I asked my father

 Photo by Mrs Chong Ai Hwa

I asked my father in January

why the Burmese police arrest Aung San Suu Kyi;

he closed his eyes and said to me

it’s as clear as the water in the Mekong to me

you learned nothing at university

and know little of political reality.
The Burmese police arrest Aung San Suu Kyi
because she buys her hibiscus from Laos, tax free.

I asked my father in February
if the Earth was where it really should be;
he chewed on his glasses, then frowned at me
it’s as clear as the moon in the monsoon to me
you learned nothing at university,
and you have little knowledge of oceanography.
Of course the Earth is where it should be;
because if it’s not here, where on earth would we be?

I asked my father in March if he knew
why the Vikings went to Greenland but not to Peru;
he put down the New Scientist and turned to me
it’s as clear as the atmosphere on Venus to me
you learned nothing at university,
and know nothing of simple astronomy.
The Vikings didn’t go to Peru,
they’re orbiting Mars, then they’ll go to Pluto, too

I asked my father in light April rain
if Tadaaki Otaka flew home to Japan by plane;
he turned off the concert on radio three.
It’s as clear as a cold glass of sake to me
you learned nothing at university,
and know nothing of Japanese musicality.
Of course maestro Otaka doesn’t go by plane.
He’s a conductor, so he would go by bus or a train.

I asked my father one week in May
why he keeps getting free books when he goes shopping in Hay;
he put down the Observer and gazed at me
it’s as clear as the mist in the Wye valley to me
you learned nothing at university,
and know little of bibliography.
The Odyssey, the Iliad, are famous in Hay,
and as they think I’m the author, I don’t have to pay.

I asked my father in one August night
if piranhas really had that vicious a bite;
he turned off the ballet and looked straight at me
it’s clear as fog on the Gower to me
you learned nothing at university,
you know nothing of simple anatomy,
Of course piranhas have a most vicious byte,
in case they and a computer virus get into a fight.

I asked my father in early September
why amoebas felt more emotional in December;
he put down Tolstoy and then lectured me
it’s clear as the smog in Estonia to me
that you learned nothing at university,
and know nothing of simple biology.
Of course amoebas are emotional in December,
because the other half is still in November.

Orchestra of the car workshop

Air on a Proton op 1.10 kph

by BMW Mitsubishi 

3/4, 4/4, 40/4, 50/4 Peugeot, key of indicator major, flat tyre minor

recorded in Chong Sea Food Packaging 
Jalan Paka, Dungun 23000 Terengganu

with strings of touching electrical wiring, fuse box, spark plug
with wind of gyrating exhaust pipe, fan belt, open window in the air
with brass of thumping bodywork, radiator, horn
with percussion of non-thinking CD, piston, accelerator 

1^st movement        Engage       Andantino

2^nd movement       Gear           Allegro 

3^rd movement       Accelerate   Presto

4^th movement        Brake         Adagio

             
 it may become a major work by the year 2210

Aku nay nay

 I wrote a song for you today

aku nay nay aku nay nay

just for you, my little girl
you mini Punk in waltzing whirl
and for you, my little boy
Bombaman, my human toy

from children’s lyrics when you play
aku nay nay aku nay nay
come, let’s now make the seasons stir
and join the ballet of the year

when the orchestra begins to play
the overture Aku Nay Nay
the lights go dim, the curtains sway,
let your thoughts take you away
take a sip of aku nay nay


aku nay nay aku nay nay
in January, weak sun ray
fading light, solar might
has no heat for aku nay nay

aku nay nay aku nay nay
a February wintry day
snow, sleet, ice, not so nice
to play in with aku nay nay

aku nay nay aku nay nay
in March, the daffodils out in play
yellow style, coloured mile
with flowers called aku nay nay

aku nay nay aku nay nay
April showers spoil your day
clothes are wet, fishing net
has nothing but aku nay nay

aku nay nay aku nay nay
Worcester cricket green in May
leather ball, wickets fall one by one
bowled aku nay nay

aku nay nay, aku nay nay,
June brings birds to Swansea bay
sun swept chill, tree soaked hill
breathe sea air with aku nay nay

aku nay nay au nay nay
July, school break, I feel so gay
break from teach, lounge on beach
read poem by aku nay nay

aku nay nay aku nay nay
August farmers making hay
itching arm, Cambridge farm
tractor pulls with aku nay nay

aku nay nay aku nay nay,
September orange leaf display
summer sprig, change to twig
rustling earth of aku nay nay

aku nay nay aku nay nay,
October western gales sway
hedges, trees, puddles freeze
morning time on aku nay nay

aku nay nay aku nay nay,
November rugby clubmen play
grass now mud, touch line flood
Pontypool v aku nay nay

aku nay nay aku nay nay,
December snow from Builth to Hay
Grandad’s Powys Christmas Day
lights and carols end the year
in the kitchen, thinks of her
gently gets the cooking through
assisted by a glass or two
chopped pine fire
smoking higher
Christmas lights
of ice star nights
potatoes, peas
crisp biscuits, cheese
turkey, lamb with aku nay nay

aku nay nay aku nay nay
I wrote a song for you today
aku nay nay aku nay nay
just for you, my crew cut Ming
and my lanky long haired Ying
from children’s lyrics when you play
aku nay nay aku nay nay

I think of the time when we play
a chess game at the end of day
or sprawling jigsaw dinosaur
pteranodon roams bedroom floor

piano songs from memory
examination piece off key
you made me very proud, my son
the other week you passed grade one

my bint, I think that way of you
for you already have grade two
old Malayan history
the world maps where you geography

rough basketball, tough badminton
mosquito evening biking fun
aku nay nay aku nay nay
the children’s lyrics when you play

aku nay nay aku nay nay
yes, there’s no changing day by day

aku nay nay aku nay nay
two reasons I don’t go away

The big game

 They run like wild, then biting, maul,

give new meaning to kill the ball,
rampaging, running, tearing shreds
from any part of opponents’ heads;
they only play part time.

They’re fast; they’re big, throw out much fear
to opponents from any hemisphere.
Pacific, Australasia, too,
no manager will know what to do.
Perhaps refuse to play them.

When they’ve finished, most players lie low,
waiting for the afternoon sun to go,
licking wounds, stretching, mouths open wide,
having made mincemeat of the opposing side.
Their attacking moves really crunch.

It started when Miss Sian Panzee
hitched a ride to Heathrow, free,
then National Express, to Newport, Wales,
with snow, ice, and Atlantic gales
blowing up the Bristol Channel.

It was from these parts that she had heard
rumours of something so absurd,
with running, kicking, throwing, jumping,
falling, shouting, cheering, bumping,
and, even better, with a whistle.

Fighting, thumping. sliding. flying,
passing, racing, hugging, crying,
raking, scraping, so much more,
and something humans called the score,
and all this in the mud and rain.

To watch the match, she climbed on the roof
and hanging there, she found the truth.
It was most fortunate, that afternoon
Llanelli were without Mr Moon (injured)
so Newport won by 30 points.

make that 10, can’t, doesn’t have enough

syllables

Unfortunately, at four fifteen,
waving, hooting, she was seen
by an ornithologist filming geese,
who promptly phoned South Wales Police,
who referred him to a doctor.

But just in case that it was true,
duty Sergeant Grabbem Huw
set a dog van to the scene
to check out on the Rodney queen
hanging, to cheers, from the grandstand.

Why South Wales Police in Gwent? Syllables, and most people won’t notice.

Caught by Police, she was escorted
back to London, to be deported
home to Africa, where she told the boys
the thrills and skills and even joys of rugby.

They soon had an appetite… for the game.

Players rushed to join, with notable gains
from Marsabit, Tsavo, Serengeti Plains,
the strongholds of the savage pack,
roaming wild for teatime snack.
They love to chase the prey.

It wasn’t long till many Parks
resounded to snorts, growls, snaps, and barks.
The different style made many gape
at the ball of different shape
that often had four legs.

Right, so let me introduce my fifteen.
The rugby world has never seen
anything to compare remotely with the manner
of rugby, East African savannah;
not even the Barbarians eat their opponents.

1
Elli Phant, turns out for Samburu Park,
he’s very quiet after dark.
The coach says he’s a big strong boy
who makes the ball look like a toy.
His stamp is much worse than his bark.
Sales rep for Tusker Beer Co.

