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