[Editor’s Note: No diary entries for several weeks.]
10 November
K’ung Fu Tzu (or Confucius
as now call himself) pop in
on way to Aphorism Conference.
Over dish of lapsang souchong
he relate long boring parable
about indecision and procrastination.
Fifteen minutes later
he repeat same parable.
Fifteen minutes later
heart sink as illustrious duffer
embark once more on inane ramble.
Consider three courses of action:
Feign bout of sleeping sickness?
Allow to finish. He is, after all, old man; then laugh softly
like moth alighting on moonlit breast of young wife?
Interrupt?
Interrupting, I say:
‘Twice would have been quite enough.’
Innocent remark have strange effect
on esteemed Master
who jot it down on back of hand, rise up and go.
25 December
Nothing doing at home
so journey to mountains
to find cave in which to meditate.
All caves full.
China big country
and although many wise men
only so many caves.
Decide on course of action:
Transcend to higher astral plane?
Descend to hire private plane?
Give idea elbow and give young wife
nice surprise on panda skin?
31 December
Returning home along river-bank
pause to make water
against trunk of weeping willow.
Suddenly, on rickety bridge
see young wife in arms of Lin Fang!
Heart stop, turning off water.
End of rainbow spatter over feet
disturbing nesting ducks, who take flight.
Consider carefully what to do:
Kill wife?
Kill Lin Fang?
Design dinner service?
1 January 479 B.C.
Confucius call at humble home
on way to bamboo shoot.
Very apologetic about misbehaviour
of Lin Fang, favoured disciple.
Young wife enter, looking sheepish
(on all fours, going ‘Baa, baa’).
Everybody laugh, and Confucius
beg me forgive and forget.
Chi Wen Tzu reflect on three choices:
Forgive and forget?
Forgive now, kill later?
Have wife for supper with mint sauce?
2 February
T’ai Chi exercises interrupted
by owner of porcelain factory
who is much taken with design
for plates. Except for flying ducks.
He ask, why three different sizes?
I explain there is a daddy duck,
mummy duck and baby duck.
He nod, but go away unconvinced.
Wonder what to put in place of ducks:
Flock of budgies?
Swarm of locusts?
Pair of bluebirds?
22 February
Waking with sublime images in mind
arise and sit beneath mulberry tree
to compose poem for young wife.
It is entitled ‘Poem for Ning’.
‘Your eyelashes are like the finest willow-twigs
Your cheeks are whiter than the lily
Your teeth brighter than the scales
of the Sacred Dragon
Your brow smoother than polished jade
Your body welcoming and transparent
as a mountain stream.’
Deservedly pleased with poem, wonder whether to:
Show to young wife immediately?
Put away until 2nd August and save
money on birthday present?
Change title and slip to exceedingly
symmetrical daughter of factory-owner?
28 February
Young wife try to appease husband
with gift of poetry book. Title?
New Generation Chinese Poetry.
Finding poems too long and impenetrable
decide to invent short, snappy verse-form.
With aid of abacus
Chi Wen Tzu ponder on its construction.
First, how many lines
then how many syllables.
Eureka! Haiku.
[Editor’s Note: Having invented the haiku, Chi Wen Tzu wrote several thousand before going on to invent the sonnet, the villanelle, the limerick and the Malaysian pantoum. The few that have survived illustrate the wide breadth of his poetic vision, and seem almost to pre-date some of the best-loved poems in English literature.]
There is some corner
of a foreign paddy field
Forever China.
Wandering lonely
as cloud. Then heart leaps. Behold –
Golden pagodas!
On snowy evening
stopping by neighbour’s dark woods
horse leaves steaming gift.
Sing of dappled things!
Freckled legs and pickled eggs
Budgies’ wings. Nipples.
In forest of night
Panda! Panda! burning bright
Soon, bedroom carpet.
This is the night-mail
crossing the border. Oh no
Leaves on track – turn back.
If you can keep head
in time of Revolution
– you will be a man(darin).
Mongol hordes swoop down
on missionary and wife.
Noble six hundred!
Oh my luve’s like red
red rose, pink, pink carnation
green, green grass of home.
Do not go gentle
Rage Rage Rage Rage Rage Rage Rage
Against lots of things.
Far out in cold sea
And not waving but drowning
Man see funny side.
They mess you about
Most honourable parents
(But who gives a fuck?)
4 March
Young wife growing bored of late
which cause much concern
as memory of Lin Fang weigh heavily on loin.
Too much time on delicate but idle hand.
Confucius he say: ‘Woman without hobby
like monkey brains without black-bean sauce.’
So husband choose suitable pastime:
Buy her noodle-work kit?
Acupuncture-repair outfit?
Piano?
19 March
Hearing chopsticks on piano
enter music-room to find
young wife at keyboard
eating chow mein. Very angry.
Chew over possibilities:
Chastise young wife?
Part-exchange greasy piano
for new young wife?
Invent xylophone?
20 April
Form company to market
new line in tableware:
‘Blue Willow Pattern, China’.
Chi Wen Tzu soon rich man.
Already orders flooding in
from all over country (like guests).
To celebrate good fortune, throw party.
Already guests flooding in
from all over country (like orders).
Tonight will be night to remember
but am nervous, so consider three choices.
Shall I:
Assume lotus position and breathe deeply?
Have sly puff on opium pipe?
Hit plum brandy like no tomorrow?
21 April
Night to remember turn out to be
nightmare wish to forget.
Host, life and soul of party
until midnight, when am overcome
with urgent
need to meditate.
Bathroom full, so stagger into garden
in search of willow-tree.
Hours later, awake in ornamental pond
to sound of birdsong and heavy breathing.