2
Ceri Ocodile (River Nile)
has been known to break the laws
by sometimes using massive jaws
which, of course, is strictly illegal.
Moving low across the ground is where this amphibian is often found
frequently seen laying around yawning,
but can snap out of lethargy without warning.
As tough a character as you can get,
he prefers the game when ground is wet.
Bank manager

3
Rhys Noceros (Masai Mara Game Reserve)
not the fastest on the ground, but there again, who stands around
really likes to crash into the opposition, regardless, often, of their position,
can leave a nasty scar.
Ballet teacher

4
Bleddyn Buffalo from Serengeti Plains
gets the birds even when he trains,
the real charger in the side,
he tears the opposite wide
once he runs, with shoulders low.
Criticized, discreetly, from way away, for being slow
but a customer as tough as leather.
Poet in residence, Nairobi prison.

5
Powys Lyonnais (Club Racing Tsavo Bravo)
Not arrogant, perhaps just full of pride,
runs around, mouth open wide.
Gold hairs bristle on his back,
a real leader of the pack.
Good enough to be a British Lion.
Hairstylist.


6 and 7
Huw Iena and Vernon Vulture, from Serengeti Plains,
they’re at their peak before the rains.
what a pair of ravagers,
and more important, natural scavengers.
They love to pick up the loose pieces.
Comedian act ‘Flap and Laugh”, Friday nights, BBC Wales.

8
Garth Iraffe of Meru Game Reserve,
long legs mean he can both run and swerve,
this lanky one is skyline tall,
without a doubt, wins any throw in ball,
assuming Elli Phant throws it in straight.

15
Bryn Bok
springing here and fliting there, and occasionally jumping over the ball.
players, spectators, both are wowed
so he really can pull in a crowd, especially in Johannesburg.
Boxer

11 and 14
Ceri Crane and Phil Amingo of Lake Nakuru Park
play the game just for a lark,
but as they’re birds, that might not be surprising.
Flying touch-line heroes these,
of course, wind assisted in a breeze,
but it’s not the Olympics, so who cares.
Fishermen

12 and 13
Ieuan Pala and Gareth Zelle (Marsabit RFC)
up by the Northern Frontier, home of a variety of deer,
a partnership that works so well,.
jumping, sidesteps, when in flight, crowd endeered (sic) by such a sight,
especially when playing against the Cheetahs.

9 and 10
Mostyn Quito and Tegwyn Tetse of Tana River Rugby Club
a place that really is the hub
of news that flies around, but rumoured to be on the move to Wasps

There’s a real buzz that comes around when this airborne menace gets to the ground
can work the crowd into a frenzy.
with a fast and dangerous probing thrust, can make their opponents bite the dust..
They’re in the action, thick and thin,.
an irritant to the opposition, they really do get under their skin, with their stinging comments.
.
Ed
Tegwyn Tetse, unusually, is qualified for Wales too, through a Chinese grandmother,
Madam Shang Hai Tet See, who unwittingly was on a plane to Nairobi that stopped for an hour at Cardiff airport some years ago,according to Eng Dr Igor Irianiski
Rimsky-Korsokov Professor of Temperate Zone Entomological Genealogy
Technical University of Petropavlosk-Khamchatska
1-345 Avenue of the Fallen Heroes of the 1922
Immortal Battle of Krasnakov-Petropavlosk-Khamchatska
Okhotsk Semi Autonomous Soviet People’s Republic, Russian Far East

But don’t forget this big game is rare,
they’re endangered species, please take care.
When the match is over, and the party through,
the hotel’s a million-star open zoo.
Breakfast’s easy, no cup, bowl or plate,
but just make sure the food’s not late,
or you

might

be

the

porridge.

Cape Escape

 Thursday 7 September 2000

The one short day when the four of us went
past rubber, hill, Paka, forest, bay, cape;
from the humdrum routine of a small fishing town,
it would be my chance to … escape

Cape Escape; yesterday, a somewhat unusual trip
in that much of our journey was on the ‘Virgo’, an upper class ship;
our marine safari began from the Awana,
a five-star, salary-chewing piranha,

the pricey hotel fronting the tree wind break beach,
built, not for the local peasant tribesmen like me,
but for the elite of the big City to reach
for a weekend trying to play golf by the sea,

away from the Klang valley and incumbent haze,
the pressure of motorway life on the west coast.

It has a huge reception, chandeliers ablaze,
with some eight storeys high, it can also boast

outdoor chess - where I have only seen myself play -
horse-riding, swimming pool, big golf course, tennis court;
the ship was going to Kuantan for half a day
or, to be exact, the half road hour distant port,
taking about eighty minutes by bus
but today it would be about three or four hours for us
from the humdrum routine of a small fishing town,
it would be a welcome escape

the beginning

into the hotel foyer to register, then
after a few bus minutes of organised chaos here,

we wait at the bare and breeze swept Kijal jetty, an inflated name
for a concrete walkway, watching the small transfer boat play a game
in petulant fashion, arrogant flounce, as an angry spoilt child might,
the mini rough sea making it bounce, as if it were trying to fight;

then, ten minutes later, we enter the ship, halfway quaking,
people eager at the start of the trip they were making,

maybe, for many, coming from this small half-awake town,
this was their first high class four hour cruise.
for those of more modest financial renown,
a type of break that they’d not often choose,

I’d been on a number of quite large ships before,
both ways across the Channel and North Sea,
to the Mediterranean from Singapore,
through Bombay, the Suez canal, to Italy. .

but this, the first time with children and wife;

the last with my brother, the Spanish army men
to North Africa, going from Almeria.

the interior decor - painting,
wood, polish, carpets, mirrors, as you imagine it should be,

breathing the sea, we wander on to the top deck,
the radars turning,
peer through the railings to where grouper, bream peck,
the snapper churning,

feel the energy, a syringe injecting
clean wet warm sea air,
the breeze washing your face and brushing, inspecting
your salt crispy hair,

the woodwork well varnished, the white paint-work so clean,
bridge window squinting,
in the true style of the Swedish merchant marine,
uniform glinting,

ploughing through about twenty an hour,
the nautical mile,
the Elbe shipyard designer’s flower,
of elegant style;

the local ferries are not the same quality

maestro piano
in long white concert coat,
making it not hard to forget that you’re now afloat

crescendo, diminuendo, forte, treble, bass,
ivory waves washing right round the place -

the Grand Piazza; people wait quiet on the carpet stair
listening intently to, appreciating, minuet, waltz, and air;

a Beethoven request from a Singapore bint
but we get a Chopin mazurka with glittering tint;

the vibration, so slight, means that we’re now on our way,
but the evergreen pianist continues to play

to much warm applause from those in the house,
for Mr Scott Joplin, the Blue Danube Strauss,

the latter, I assume, used to a barge rather than a boat…


pool deck
a
West Indian band play hot by the pool,the
music and water making things coolas
the bikinis splash by the lounging chair,
the
reggae swings in the afternoon air;
my
children come in, tell me of their enjoyment
of
hearing the Caribbean boys, in rewarding employment.

restaurant
mong the eating outlets, one could choose
were Continental pizza, mushroom, cheese;
but I cook at home, as I do Chinese,
for with good food it’s easy to enthuse...

but we take north Indian in The Taj,
white rice, chapati, rich soft mutton dish,
aubergines, dhal peas, hot spice curry fish,
a picture cuisine of the old British Raj;

popadoms, yoghurt, fluffy flour nan,
that using your bread to mop up the sauce,
then sip ice cool water, multi-coloured fruit course,
a take-your-time buffet, eat all you can;

the tall white-hat chef now checking the fare,
making his rounds with professional care.


bridge lounge
in the afternoon, behind the bridge, we watched the crew

through the observation window, where we are able
to see the helm, navigator gear, communication table

behind, the forward lounge, holding young Harri,
a Tagalong band in play, we listen to the rhythm carry;

one kind-man musician lets my son try the guitar,
the patrons sit quiet, take drinks from the bar

also in the group, a high-singing bass player,
a keyboard, centre back drum,
a few South American instruments, gourd, maracas,
crooning, quiet backing vocal hum;

cha-cha-cha, rumba, trumpet, sax, trombone,
funky young woman singing with calypso, latino tone,

noise, movement, partying, until the late afternoon was through

reflection in the African aira cargo ship, going who knows where, departs the port,
the children play, splash and swim in the pool at the rear,

