Fireside Companion Thursday, Aug 4 2011

TO ALL READERS!

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Peter and the Hare are now to be found in the form of an illustrated volume.

Being the Adventures of -

“One man and his hare, and the events into which you are inescapably invited. Please wipe your feet before you enter the room.”

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Peter and The Hare’s Fireside Companion is like an old storybook you don’t quite remember.

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These curious adventures are complimented by poems that summon up moods of innocence, joy, bewilderment, and escapism, yet are leant an aspect of quiet melancholy and dark mischief. Peter evokes forgotten libraries of dusty pages, folk songs, nursery rhymes, nightmares, bedtime stories, and inexplicable occurrences.

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Notes from Croatia Monday, Nov 14 2011

The duvet of roses,
the helter of the skelter,
in the approximate sort of funfair
that is present in all places,

acclimatised eventually
and, like a flower, planted;

growing
on the stairs,
able to see daylight;
to be considered a sculpture
by the sleepers in the morning,

of the unbelievable blue sky,
the Spring under the mattress,
the kindness of the light
Summer quilt.

The lady, as I live and breath,
wears orange hair,
which stays as it is in the minute she awakes,
until it is variously styled by the breeze at the harbour.

She’s sitting in the doorway
for minutes
full of hours
in the company of a cat.

The gift that is cast,
as a Roman numeral ahead,
is an hour of time
here, in Croatia.

When the clock strikes with some
“Hello Kitty” theme-tune,
she dresses unexpectedly in a lime-green,
matador’s suit of lights,
and expects to milk more honey from the day
than I would be inclined to.

A day to greet the many strays
in Rovinj, port city of cats,
to step off land onto a boat
- we know its owner -
and go fishing.
By which I mean
to see the clear sea in all our clarity,

and to repeatedly mouth the word “fish”
in-between kisses.

the gleaming stones,
the aluminium dolphin.

To softly open a can of lemon beer.

Fire Engine

The red living room,
the quick green lizard on the armchair facing
the beach,
it opens onto the world.

A portrait of the Virgin Mary,
a bird that is happy and yellow,
rosy-cheeked in its cage,
chirps occasionally.

We’re soon on the sea,
in a pedalo resembling a fire-engine,
legs protruding from behind honeycomb rocks.

The radio plays “The Sidewinder Sleeps Tonite”.

Marmalade

A path of rocks
leads to the sea,
the jellyfish are as unknown
as we,
they are
the same colour as the donut filling,
they move as only jellyfish swim -
with marmalade donuts
floating beside them.

Night’s Dream

Not the sleepy-eyed, handsome priest
I imagined was on
the ten Kuna note.

Tired of Romans,
fatigued and nourished by
the milk of the sun,

who kissed his hand with kindness
who visited the yellow house
with the diamond window
to philosophise with a woman,
surrounded by sketches of fish,
that moved between blinks of his eyes -
the painted ones that swam behind the water,
in a tank.

As she floats on the sea,
her pet Croatian jellyfish,
her ever-changing
amphibious abode;

While he is afraid of things floating
in his pristine bathtub,
she takes to water,
another somewhere in Istria.

He has a fever,
and has had enough of politics.
He meets a man dressed as a lion,
who is tied to a tree.

As Samson between the columns,
the priest’s face from Dubrovnik,
and a tongue for seawater,
met the lion’s fur and mane.

Matko, the priest,
remained in his company
as the bird inside
the green dome of
the tree,
or the dog waiting
outside the supermarket
for his Master.

In the yellow room,
while behind the diamond-shaped window,
he and the woman
and the lion
continued to philosophise.

Untitled

the field of tall crucifixes painted by hand with
the red soil,
that can grow kiwis
cacti
tomatoes
easily here
olives

the hut of stone
the farmers I passed by at speed,
the bad bus driver
is efficient,
the network is confusing
to tourists.

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Missing Notes Wednesday, Aug 24 2011

Missing Paperweight

Corporate and lonely, whistling a three-or-four note tune,
in metal. The logo that identifies him is a sheep, a small drum, a broken gate, a trumpet to be played in an expanse of field, and…
does buttons up and down in his preferred sequence.
Loves, laughs and thinks.

A goldfish is floating, outside the window of the fish-bowl, saying “OO, O, O, O” to a three-or-four note tune, and stays there for the rest of time, looking in.

In the fastest-growing economy, he has friends at parties, an interest in architecture, what heaven is like, and Chinese culture.

Could stay awake,
spending life, travelling with eyes closed evenly on each side,
thankfully, in a tightly-woven boat,
down the motor-river,

oh, cotton sleep fallen from the tree.
Yellow passenger lights go by;
illuminated no-smoking signs overhead.

I’d like to wear this jumper
in gale-force winds.

Call me in the morning
on the eve of a holiday,
holding a lucky bag,
containing
a colouring book and crayons

Monkey

When I count every day, I am missing every monkey. I count every cute planet-ruling simian who soon meets, fights, plays, and speaks. With a smile and tumbler-handle ears.

