Harbal Poetry (16)

I have not seen you out for many a night,
what happened to you, my nocturnal friend?
You used to be a common evening sight,
but now those sightings have come to an end.

The only time I ever see you now
is when behind my steering wheel I’m sat,
and you are sprawled out on the road quite flat.
I wish you could avoid that fate somehow.

As soon as darkness fell you would be out,
on summer evenings you were always there,
foraging in hedgerows with your snout;
since then your nightly outings are but rare.

You curled into a ball when I came near
and straightened out again when I had gone.
I was no threat to you, my prickly one,
my presence did not need to cause you fear.

In gardens out of harm’s way at nightfall,
I wish you’d kept to your own habitat.
Better by far you curl into a ball
than get hit by a lorry and be flat.

“Is there anybody there?” said the postman,
knocking on the cat scratched door,
and he peered through a filthy window
and was disgusted by what he saw.

On the kitchen floor he could just make out,
through the grimy, obscured pane,
signs that a large dog lived there that could not
be arsed to go out in the rain.

He thumped the door again, a second time;
“is there anybody in?” he said,
and over an upstairs leaf fringed sill
appeared a recently awoken head.

A red, bloated face framed by greasy hair
stared down with dull, yellowed eyes
into those of the startled postman’s,
which stared back in surprise.

“I have brought you a parcel,” said the postman,
as he stood there, stared upon,
I know not what is in the package,
but it comes from Amazon.

Presently the door was opened wide
by a man, sweaty and unclean,
pyjama slit wide open showing things
the postman wished he had not seen.

And the air that escaped from that foul house
was not meant to be breathed by man
and the sight of the squalor that dwelt inside
made a pigsty look spick and span.

“Where is my parcel”, said a toothless mouth
beneath a nose exuding snot.
“it’s here”, said the postman, thrusting it forth,
then turning, off he shot.

Later, the postman passed a homeless man
begging, downcast on the street.
He stopped and reached in his bag and pulled out
a sandwich he could no longer eat.

Sunken stones in an ancient wood
mark the foundations where a dwelling stood.

Within a ring of giant oaks
once stood that abode where darkness cloaks
the ground on which only toadstools grow,
and the forest creatures will not go.

They say an artful witch lived there,
who hid a formula somewhere
among the ruins of that site.
That place where even day is night.

I heard the story of that place
and went in search to find a trace
of that old secret that was hidden.
To the eyes of mortal man forbidden.

I fought through thicket, thorn and bush,
forever onward did I push.
Driven by my blind ambition
to find the witch’s weird prescription.

Suddenly my way was barred
by a ring of oaks, all standing guard,
and within my breast my heart did race
from fear of that infernal place.

Yet, on I went into the clearing,
forcing back my dread and fearing
of the punishment those trees might wreak
on that forbidden game of hide-and-seek.

Then heaving out a desperate groan
from heaving up a massive stone;
heart thumping wildly in my breast,
I beheld the object of my quest.

A wooden casket half rotted away,
yet still protecting from decay,
a parchment furled and rolled up tight,
there, before my wide eyed sight.

That precious scroll, worth more than gold,
by trembling hands was soon unrolled.
And in my grasp, before my eye:
a recipe for acorn pie.

As I knelt there on that cold, dank ground,
from the circle of oaks there came a sound.
A murmur spread from tree to tree,
those accursed oaks were laughing at me.

I am very fond of birds, but to me,
the dawn chorus is a euphemism
for a loud cacophony of tweeting,
regardless of what species they might be.

I like art when it is skilful, but to me,
the Mona Lisa is a picture of
a woman who just sits there looking smug,
and holds but not a trace of mystery.

I love music when it’s good, but to me,
Imagine is as corny as can be.
The whiteness of John Lennon and that room
lend it absolutely no profundity.

It’s not that I am soulless, but to me,
it seems we see what we are told to see.

Last night I fell into a restless sleep,
soon after I’d been clearing out my fridge,
sorting what to throw away and what to keep.
I started dreaming I was walking o’er a bridge.

The path I trod soon led me to a street,
whose pavements were all packed and thronged with folk.
I was only wearing slippers on my feet.
The people stared and laughed as if that was a joke.

I saw a row of shops all in a line.
I ran toward them, tripping o’er my slippers.
And there, on a shop window, was a sign
which said, we will buy your date-expired kippers.

And as the grip of sleep began to soften,
I resolved to clear my fridge out much more often.

This illustration of that thing you want to try,
are you absolutely sure it can be done?
It looks awfully tricky to my untrained eye,
I can’t imagine why you think it might be fun.

It’s not because I’m getting old and fat,
and confidence in my body that I lack,
but a gymnast would have trouble doing that,
and you know that I have problems with my back.

Just look at the position of this leg,
relative to the placement of the other.
And, my dearest one, your pardon I must beg,
but if you do that with my face I think I’ll smother.

So please remove this idea from your head,
let’s have a cup of tea and watch TV instead.

Don’t drop me in it if you see my wife,
don’t tell her where you saw me yesterday.
I know you wouldn’t want to cause me strife,
and if you told her, there’d be hell to pay,

I wasn’t doing anything improper,
but even so, she wouldn’t understand.
Once she starts there is no way to stop her.
When she loses it things soon get out of hand.

I am aware of how it looked and what you’re thinking,
but what you thought it was, well it was not
No doubt you just assumed that I’d been drinking
when you thought you saw me doing you know what.

I’m glad we’ve had this chance to sort this out,
and that my side of the story has been put.
So now you know there’s nothing to make a fuss about,
I’m relying on you to keep your big mouth shut.

So thanks a lot for this, you won’t regret it.
Oh, and that twenty quid you owe me, let’s just forget it.

I’ve fallen in love with Sarah Montague.
I hear her voice and I cannot resist,
I fall deeper with every interview,
yet she doesn’t know I exist.

I know it’s just a fantasy,
and I know we’ll never meet.
And I know she’d walk straight past me
if I saw her on the street.

Then she comes to me through my radio,
and the World is a wonderful place.
And I’m hearing her voice in stereo,
and all that’s missing is her face.

I love Sarah Montague, I love her more and more.
To understand why I love her, tune in to BBC Radio 4.

Yesterday I saw a man
sitting on a park bench
reading a book,
and I thought to myself,
poor chap,
he must not be able to afford a smartphone.

That was not a pie you gave me yesterday.
Call it shepherd’s or even cottage if you must.
But it wasn’t a pie, no matter what you say,
when the damned thing didn’t even have a crust.

And though my judgement might sound somewhat hasty,
I do not think I'm asking for a lot,
when I insist the filling be encased in pastry,
and yesterday it certainly was not!

A pie without a crusty pastry case
reminds me of a tortoise without its shell.
Its omission is an absolute disgrace.
I’m sure the tortoise would agree, as well.

So next time please do not dissatisfy,
just put a bloody crust around my pie!

Take an onion, finely dice,
Add garlic and risotto rice.
A few minutes fry in olive oil,
But not too long, or it will spoil.

Add stock and wine, about half a cup,
Stir well till rice doth take it up.
Keep adding stock, little and oft’
Keep stirring till thy rice be soft.

Add parmesan to give it flavour,
And whatever herbs you favour.
Add salt and pepper if you wish.
Then tip it all into a dish.

One fine spring morn as I walked through the wood,
I spied an uncommon handsome little bud.
It stood out from the rest on a chestnut tree,
I know not why it so appealed to me.

I watched it through the summer as it grew.
Its splendour and its beauty stood it apart.
Its green was of the most enchanting hue,
and to that regal leaf I lost my heart.

Then September came and turned my leaf to red;
by October my beloved leaf was dead.