I watch them from a higher deck, enjoying their sport
the sun getting lower now, things seems good from here;

few know my childhood ambition was the be in the merchant marine,
a life style of style that would have suited a wandering me,

but the prospects fell to zero when a know-it-all unthinking teen,
I stupidly dropped Physics when only form two or three…

coming towards sunset, the cruise now through,
walk slow through the exit, take passports from crew,

on the quay, look up at some fourteen decks high,
now quiet at her moorings, time for goodbye;

back now to Kijal 
in a less than clean coach,
we get tyre problem, the misery beginning to encroach

sitting and swearing, emotions fall low,
compare real life now with a few hours ago;

the body’s back on land, but the mind roaming free,
still swaying across the propeller rent sea...


yeah, that one short bit day when the four of us went
past rubber, hill, Cukai, forest, bay, cape,
back to the humdrum routine of a small fishing town,

I‘m thinking we’d had a chance to escape…

The machine people

 Thursday 17 July 2003

They watched in excitement as night drew near
when he went to the fridge to get his cold beer;
they knew he spent most of the day teaching
those whose retention was not so far reaching…

they’d heard him now and then rent his frustration
on those who lacked nearly any concentration,
or whose simple mathematics was so very poor
they thought ten minus nine could perhaps equal four,

those who suffered from geographical amnesia,
confused between India and Indonesia,
those who thought they were doing their best,
but unsure if the sun rose in the east or the west,

not sure if to use it’s, or its, both or either,
ought to, and must, past or present, or neither.

But when night time came and all went silent,
and the kitchen people were not reliant
on the human beings for their operation;
that was a time of much elation…

Happy Jack

One happy Jack was the telephone,
who was content at this time to be left alone;
from the crack of dawn to late at night,
he‘d engaged with people in a non-stop fight,

awoken from a rare, brief afternoon slumber
by some idiot who had punched in the wrong number;
the woman was the worst, she used him all the day,
incoming and outgoing were exchanged his way

they fingering the numbers they required,
so by the early evening he was tired;
this was when the angry man would interject
and pull out the wiring to disconnect

them both from the world of noise and chattering,
the banging, ringing, end-of-call clattering.

Freezer Wheezer

The old man freezer now could get back his chill
for the daytime heat soon made him ill;
the door was opened to take out chicken, fish, or prawn,
their farewells making him feel alone and forlorn;.

his job was to keep the meat and fish frozen
until some future time, when a piece would be chosen
to be defrosted in the early morning heat,
then cooked by the old woman for the family to eat.

He watched as the chicken leg, wing and breast
were, with a heavy cleaver, split from the rest;
the fish slit and cleaned, the scales scraped away,
put in plastic bags, then stored on the tray.

When they were taken, he found himself yearning
for the company of those who would not be returning,
waiting for market reinforcements to appear,
knowing soon that he would once again shed a tear…

He found the work increasingly tiring,
with rotting door seals, old fashioned wiring;
his body bore the scars of a woman’s neglecting
to care,

In the key of G,
in four / four time,
the gentle rhyme,
the kitchen choral symphony

Oh, oh, here we go,
Oh, oh, here we go,
the machine people of house 43,
we love our robot melody, oh, oh, oh oh
the kitchen choral symphony, oh, oh, here we go
here we go, keep in time, oh, oh oh,oh

Washing machine

The washing machine relaxed in ease,
it would be ten hours till she would mingle with Breeze,
she spent the mornings with soap and water sloshing,
the hard work of doing the daily washing;

the socks, the towels and schoolboy shirts,
the bed sheets, the pillowcase, the young girl’s skirts.
at times, she was in full swing by 7 30,
cleaning the garments that were not that dirty.

When the old woman would come to work late
she’d have to endure a three hour soaking wait;
if it wasn’t enough working in the afternoon light,
there were the odd occasions she would have soak all the night…

The refrigerator

The fridge would smile when he opened her wide,
reaching in and taking his cans from inside;
these were stored on the topmost shelf,
making it easy for him to help himself…

she looked after the drinks the children had made,
cocoa with ice blocks, chilled lemonade;
a plate of cold meat, or half-consumed fish,
orange, lettuce, apple, duck sauce in a dish,

tablets, a box of low cholesterol egg,
children’s sweets, a chicken piece with no leg,
a jar of fresh limejuice, sour and mean,
with sauce for the pizza, milk, margarine.

There was one thing they were all of one mind
and that was they knew him to be very kind
for of all the people that were living there,
he was the one who really took most care,

spending time cleaning them, scrubbing, wiping
their sides, their tops, sometimes the piping;
in the early evening, he often did the cooking,
unaware that they were looking…

when the family had eaten, he frequently
collected and washed up the crockery,
placing them carefully on the draining board where
they were left to dry naturally in the warm evening air.

After washing and rinsing the dinner’s cutlery,
he put them in the mug where they could then see
the drama that would unfold before their eyes.
they knew he wasn’t able to hear their sighs

as he paced up and down, to the left and right,
through the early hours of every night;
they watched him, glass in hand, pouring in
the golden contents of the ice cold tin

crockery rack

The crockery rack was rather proud of the fact
that she managed to keep her charges intact
but she would reserve a special hug
for the Australian ex-honey pot turned beer mug;

with plate, glass on shelf number two,
arranged neatly after eating was through;
peanut butter, a box of Kellogg’s crisp All Bran,
marmalade, mushroom, pineapple, peas in a can,

tea bags, coffee, bottle of chilli, tomato sauce,
rough salt, ground pepper, oregano, marjoram, of course;
garlic cloves, onions, on shelf number three some tins, spaghetti,
and rice and wheat noodles running free

bowls for soaking vegetables on shelf number four,
awkward to get, parked near the floor…

Rice Cooker

The rice cooker was busy from mid-morning,
the switch on her side giving anyone warning
that the steaming temperature was steady,
that the hard beras-to-soft nasi was now ready.

In the evening, she would be used to reheat
the leftover lunchtime vegetables and meat,
for he’d always make sure there was food on the table
when the boss woman came home, so to enable

her to relax and eat a quiet dinner on her own,
after a hard day in work, using car, coffee shop, phone.

The Oven

The oven reflected, with much sorrow
that she was used only to keep the food for tomorrow,
except for the rare times when he would grill a lamb chop
or some Norwegian salmon from the grocery shop,

enjoying watching the pizza they were making,
feeling content when it was inside her, baking;
her thermostat at two hundred and fifty degrees,
heating tomatoes, mushrooms, melting the cheese…

But the three were good to her, she thought on reflection,
thinking of the years of poor wiring connection,
of the day when she gave them a mental hug,
when the man and the children repaired her plug.

The Sink

The sink who suffered much domestic abuse
from morning to night in almost constant use;
here, no multicultural charity
to protect her from such non-stop brutality;

naturally thrilled one Friday afternoon,
so happy she was over the moon,
scrubbed, bathed, then massaged with soap and water
by a sponge and steel pad, by the man and his daughter,

the taps, rear tiles, the filter tube too
gleaming in the light as if they were brand new,
the pink tiles shone in the afternoon sun;
it had been many months since they’d had so much fun…

Gas cooker

The gas cooker sighed, as piece by piece,
the burners came off, and the two attacked the grease
that lay around thick after months of neglect;
the solidification would not protect

them from the onslaught; there was no hope
of survival against steel wool and soap;
the man peeled away the hard grease with a knife;
the cooker thought it the best bath in his life.

Coxswain Clock

High on the kitchen wall, Coxswain Clock
passed his time looking down, taking stock
of all that happened in the day and night,
the seconds and minutes marching tight,

from the cool of night to a hot high noon,
he would marshal the troops of his small platoon;
the languid daytime hours would creep
towards the time when the house would sleep…

he would tell them when it was time to talk,
when they could watch the night insects play and walk;.
he’d hear the alarm in the other room,
bleeping in the dawn’s moist gloom,

and issue orders to the kitchen crew
that morning was near and night nearly through.