He wants nothing yet but a banana. I might like more than a banana, but would be content with one for now.

When I walk up the beach, chasing monkey. Chasing the difference between an inflatable and the fruit banana, and monkey knows me, from his throne in India, Malaysia and other places, and beach hut in trees.

no sunshine (“La Bamba”)

Without the sunshine
that someone put back in the box
saying “time to put away your toys”.

So it was dark;
we called it night.

Then dreamt of silver cars and knights
then founded a city made of gold
with a leopard guarding at the gates,
who said,

“who goes there?
- knight, tiger or lion?”

Each of them, friends
passing through in silver cars
that I left
to the distant singing of
“La Bamba”.

The candles of wax held strong -
wearying arms out of tall windows.

Diamonds, as essential to a diet as an everyday apple,
the arrival of electric bulbs and flowers
makes us lazy.

Adverts charged with electricity,
sending messages just to themselves,

a large sign for the hump-backed creatures of which there were many.

Now I don’t think I know or mind about anything;

always having light.

EL DIARIO DE ________
(THE DIARY OF ______ )

The day I was young,
was the first page of my diary,

The day I grew old,
never happened,
fortunately,

Home stayed where it was,
musical chairs
played hits of the time,

such as Glenn Miller and his Orchestra,
their silver aeroplane getting lost in the fog,

cows settling below
in the blitzed city,

sun on the faces of children.

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The Evening Tasted Like Coffee Wednesday, Aug 3 2011

Rest your hair
and weary mind
where the neighbourhood gathers on the pavement outside,
greeting one another.

They blink at the lights,
mimic the small melodies of toys
repeating the yaps and somersaults
of puppy dogs.

In the park’s overgrown grass,
rest as if a plank
on the picnic table,
with the sky of all flavours of yoghurts
setting with the yellow egg
of the sweet desserts
we share as we remember.

The night is as old as old can be,
the night is a bright blue bow on the tree
you unmistakably took for butterflies,
you did!

The rainy world then following us
with windscreens,
then with a roof
above a rich rug in the sand,
where we sit and stir,
with chocolate leaves and twigs.

Rice-filled balloons are in the festive street.

We’re choosing which Fabergé egg
or Ferrero Rocher to take
from the shelves full of sweets,
our pockets full of
toffee.

The street vendor grinding the aroma of coffee,
also of popcorn,
in a ushanka hat.

During the time that won’t be read aloud
like a book,
disturbing the peace

of the distant morning mist of the town’s asleep,
the promise of faraway birds without their trees,

your voice I haven’t decided on yet.

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Saturday, Jul 16 2011

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Untitled Saturday, Jul 16 2011

so whisper,
behind a curtain,
you the baroque interior of your thoughts,
the Art Deco façade,
after a Gothic phase.

Now I come along
offering fake moustaches for us to wear,
and pose like Tarzan and Jane,
you, in whom I found a place,
with whom I defined what I had.

At lunchtime, when portable oranges
are in plentiful supply,
I’ve become an entity,
more than a glass of milk.

With you,
I get up at witching hour,
with thoughts of brooms.

You with phoney moustache on
an old cathode-ray tube set,
in monochrome,
think of railroads,
as I think of repairing any serviceable car into being,
and horses.

Available work
for a fruit marketeer,
you Arabic pattern
repeated often and often,
on ceramic vase, kitten, tile,
behind you in a reflection in
the bathroom cabinet full of chocolate, cranberries, wolfberries,
loosely defined as a place to be there,
with the first scene of unrealised dreams of being a filmmaker in place,
the rest to be worked on
in the manner of Dennis Hopper -

and you know,
being a good writer and performer
on wisely-chosen stages
since you journeyed here,
from Croatia

you have stood around
as a casual observer,
in the blue windmill lacking blades,
from which we
milled the occasional flower
in our days,
and had memories of
hanging paintings,
at which to stare,
and enjoy in some way.

2.

We have enough freedom,
not to get drunk,
there are plenty of cold beers in the fridge.

When I close my eyes,
I see Roy Liechtenstein’s dots.

After going through reams of receipts,
I have worked out
you were overcharged by five pence
for tinned apricots.

I have nailed our mattress to the wall,
where we uncage panthers,
to hunt moss-green toenails
in the long-grass
of growing cress.

You play an old video game
called “Castle of Enchantment”
released exclusively on your heart,
a plucked zither,
for the SNES.

In the middle-distance,
where castles of Edinburgh
float above your knees,
as we await RAC recovery vehicles,
and National Express coaches pass by like hippos,
boastful of their newly-fitted wheels.

My habit of imagining every moment as it’s sung.

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The Orange Cat Sunday, Jun 19 2011

The orange cat that always surprises us,
by being there,
though often he is not.

The stray cat from another home.

Perhaps he knows when to leave me alone
and when to return.