He heard them in collective sigh,
whispering as the time for a new day’s work drew nigh
in the key of G, soprano, alto, tenor and bass,
before they went back to their place,
the kitchen choral symphony

KTW

The kettle, the teapot, and fresh water jug
were waiting for morning to get their warm hug,
watching as he sank with raging rapidity
three large mugs of water or hot herbal tea,

before putting the kettle on the gas ring to heat
the water,laying the table for his children to eat,
then he’d disappear to the bathroom where
he brushed his teeth and shaved his hair,

come clean and fresh to the kitchen to meet
the children, in affection watching them drink and eat.

The radio lay on the washing machine
for at this height, her wavelengths were more easily seen.
He tuned into the news bulletins from the BBC,
half surprised to find there was no world war three,

other stations from all over the place,
showing the squalid morass of the human race.
many broadcasts were often unclear,
the hissing and fading would interfere

with the reception, that lacking clarity,
would result in quite enormous disparity
nd there were times when he would play
cassettes from his father half a world away.

Concerto concerts or orchestral suite,
using hands or fingers to tap the beat,
and the thoughts would then retreat,
in the evening’s fan blown heat,

and in his mind the band would play
and try to wash the thoughts away,

In the key of G,
in four / four time,
the gentle rhyme,
the kitchen choral symphony

Oh, oh, here we go,
oh, oh, here we go,
the machine people of house 43,
we love our robot melody, oh, oh, oh oh
the kitchen choral symphony, oh, oh, here we go
here we go, keep in time, oh, oh oh,oh

The symphony in Z flat mini minor Op 1.2 mph

 for instruments, children and bus conductor

by Knüt-Erïk van Pöpgöder-weäselberg

Attention, s’il vous plaît! Apres moi,
Jän-Erïk-Knüt Pärsnjïp-Türjïpssöhn,
un, deux, trois, un, deux, trois, un, deux, trois, trois
ecoutez bien, ecoutez a moi…

Maestro Madya, if you’re Swedish, why do you use French?


Because it brings to mind some young Arlesienne wench,
plus nothing rhymes with Swedish.

Bonjour et bonsoir, Mesdames et Messieurs,
here is my fruit from the end of the year;
just listen how tasty the first movement whirls,
my orchestral sweet for young boys and girls.


Er, Maestro Madya, I thought it’s a symphony?
Shut up, you cretin, or pop goes your knee.

Here’s a potage so rich, of fine musicality,
complete absent is any tonality,
naturally flavoured with total banality,
add into the crunch of raw criminality,
plenty of spices of sharps, blunts, and flats,
apartments, terraced houses and a semi-detached
bar lines, rests, minim, crotchet and quaver
expand the score to make a much richer flavour,
a sprinkling or two of clefs and keys and locks,
and welcome, mes enfants, it’s away with the chocks,
brake off and take off, nobody halts !
Throttles full blast for the Z major Waltz

Un, deux, trois, un, deux, trois, un, deux, trois, huit,
if you’re tired after your homework, you can lounge in my suite.

Put a spoonful of Gershwin rhapsody on your crisp toast,
hear the music and watch the Normandy jam fly away,
watch the colours of Mendelssohn on the Hebrides coast,
listen to Saint-Saëns carnival animals at play.

The viola and violin, cello and bass,
not just the same family, but the same race,
the varnish the colour of a freshly baked cake,
but quite embarrassing when one of the strings break.

The viola? Well, give the Walton concerto a try;
In Tchaikovsky, the violin will fly by;
Haydn wrote a concerto in a few weeks, bright fellow,
but ask Julian Lloyd-Webber, he’s the expert on the cello.

The double bass sings deep, making the concert throb and hum,
or in jazz, you can pizzicato with finger and thumb.

In the wind section, we find four main ones here:
the flute, clarinet, oboe, the bassoon,
plus the Da Souza piccolo racing up in the atmosphere,
the rest of the group backing up the main tune.

If it’s the clarinet that you want to hear,
in ‘Out of Africa’, Mozart warbles across the lion and grass plain,
In Handel, The Queen of Sheba, the oboes are quite clear,
as they are in Roy Wood with ‘Flowers in the Rain’.

The flute you can try combined with the harp,
the interplay between them making you think
about fish in a pool, trout, goldfish and carp,
the colours of sunset, indigo, orange, and pink.

The bassoon doesn’t always get that much play,
rather it’s used as deep colour, or special sound



The trumpet, trombone,


scream, shriek, screech, scratch, scrape, graze, skrerch, skrerch, skrerch, ping
tweek, tweek, tweek, twack, twack, twack, mmm ting
pipizacato, wang, bunk, bunk, bunk, thunk
zimzamzumzeezeezee kunkkunk knuk phunk

Oui oui! C’est belle! What a beautiful noise,
the concerto for quartet for young girls and boys.

Um, excuse me, Maestro Madya, er, strings bunk and ting?
Shut up, you fool, if you don’t like the ‘ting’,
I’ll block up your ears with a double bass string.

Un, deux, trois, un, deux, trois, un, deux, trois,
Tchaikovsky, Beethoven, the woodwind are here!
Blow down the tube, as everyone knows
the bassoon wind comes out by the toes

Shimmering piccolos, military flutes
clarinet warbles for rhapsody hoots
Herr Handel greets Sheba in adenoid style
then Wagner in Egypt bassoons up the Nile,

Maestro Um, I think you’re getting mixed up again.
No, I didn‘t, you idiot. I just caught the wrong plane.

Un, deux, trois, un, deux, trois, un, deux, trois, douze,
from Cairo I’ll get the first flight to Toulouse.

dans la Camargue, st Marie de la Mer,
Aix en Provence, TGV a Nanterre,
Place de la Concorde, St Andre des Arts,
Notre Dame, Sacre Coeur, Seine, Champs de Mars,
Boulonge, and Calais,
the children will come to hear the symphony play
Musique of the stars, my solar powered noise,
my quintet for woodwind for young girls and boys.

Musical Maestro, it’s a symphony in Z.
Shut up, you halfwit, or I’ll drumstick your head

Guiseppe Rossini makes the Lone Ranger
with Tonto the sidekick, they ride out of danger


I love it when trombone makes strip-teasing slide
the shoulders, lips pouting, the sensual flirt
J’adore the moment she takes of her skirt

the children ! they‘ll





Monsieur, quelle problem?
shut up or on the spike of the cello
with the end of the cello
bah bah bah tah tah tah pah pah pah fump
wah wah wah weh weh weh woh woh woh whump
buh buh buh boh boh boh bah bah bah wing
phuh phuh phuh bhuh bhub bhub fhuh fhuh fhuh zing

Er, Maestro Professor, we must have a discussion.
Not now, you cretin, it’s time for percussion.

un, deux, trois, un, deux, trois, un, deux, trois, trois
oom ba ba, oom ma ma, oom pa pa pah

Ping, ting, bing triangle, ACE timpani,
brass cymbals, bass drum, and a tubular symphony,
chichi maracas, the snare drum tight wire,
hickory drumsticks paint rifle fire.

crashcrashcrash bash bash bash smash smash smash wheee
ping ping ping bing bing bing ging ging ging zeeee
rha rha rha cha cha cha ghah ghah ghah feeee
nak nak nak nok nok nok nuk nuk nuk beeee

stab air with baton, waving my arms
and start thinking strange things when I listen to Brahms
I am a Berliner, an Opel Berliner

A blank sheet of paper

 A blank sheet of paper… a blank sheet of paper?

We’ll go for a caper, we’ll kidnap a jaunt
in the centre of the hungry night.
Why, I’m not sure, my stomach feels gaunt,
I feel in the mood for a bite.

I’m hungry for pizza, baguette, a biscuit and cheese.
I’m hungry for eggs, baked potato, I’m hungry for peas.
I’m hungry for a nice Malay chicken curry
to enjoy so much without being in a hurry.
There’s nothing in the fridge, but I want a bite.
I’m hungry, I’m hungry now in the night.

My wife puts the eggs away, as if they’re part of her wealth,
or tucks them away behind the gas bottle.
I try to find them, using reconnaissance and stealth,
whilst noting the increasing hunger mode throttle.

I’m hungry for a piece of cold chicken wing
but it’s early, now around eight o’clock at night.
I’m hungry for the chicken rice my housemate will bring.
I get a rumble stomach message when I must have a bite.

Is hunger a result of a few glasses of beer?
Is it this that takes hunger into top gear?
‘Ha, ha,’ she says, ‘you’ve nothing to eat,
there’s nothing for you in the fridge tonight,
there’s nothing to chew, to swallow, to bite.’

My housemate’s husband, she refuses to please;
the poor man is allowed only two crackers and cheese,
no wonder he’s half fallen down to his knees…
but for past few months, his life’s been a breeze...

for when she’s over here, in rural wet Gwent,
he’s out in Africa, in an oil worker’s tent,

where, unknown to her, he can eat through the night.
There’s little around him he can’t get a bite;
a zebra, gazelle, a buffalo steak,
washed down with Khartoum ice cream cake.

‘Oh, oh,’ he sings, ‘I can eat through the night,
my wife’s away in rural Gwent, enjoying vegetable fare,
here I am in Africa; the only thing I don’t have is bear.
But that doesn’t bother me one tiny iota
for I can always, without doubt, exceed my quota.
I know that, anytime I want a bite
I always can, at any time, eat through the night.’

But the local animals were in less than good cheer.
‘If Mr Roy keeps eating, half of us now, tomorrow won’t be here.
Apart from the hippos, crocs, porcupines, and vulture,
there’s no doubt he’s affecting traditional African culture.’

The brightest of the monkeys said ‘I think the right thing
is to get the Government to transfer him to Beijing.’

‘Hooray,’ they sang, from lunchtime to night,
but were worried about the Asian animals’ plight.

True, he might find the pandas rather too fat and hairy,
but scorpions etc, he would have to be wary.

In Beijing, he went around market, the stall and the shop,
seeing animals that could jump and fly, run, crawl and hop.
and he thought,‘I’m going to like it here,
stuffed crab, roast chicken, steamed fish, tender deer,
washed down with hot tea, or cold Chinese beer.’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘yes, yes, yes, I’m going to enjoy it here.’

The next day his boss told Roy to report, in the rain,
at the domestic departure hall, to take the next plane.

‘You’re an oil man, so we go where there is oil,
far to the west, of sandstorms, where temperatures boil.’

Roy, poor man, reeled, as if hit by a blast,
his ashen complexion, he looked rather aghast.

‘But what do we eat,
out there in the heat?
Oh dear, oh dear, what can I do now?
Most of the locals, I think, rely on a cow.’

‘Ah,’ said the boss, ‘up to last week that was true
but since then, we had to improvise, follow something new,
for there was an outbreak of some animal disease;

now we get by on just crackers and cheese.’

Concerto for Pizza and Idiot Op 1.9

 Guiseppe Zucchini

Allegro
Tra, la la la la la la la la la la (repeat 20 times)
Mozzerella, la la la la la la la (repeat 10 times)
Pizza, la la la la la la la la (repeat 10 times)
Ciao, la la la la la la; la
Olé, la la la la la la

Tra, la la la la la la la la

Zucchini, Puccini, Zucchini, Puccini, tra la la la la la
Zanussi Zanussi appliance of science tra la la la la la

Buitoni spaghetti, Buitoni spaghetti, with cherry tomato,
tra, la, la, la, la, la,
non, non, non, non, non, non, non, non, non.

Tra, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la,

Tra la la la la la la

Hong Kong and Shanghai bank pizza account is where
they keep your leftover bits with much love and care

Hong Kong and Shanghai bank spaghetti account
you pay two percent, but for any amount.

Tra, la, la, la, la,

My school in Malaysia had a teacher, Miss Itza,
a bit on the big size, she seemed to love pizza

for exercise, no jogging or running too far
just down to the beach, a quick spin in the car.

Tra, la la la la la la la.

Iceland is better, no,
Tesco is better, no,
Iceland is better, no,
Tesco is better (repeat 50 times)
Tra, la la la la la la la la la

A Norwegian pizza has big bits of pine,
in a Singapore pizza you get bits of money

an iron ore pizza you eat in a mine,
a hummingbird pizza contains lots of honey
Tra, la tra, la la la la la la la

Pizzaro, Pizzaro, Pizzaro (repeat until collapse)

Orient Express

 July 2002

mais oui,
both of them used the piano today,
and it’s always good to hear you play,
but when the raised flag got the train away...

the afternoon concert commenced its run
with the sister practising Grade One;
at nearly nine, she’s having fun

with a Russian Air, a Gavotte in C
and Walking Jazz that runs so free,
a melange of a jamboree,

fingers flying on the keys,
making boring minims sneeze,
one man crotchets played with ease,

crescendo here, andante there,
a rocking song, or simple air,
a youngster’s unembarrassed flair

from the computer I watch her try
to make the irritable quavers fly,
or a rallentando lullaby,

now, the time for her brother to play
the teacher set works for today,
but things don’t always work that way

from a child’s mind, here’s something,
concentrated new thoughts pumping,
whistle, flag, lights change, and bumping,

the steam train jolts, begins to pull
from Paris onto Istanbul,
tender, carriage, box car full,

puffing hard, wheezing, grunting,
it begins the two day eastbound shunting
those who are Turkish carpet hunting

notes of platforms, pistons, steam,
tea time passengers, cakes with cream,
polished windows, woodwork gleam,

using discordant seconds to bait
the whistle as the wheels rotate
and the sleepers and clicking points vibrate;

the four minim girl is very keen
to join in with the tambourine,
enhancing the near eastern scene,

banging, turning, crashing, shaking,
her palm, and nails, long fingers making
the battered tambourine bells quaking,

rhythm creating,
complete with wild gesticulating,
as the momentum now begins abating

in the jet stream fan, her long hair flowing
now, rall and rit, the music slowing,
fading down the tracks and going

quietly, as if to send
the express train to the journey’s end,
as it comes around the bend

where the signalmen in peak cap steer
the engine on through to Sofia,
now the Bosporus is near;

a piano safari, where one can enjoy
a semi tonal hoi polloi,
told by a crew-cut singlet ten year boy,

‘Was that good?’, happy, he turns to me,
the excitement that is clear to see,
enjoying their creativity;

perhaps the notes can learn to fly
high up in afternoon's bright sky,
where aircraft engines make wisps that cry,

you dream of an earth with music rain,
showers of clefs fill an overture drain
in Portsmouth Point and Cockaigne,

where ice comes down as middle C
and melting snow is A flat B,
and Strauss avalanche flattens Alpine tree,

and 3/4 time where waltzes flow
or 9/8 time that goes so slow,
Gymnopodies when the cool flutes blow,

brass and woodwind warm up to play
while the four part strings get tuned to A,
the conductor batons the air away;

the summer’s breezes whisper E,
the morning mist clings tight to G,
and Grandad tunes in to radio three;

piano playing can make for you
a world that other things can’t do,
a place where you two can escape to, too,

a place where notes become your art
found in your brain, your hands, your heart,
the knowledge that can impart

then lose yourself in a childhood dream
of the footplate crew and the hissing steam,
or make your own invented theme

of sea, or sky, or beach,
or clocks, or trees, or towns, or pear or peach,
or anywhere your mind can reach,

of beach or sky, or clock or sea,
or cars, or towns, or farm or tree,
or anywhere you want your mind to be;

now time for bed at end of the day,
when mint toothpaste and the shampoo play,
then piano notes take you away

to dream of things that no-one knows,
eyelids flutter and want to close,
your brain shuts off and you begin to doze...

tomorrow morning, hug the sun
while you take your breakfast tea and bun,
then grab the piano to make more notes run...

nos da, bonne nuit.

Tyrannosaurus teatime

 Tyrannosaurus to Brontosaurus,

Hey, babe, fancy giving me a bite to eat?
I like your curves and cute little mouth.
A girl like you would be a real treat.

Brontosaurus to Tyrannosaurus:
Get knotted, Fat so, just let me be.
You watch your big mouth, lady.
Anyway, it’s Diplodocus that interests me,

but he’s standing in some quite deep water,
far away from my beaten track,
so I’d really appreciate it, if you don’t mind,
you let me hitch a ride there on your back.

You think I’m an idiot, exploded Brontosaurus.
People wonder why we get uptight;
It’s jerks like you give us a bad name,
all you do is eat and fight.’

Oh, come on, sweetie, it’s not true,
Paleo men just made it up.
Just put your soft neck in my big mouth
and I’ll kiss you like a buttercup.