His orange ears attuned to open wi-fi signals,
when I read sonnets by Shakespeare on
my laptop in the garden,

on my lap the cat jumps,
spills the drink I chose to enjoy.

The cat has chosen to surprise me,
and to whisper Shakespeare’s sonnets,
to spill juice and to find me where I was.

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Poems from Estonia Thursday, Jun 9 2011

After Visiting A Clown Playhouse

The best gift you can give a clown
is purpose.
Circus headquarters closed
after a stupid Soviet crackdown.
The religion of performers.
A tinsel-covered drum,
a patchwork piano.
Now a small quiet playhouse,
soon full of children.
The lowered lights,
rebuilding for grown-ups;
it takes time,
since they joined hands in
protest from Tallinn.

Thank You

With every new flavour
We are disallowed in England,
outside a pink building,
an onion-shaped roof.

Thinking thoughts that might taste
precisely of plum,
and specifically of plum ice-cream.

Not using the word we half-know
for “thank you”* (*”tan-nan”?)
But being grateful nonetheless
in English.

Perhaps An Art School

An unused art school,
though we are not sure -
labeled heads of pottery,
a desk busy with books.

A table tennis table,
to play ping-pong without a ball.

The End of The Ice Age in Estonia

I can’t imagine what it would be like
to wake up in the morning
of a bad day in Tallinn.

When I’m on holiday I wonder
if there is such a thing?

Ham, cheese, “black bread”
for breakfast.
Estonian Coco-Pops.
Beats yesterday’s morning
chocolate cake and coffee,
for conventionality.

Irish Pub

In an Irish Pub in Estonia
plays a song,
♪”Far away from lovely Derry…”♫

The Estonian State Puppet Theatre

Even a member of
The Estonian Strong Man Team
parks his SUV outside
The State Puppet Theatre,
sits in the small room,
the curtains that raise themselves at the corners;
Sits a few rows back
reserving the nearest seats for children.
Behind the curtains,
the performers teaching
their little charges,
the steps to dance,
the lines to say.

Straw Theatre

The impermanent theatre
made of straw,
won’t be here next summer.

The technician with one motorbike glove
removes weeds growing around the stage.

The personnel of a company
reconvene their meeting outside -
the large group that descends,
a surprise to all.

One of the merrymaking workers was rude to us.
So I can’t think highly of what his company produces.

Bakery

Bakery
that looks as cosy as a home,
the warmth of bread and
Estonian pastries,
reflected in the
temperament of the old lady
who makes them.

Biscuits given jam shapes
of hearts,
custard fillings,
unfamiliar whirls of flavour,

windmill picture built into the wall
when the bakery and home
first emerged
fresh from the oven.

Harbour

Green harbour,
quiet with bathers
with nowhere to lay,
standing on the pebbles and stones
looking out at
cruiseships leaving port,

being calm with blue,
and the distant ancient town,
and, closer, a concrete
heavily graffitied building
that the locals have made clear;

which they love less.

Lady Collecting Daisies Outside The Museum

If the yellow lady with the red collar,
would ask me,
the wandering Estonian Avant-Gardist,
to paint something I have some skill to paint her,
like a flower or an eye,
a simple aeroplane picture,
of her collecting daisies
with our memories of MacDonald’s,
when she, from afar,
picked daisies together,
to sell or to keep in the house in a vase,
to make daisy chains,
or just to make time.

I would, for my part,
dispense with harsh
mathematic Cubism,
dark-eyed Expressionism
or Concepts, for a while.

I would sit in
the Grand Hall of the old Estonian Masters,
where colours are brighter and newer than any.

Someone would then instruct me to
remember a place in England,
after which I’d wonder “why?”,
and sway gently in a field of daisies.

Looking on the bus,
through space and people,
young and in love in
uncynical Estonia,

on the bus
waiting for the doors to open,
the young man on the lower step,
looking up with admiration
at his girlfriend,
together as sweet as
65 cent
“Südameke” cakes,

translating to everyone
as “heartthrob”,
and love.

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what was to happen to the sea (an invisible drawing) Saturday, Jun 4 2011

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Giant Bradley Tuesday, May 31 2011

Sunday 29th May was “Giant Bradley Day” in the town of Market Weighton in East Yorkshire, England.

The day is an annual celebration of the life of William Bradley, who at 7 feet 9 inches, is the tallest recorded British man who ever lived, and is popularly known as The Yorkshire Giant. According to Andrew Swalwell’s giantbradley.co.uk, “At birth William weighed 14lbs and at the age of 11 he weighed 11 stones. At 19 he weighed 27 stones and was 7ft 9ins in height. His stockings measured 3ft 9ins, his walking stick 5ft 10in and his shoes were 15ins long and 5.5ins wide.”

By chance, I happened to be in Market Weighton during the “Giant Bradley Day” celebrations and wrote the following, fanciful poetry-doodle while I was there.

Additional Citation:

William Bradley – The Yorkshire Giant (1787-1820) by Colin Westley.
Wikipedia – William Bradley (giant)

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