Oh hunky, bunky, chunky man,
I didn’t know how gentle you could be.
Yes, that’s right, replied Tyrannosaurus,
and you’re so stupid. And my tea.

A Garbage Can

 A Garbage Can for Bombaman and a Heap of Junk for Pinkiepunk

Prologue (the bit at the beginning)

It’s nonsense. You must have written this when you were drunk,
it’s donkey’s years since I read so much bunk.
Watch your mouth, you fatuous flunk..

Well, your wife says that you like to drink….
I know, but think about it, if I did, I couldn’t think.

Furthermore, you should know by now that she likes to gripe,
but if I drank so much I couldn’t type.

I am used to hearing her sneer
if I open more than a can or two of beer.

One thing too, I don’t park myself all night in some cheap dim wit bar,
listening to idiots smoking low tar,

with some infected female perched on my knee.
I spend time at home with my children. Going out isn’t me.

Come on, every man likes to get out and have fun.
You listen, it’s now July 2004; the last time I went to a pub was October two thousand and one.

It’s not always the things people do.
I am just pointing out what some people think about you.

Catch this, pal. I couldn’t care less what you and others think.
In fact, I think most other opinions stink.

I only wrote it for my two
and enjoyed their smiles when I read it through.

that’s why I don’t listen to people any more,
most that I meet I find a bore.

Yes, just listen to any British housewife sunbathing by some swimming pool.
Yes, just like you, you oriental fool.

That’s outrageous! You’re a R A C I S T.
And I can see from your typing you’re a spacist.

Moreover, it’s Tony Hancock, so don’t blame me.
It’s from The Radio Ham, so sue the BBC.

I have heard of Birmingham and West Ham, but not Theradioham.
Is it far from London?

Bob the Tob and Pujek, selamat pagi, apa khabar?
good morning, Pujek, how are you?
Fine, and pleased to meet you too.

Bob and Pujek have come from very far.

a three mile shore called Lipat Bay,
where crab and surf and seagulls play
and fishing people speak Malay

onshore winds keep palms in motion,
your sweat is like a warm skin lotion,
a white hot sun burns the sea green ocean,

and people wait for the evening star.

Bob and Pujek have found a way
to pass their time throughout the day
and not to waste a minute’s pay

There’s a lot you can do when school is out,
be with your mates, run, cry and shout,
go here and there and run about,

but although it’s good to laugh and play,
there’s more you can think to fill your day
in a useful and exciting way.

Find out what Bob and Pujek do.
Take my hand, and they’ll show you
how to enjoy yourself the whole day through.

One special place they often go,
in summer sun, spring wind, or snow,
or when the holidays start to flow

is to the well-stocked local library
where they can borrow books for free,

a place where you would be surprised to find
so many things to excite a child’s mind,
when the pages you unwind

By reading many books, they can
learn about History and early man,

or Anatomy, the body and its bones,
or Geology, the Earth, its rocks and stones

There’s Geography with north and south,
oceans, waves, wide river mouth.

mountains, plains, far east and west.
For Bob and Pujek, they’re all the best.

Astronomy is about the Sun, Moon and stars.
Perhaps one day they can go to Mars.

Now that there seems to be water under its floor
it would be a most interesting place to explore
with Bob the Tob and Pujek..

And you?
Would you want to fly
so far in the sky, in a giant silver rocket?
Watch the Earth floating by,
as you climb up so high,
with tightly clenched hands in your pocket?

I thought so.

You can read about Palaeontology,
or ancient Earth biology,

the study of the dinosaurs,
who, for Jurassic eons roamed valley floors,
or fed in swamps, and using bloody jaws,
ran quite wild in jungle’s laws,
till a meteorite gave them time to pause.

Unfortunately, forever

There’s Tyrannosaurus, the lizard king
and Diplodocus, a big fat thing

Brontosaurus with his long sleek neck,
perfect for a long distance girlfriend peck

and Brachiosaurus, in some fetid swamp,
passes her time in rancid chomp
.

Mr Clippit has just told me.
‘It’s never too late to learn the piano’.
Would you agree?

Bob and Pujek have also found
out about the orchestra and big band sound,

what timpani, bass drum, tambourine,
the tubular bells, triangle mean,

oboe, trumpet, bassoon, and bass,
clarinet, flute in an overture race.

or a regiment band of silver and gold,
marching so stiffly, militarily bold.

A Polish musical joke.
If you go to an Italian restaurant in Warsaw, what music would they play?
The Pizzacato Polka
Ha ha ha ha ha hahahahaha Ed idiot

Bob and Pujek are
happy to do actually, much the same as you.
They practise the piano everyday,
keyboard hopping, so perhaps they may
become an act that can almost play
a Chopin waltz at dusk of day
in the Amsterdam Concertgebouw
but more probably if the audience have their way
in the pub or perhaps a less than high class bar.

What shall we have to eat?
An open air restaurant in fast food Shanghai,
a sizzling wok for a hot quick stir fry,

sucking up noodles, or spooning fried rice .
Yum yum, I love them, they’re both very nice,

or perhaps a more Western style chips, peas, and pie
in the pub on the banks of the cold running Wye,

or a cucumber, carrot, maize, celery crunch
with a chicken wing, lettuce, a crisp leafy lunch,

or making a pizza with tomatoes and cheese,
adding chicken of fish, you can do as you please.

we chat, laugh and drink while watching the cooking,
and an eight year old girl, when she thinks no-one’s looking,

is taking the meat from the side of my plate
to feed the stray cats that meowingly wait

in the hot concrete yard
where the ground is so hard
not far from the south China sea

remember the time when you took a hike
from the seat of your bike
by the tree
Mum was not happy.

After eating, they wander through
the countryside of bird and tree
where Bob and Pujek always knew
of nettle, wasp, bracken, centipede, bee,

gnat, and midge, butterfly, flower
with rain spark spots of a summer shower
Or into that garden you could go,
where you went three years ago

when and if sun breezes blow
and try to think what you could grow
and what it could turn out to be
under Granddad’s gnarled and twisting apple tree

At the back of my house, not far from the beach,
by the faded white wall that the sea winds reach,

a long time ago, when you were so free,
you planted the genes that grew into a tree

watching it growing higher and higher,
after some time, it produced a papaya.

and later, tomato and cucumber seeds
were buried in a patch just cleared of weeds

but evening mosquitoes came out in force
and you had to hurry inside, of course,

because Aedes is all the rage right now.
but Bob and Pujek can tell you how

to get rid of them in just one day.
You simply throw the water away

Now the evening comes, and as the light grows dark,
Bob and Pujek jog in the park

to exercise their legs and arms,
with pumping hearts, and sweating palms

making them work, blood rushing round,
sweating, panting, as they pound

the pathways in their tracksuit top,
dry throat swallow, ears pop

‘Back home now’ Pujek said
‘shower first, and then time for bed’

Get cosy, warm, with a pot of tea
for Bob and Pujek, you and me.

Then snuggle down, try warm your feet,
the pillows crunch, and new friends you meet

in dreams of lands so far away
that you try to reach by the break of day

and sleep with Bob and Pujek, you and me;
goodnight, nos da, and bonne nuit.

Professor Potty and Dr Dotty

 PG Tips Impure Science Faculty

Earl Grey School of Linguistics Nonsense
Boh Cameron Highlands University of Tea

Your pseudo-neurone aroma theory
seems to have gone a bit astray.
lf we are not more careful, Dotty,
the behaviourists will get their way.

If A times 10 plus 2qy,
then enter brackets 3QE.
Logic states that 5-foot square
must surely equal 3 BC.

No, that’s nonsense, my dear Professor.
3 times A is 8 fg.
So N2 squared to decimal 4
must be square root of G.

What rot, you cretinous, claptrap chap.
If A square third point decimal G
Then it must be quite clear to you
that 4QZ times 9 is C.

Utter balderdash, you balding fool.
Captain Lipton would agree with me.
If A square 2 plus h8p,
the multiple effect creates law of tea.

The speed of weight and the force of light
run parallel, you must agree.
So 3y squared percentage 9
must result in 8 A3.

The cardinal rule of ordinals
can substitute the primary.
When chemistry is vector 10,
then spectrum must be 4 times t.

You’re getting indigo and astro-turf
confused with sonar, you foolish fellow
Teabags from Switzerland, I thought you knew,
come in ultra orange and infra yellow.

You fossil from the Pleistocene,
4 a squared makes double B.
Remove the bracket, correct raw score,
then 3 plus 8 over10 is E.

Now listen, brontosaurus brain,
take mc2 plus mc3.
Shift decimal place to freezing point,
and change the law of gravity.

The only way to solve this problem
is wipe the board and start again.
If evaporated gram is right,
the hypotenuse must equal 10.

Bracket half and then add 2,
square invert, subtract point 3.
Triangulate the hypotenuse,
might get a section graph of tea.

Well, that seems to make the pie chart warm,
a theory of probability.
Now if the equation really works,
we should get a perfect cup of tea.

Brazil, I think should do the trick.
No, no, Columbian, I must insist.
Ah, Mr Homer, what do you think?


I think you’re completely round the twist.

The countries that you just referred to
grow mainly coffee, little tea.
But I’ll join you, as it’s half past ten,
a pint of garlic cheese for me.

Chap is, dear Dotty, round the bend,
was in the tropics far too long.
Trains his pet frog to play piano;
something must be very wrong.

Yes, I also heard he has a housebound lizard
that he tries to teach the cello.
Is it the heat or the humidity that does it?
He really is a peculiar fellow.

Professor Madya FRGS

 Professor Madya FRGS

(Foundation for Research into Gross Stupidity)

Once I saw him with a biro
writing a poem on his nose.
How que… I mean, how odd.
but I heard he dries the cutlery with his clothes

Told Professor Grumby to bugger off once,
the man at times is so coarse.
I agree, but what about the car park in early March,
feeding peanuts to a horse.

I was talking to dear old Twutty
who once was invited to his house;
served up cabbage with fried egg and fish for them,
cooked a T bone for the mouse.

To raise the water to wet the flowers,
he threw bananas in the Cam;
smashed Chivers Olde English in the street
just to cause a traffic jam.

I heard he did another trick
with their Histon marmalade;
bought a toothbrush and then he painted
the parking lots in King’s Parade.

The students just can’t make it out
who wonder if he’s quite sane,
the only man in the British Isles
who comes to work by aeroplane.

Not any plane, my dear Potty,
a Piper, or Lear jet is not the one;
has his own tin foil 747
thinks it makes flying a lot more fun.

His logic states that both
the foil and the plane are aluminium,
so to save on expensive landing fee
takes of from the top of his condominium.

He’s been arrested twice in Kuala Lumpur
for breaking civil aviation laws;
gave his prison sentence to different charities.
Told me it was for a very good cause.

And this chap is spreading British culture
around the Asia Pacific rim?
It’s quite appalling. Ah here’s the gutter, Dotty,
jump right in, let’s have a swim.

What will the world think of British Academics?
when expatriates behave this ?
Really rich…I mean highly qualified, foreign students
will certainly give the UK a miss.

You’re on the ball, my dear Professor,
something must be put on track
to improve the facultea’s image.
Umm, use the teaspoon to scratch my back.

Come, my dear colleague Dotty,
the taxi’s here, it’s time to go
off to lower upper Mali
to find if tea can grow in snow.

Right ho, my dear esteemed Professor,
passport, ticket, box of tea.
Yes, and don’t forget your nasal eye drops.
The world needs more of you and me.

Right, what’s our schedule? Where’s the map?
Tonga, or Iceland, East China Sea,
Bordeaux, Murmansk, Vladivostock,
Gabon, Peru, and Urumqi.

Rouen, Calais, Hook of Holland,
the Bering Straits to North Siberia
Urals, Don, the Anatolia, Rhodes, Crete,
to the Atlas Mountains, west Algeria.

There are so many places we’ve to go
the map is getting such a mess.
But with forty countries in fifteen days,
we’re bound to get FRGS.

The problem now for both us,
bathing in our usual fame,
is where on earth we find the space
to put more letters after our name.

Let’s see. Professor Potty BSc MA PGCE
FRCS ACCA FRCO FRCP
MD MLitt B Nur B Eng MRPS MIME
B Ed B Good B Off B Bold B Quiet FRSTea


I don’t have a pet frog. It comes in to the kitchen at night.
OK I may talk to it, but not for hours;
perhaps it runs in the family, for my mother used to talk to the flowers
and I do hope the cicak, when he sees a mosquito, will to try to bite.

And yes, I do buy Histon marmalade,
once got a parking ticket in King’s Parade,
pretty woman, too.

Grumby? Dotty?
Twutty? Potty?

I can’t play the piano, apart from a few chords, certainly not the cello;
the viola, yes. Garlic milk? The thing I drink most is Chinese tea,
but, unlike the two morons here, I really am a Fellow
of the Royal Geographical Society.


You were. They withdrew it.
Why?
Bringing the RGS into disrepute.

Munchy lunchy

 one o’clock, round the block

time to munch / eat my lunch
in the car / not so far
park by trees / gentle breeze
insects whine / old leaves pine
monkeys swing / mynahs sing
Mak’s home-cooked canteen food today
cheap polystyrene take away

warm white rice / packed in nice
curry sauce /more of course
soggy rice / tickling spice
carrot crunch / crispy munch
chicken wing / bird no sing
feeling sad / thinking bad
must be some young birdette’s mummy /
‘hope you get an upset tummy’

yum yum yum / fill my tum
chicken pick / finger lick
take off skin / must keep thin
don’t want that / too much fat
chicken bone / now alone
reject meat / ant can eat
cholesterol not good for you
too much and it’s the ICU

orange juice / stomach sluice
suck and slurp / quiet burp
juice has come / in my tum
crumple bag / tissue rag
cool in car / birds afar
windscreen spray / dirt away
rice encrusted finger sticky
right hand only eating tricky

car too hot / not a lot
air con on / rice now gone
thank you Mak / lunch time snack
waistband pull/ tum now full
two fifteen / must be seen
classroom reach / back to teach
cobweb wall, broken door hinge
concrete fading, cracking, cringe

What a day 19 August 2000

 family day

open sky where few clouds run
hot concrete grandstand bleached by the sun
rusting goalposts, food tables pack
grass rough and ready, patchwork track

groups of stalls; blue, green, white
triangular flags in weary flight
teachers’ children tug of war
or sack race, running, what a bore

watching, noting, from beneath the tree
it really’s not my cup of tea
but running children with ice cream
cry, run, and play, cheer parent’s team

booming, microphone voice
being here is not my choice
the birds in trees penetrating protesting
when noisy humans disturb their nesting

non-stop cheering, shouting, talking,
tracksuits, sport shirts, running, walking
concrete mixers rumble by
only me in long sleeves and tie

get your coupon, take some food
smile politely, mustn’t seem rude
Haryati, heap with books up high
staggers near the drain, with worried look going by

then tells me there is a meeting at two fifteen
now what good news could that mean
the vice chancellor talks for an hour or more
then answers questions from the floor

the meeting ends, now time to go
to take the bus where sea winds blow
through waving trees, close by the beach
of soft fine sand, orange, white, peach

now can relax, enjoy the day
as boredom quickly fades away
with the green hill back-cloth and sun coming to night
one time ending, another begins bright

If you like your trousers tight ...

 three cups of orange juice is right

Thursday 3 August pm 2000

Three bags of orange juice took away /
my raging thirst at lunch today /
but didn’t realise I would pay for drinking quite so much

One pm off to open air canteen /
for chicken and rice in polystyrene /
wash my hands to make them clean before I get stuck in

Walk to car park by the trees /
insert key, air con breeze /
put the container on my knees, and begin to eat the chicken

Relaxing afterwards in the car /
thinking music, bar by bar /
toilets suddenly seemed so far,
what was I to do ?

Should be easy by the trees, /
quite discreet, discomfort ease. /
What was that ? I heard a sneeze.
Phew, that was close,
the Provost.

Just wait a while, it’s OK /
but remember, haven’t got all day /
I’m sure that I can find a way.
Not now, office staff.

Coast is clear, let’s have a try /
out of the car, watch the sky. /
You’re probably are thinking why,
Aargh ! Bicycle girls are here.

Pretty things gave me a fright. /
Holding legs now very tight. /
not a quiet place in sight.
Oh no, not Mastiniwati.

Just park your bike, then take a walk.. /
Oh girl, you don’t really want to talk. /
Bottled up worry about cork,
I’m desperate for a you know what.

Yes. How interesting. I agree /
hurry up, get away from me /
the pressure’s growing inside me.
Oh yes, goodbye, Miss Tini.

At last can try and have a go, /
body tense, am moving slow. /
Next time you drink, oh no, no, no,
Zaleha and her pals.

hiya, sir, how are you today ?
Fine. Big smile. Go away.
Do something useful, run and play.
They’re nice girls. What, check your work?

Oh, this is bad now, but what to do?
How long must I sit this through?
No more corrections, it’s up to you.
Nine or ten long minutes.

Mr Richard, please explain /
what is ship and aeroplane? /
Listen girls, I’m in a bit of pain,
it’s awkward to tell you why

But sir, can practice module 4 /
job interview, 10 minutes more. /
I really am now getting sore.
Girls, why don’t you go home?

But sir, we like to talk to you /
and we got nothing else to do. /
Melissa, Nora, Mawarni too,
they really love to talk.

Girls, I really have to go /
before something begins to flow. /
I don’t care, the answer’s no.
They think I’m not quite right.

Run from car, lots of stares.
Corridor blocked by swearing chairs.
Forgot must climb the wretched stairs.
Ground floor, ladies.

Orange juice, most would agree
is full of health and vitamin C,
but drink too much, and it can be,


er, well, you know.

Morning by Kwang Hwa

 Key to KNoWledGe, Kettle oN, Keep oN moANiNG, KeretA to seKolAH, Key to KNoWledGe, KerjA, Kerb pArK, Kopi, KAyA

WorKiNG WeeK, WeAry, WAitiNG for WeeKeNd to come, uNiform uNpAcK bAG, uNder 40’s motHer, WAry, WrApped up iN oWN miNi-World of sHop, tuitioN, cooKiNG, WAtcH proGrAmme, uNiNterestiNG, uNKNoWN to ANy, I WAtcH, Nice

ArticulAte Assembly ANNouNcemeNt, Art, Appetite, ANKle cHAiN ANd jeANs motHer, AWAre of fAsHioN, ANKle cHAiN, jeANs, or sHorts, if leGs AlloW, AsAp,
ANGGiN pANtAi, Air limAu, AyAm

NosHiNG Noodles, NotebooK, Number, NeiGHbour’s NeWspAper, uNiNterestiNG
NelAyN, NAsi miNyAK, NAtter iN coffe sHop, cHit-cHAt, NotHiNG of importANce, NoW, NAil WAter bill, NAb NeW Groceries from you Hoe, Nip iNto bANK, NyAmuK NAtter WitH mrs ANG (AssistANt mANAGer), NeNAs sWeet

GeoGrApHy, Gobble GrAiNs of rice; Go Gest Go to GesticulAtiNG mArKet, Get GuAvA, Gold sHop GArNisHiNG by preseNce, GreeN GAs bottle, GoriNG pisANG, GrAiN rice, GArAm, GulA, tHeN dr GiGi


HomeWorK, HAlf time, HAppy Hurry cANteeN, History,
WritiNG,
AsiA, AfterNooN AtHletics, AH ArGue iN Aimless AmbieNce, About NotHiNG of ANy importANce, ANyWAy

oH, morNiNG fiNisHed AlreAdy? Time to eAt. WAH.

I eat rice, soup, chicken, fish, and vegetable for lunch, dinner, everyday of the year. Waaah.teA, doWN toAst, duNK eGG WitH soy sAuce, or pecK At

ubiquitous pAcKets of rice, uNimpAired WitH plAte

PerU 0 ArGeNtiNA 1

todAy, We pAiNted tHe bAcK WAll WHite,
reflectiNG tHe eveNiNG mooN by NiGHt
tHeN tHe sUN HAd some fUN
ANd pAiNted me from HeAd to KNee
A rAtHer striKiNG iNcA piNKA mAcHo peAcHo


tAti HAiKu (jANuAry 2002)

by tHe fAlliNG suN
tHe leAves ANd brANcHes WAitiNG
for tHe cool NiGHt Air

P C Grabbem Huw

 PC Grabbem Huw, told by the sergeant where to go,

he patrols the town on the concrete beat,
with truncheon, whistle, and radio.
It’s harsh on the ears and hard on the feet,

peering, observing, looking right,
makes sure that no one steals a car,
no robbery, no vicious fight,
or shouting and vomiting outside the bar,

a smile for Granddad, nod at you,
he walks around in rain and sun,
a quick word for a housewife too,
cautioning youths who have too much fun,

but by the bank in the centre of town,
Pickkem Pugh thinks it should be okay,
thick furrows of an unintelligent frown,
it’s risky but I think I can get away,

the would-be robber checks the door,
the windows, and the places where
the cameras roam around the floor,
the security guard is standing there,

then, into the bank, and running fast,
he whacks the glass with mighty smash
the cashier, in shock, reels from the blast,
he rushes in to grab the cash .

Grabbem at first just sees somebody run,
but then he spots the hijacked sack
with flashes of light in the afternoon sun
on the money spilling down Pickkem’s back.

frightened, the robber runs so far.
panting, pounding, with all his might,
then Grabbem radios for a car,
with wailing siren and flashing light,

they catch the exhausted little man, the brief chase now through,
Grabbem turns him on the floor
gets on the handcuffs, cautions Pugh,
who is then escorted to the police car door

Crikey, boyo, you’re not too bright,
I was outside, you didn’t see?
robbing a bank in broad daylight
is pretty stupid, don’t you agree?

Okay, Grabbem, you’ve got a point
but to call me stupid isn’t fair,
I thought I could really rob this joint...
I wish I’d taken up the offer to cut people’s hair;

I know I’ve been a fair few fights,
but take these handcuffs this time;
this is an infringement of my Human Rights
because I haven’t been charged with any crime.

Right, here goes. Ahem. Rydw chi, Pickkem Pugh o 3
Heol y Cwmann, Y Fenni, iechyd abersychan yr caerfili gogledd clwyd heddlu section pedwar pump ar cerdoffa genedlaithol cymru ond neuadd amgueddfa powys gwent and are therefore charged with er, um, robbing yr banc.

Okay, got that, Mr Pickkem, or is is spelt Piccem, Pugh?
Oh, Grabbem, you’re a poet, your bilinguality is staggering.
It’s an honour to be arrested by you.

You choose the ending. I’m fed up with choosing endings.
Mr Justice Hugh Neckcrush LLB, M Phil, a politically incorrect judge...

'You know what I think? (you cretin)
Ten years in a cell would be about right, Mr Pugh. (you moron)
I know the damp concrete floor and pigeon feathers would stink,
and you (you little creep) can read the graffiti for the next three thousand nights, too.

Constable, you’re a splendid chap, it seems to me,
a Good Egg, and it appears you’re right on course
for a sergeant’s job; or some years hence, maybe
you might be the new Chief Constable of the Force.

Ms Justice 'Baby' Piripin Willow-Wimp
BA (Inter cultural identity and legal knowledge)
a politically correct judge...

looking at Grabbem from the Chair
then at the charge, throwing up hands in frustration
'PC Grabbem, you should be by now, after a course, aware,
we are, in a few places, at least a 10% bilingual nation.

You read his rights in English first, of course,
not Welsh. PC Grabbem, you really are a disgrace
to yourself, your family and the whole Police Force.
I have therefore to throw out the case.

Grabbem opens his mouth in indignation.
'Your Honour, I thought I’m paid to fight crime.
''But the correct paperwork must be done,
it seems to me, Contstable Huw, you’re wasting time.

Your contempt of court is getting me irate.
A fine of a hundred pounds is warranted, I fear.
And to help a country not in the neo-colonialist G8,
you may pay in either peso, dong, kwache, or rupiah.

May the Court Records show justice, I think,
is dispensed habeus corpus, ad hoc, ad nauseum, ad infinitum,
add, plus, minus... pro bono, Bono the rock singer, pro quid, two quid, three quid, pro quo,
et cetera, exempli gratia, floruit,
ibid, id est, absent, and anything else
you think is right and proper, proper and right.