Filled with dark foreboding
creep behind pagoda, where, to horror,
discover young wife, naked with lover!
No time to consider three thoughts.
One thrust of sword through back
of Ling Fang dispatch sinful couple
to shamed ancestors.
Heavy of heart, kneel at pond
to wash blood from hands. Startled
by ghostly reflection of unicorn.
Turn suddenly. Nothing but shadows
and faint thirrup of echoing hoofs.
Pondering significance, walk back
to house to send guests home.
Imagine horror at sight of Lin Fang
crosslegged on floor
idly divining oracle bones!
Calm self to think three times:
Seek advice from Confucius?
Identify corpse?
Set fire to pagoda and head for hills?
Decide on first course of action –
But Confucius nowhere to be found.
Resort to second course of action –
Confucius in first stage of rigor mortis.
Settle on third course of action.
15 May
Hills very pleasant this time of year
Orchids in full bloom
Distant sighing of temple bell
But winter reigns in kingdom of heart.
Nightmares of unicorn
galloping across rickety bridge
young wife, naked, clinging to flowing mane.
In sky above, pair of bluebirds
in eternal embrace
skewered by single arrow.
Drops of blood
falling
into porcelain saucer
of moon.
Rabbit in Mixer Survives
A baby rabbit fell into a quarry’s mixing machine yesterday and came out in the middle of a concrete block. But the rabbit still had the strength to dig its way free before the block set.
The tiny creature was scooped up with 30 tons of sand, then swirled and pounded through the complete mixing process. Mr Michael Hooper, the machine operator, found the rabbit shivering on top of the solid concrete block, its coat stiff with fragments. A hole from the middle of the block and paw marks showed the escape route.
Mr Reginald Denslow, manager of J. R. Pratt and Sons’ quarry at Kilmington, near Axminster, Devon, said: ‘This rabbit must have a lot more than nine lives to go through this machine. I just don’t know how it avoided being suffocated, ground, squashed or cut in half.’ With the 30 tons of sand, it was dropped into a weighing hopper and carried by conveyor to an overhead mixer where it was whirled around with gallons of water.
From there the rabbit was swept to a machine which hammers wet concrete into blocks by pressure of 100 lb per square inch. The rabbit was encased in a block eighteen inches long, nine inches high and six inches thick. Finally the blocks were ejected on to the floor to dry and the dazed rabbit clawed itself free. ‘We cleaned him up, dried him by the electric fire, then he hopped away,’ Mr Denslow said.
Daily Telegraph
‘Tell us a story Grandad’
The bunny rabbits implored
‘About the block of concrete
Out of which you clawed.
‘Tell every gory detail
Of how you struggled free
From the teeth of the Iron Monster
And swam through a quicksand sea.
‘How you battled with the Humans
(And the part we like the most)
Your escape from the raging fire
When they held you there to roast.’
The old adventurer smiled
And waved a wrinkled paw
‘All right children, settle down
I’ll tell it just once more.’
His thin nose started twitching
Near-blind eyes began to flood
As the part that doesn’t age
Drifted back to bunnyhood.
When spring was king of the seasons
And days were built to last
When thunder was merely thunder
Not a distant quarry blast.
How, leaving the warren one morning
Looking for somewhere to play,
He’d wandered far into the woods
And there had lost his way.
When suddenly without warning
The earth gave way, and he fell
Off the very edge of the world
Into the darkness of Hell.
Sharp as the colour of a carrot
On a new-born bunny’s tongue
Was the picture he recalled
Of that day when he was young.
Trance-formed now by the memory
His voice was close to tears
But the story he was telling
Was falling on deaf ears.
There was giggling and nudging
And lots of ‘sssh – he’ll hear’
For it was a trick, a game they played
Grown crueller with each year.
‘Poor old Grandad’ they tittered
‘He’s told it all so often
He now believes it’s true.’
Young rabbits need fresh carrots
And his had long grown stale
So they left the old campaigner
Imprisoned in his tale.
Petrified by memories
Haunting ever strong
Encased in a block of time
Eighteen inches long.
***
Alone in a field in Devon
An old rabbit is sitting, talking,
When out of the wood, at the edge of the world,
A man with a gun comes walking.
Happy Ending
Out of the wood
at the edge of the world
a man with a gun
comes walking.
Feels not the sun
upon his face
nor hears a rabbit talking.
Over the edge
at the end of it all
the man stands
still as stone.
In his hands
the gun held
to his mouth like a microphone.
The rabbit
runs to safety
at the sudden cry
of pain.
As the man lets fly
a ferret
into the warren of his brain.
A Joy to be Old
It’s a joy to be old.
Kids through school,
The dog dead and the car sold.
Worth their weight in gold,
Bus passes. Let asses rule.
It’s a joy to be old.
The library when it’s cold.
Immune from ridicule.
The dog dead and the car sold.
Time now to be bold.
Skinnydipping in the pool.
It’s a joy to be old.
Death cannot be cajoled.
No rewinding the spool.
The dog dead and the car sold.
Don’t have your fortune told.
Have fun playing the fool.
It’s a joy to be old.
The dog dead and the car sold.
In Good Spirits
This icy winter’s morning
I rise in good spirits.
On all fours I exhale
a long white breath
that hangs in the air
like a shimmering rope.
Under which, with arms akimbo
and eyes ablaze, I dance the limbo.
Nothing Ventured
Nothing ventured
I rise from my hangover
And take
a walk along the towpath.
The wind is acting plain silly
And the sky, having nobody to answer to
Is all over the place.
The Thames (as it likes to be called)
Gives a passable impersonation of a river
But I remain unimpressed.
Suddenly in front of me, a woman.
We are walking at the same pace.
Lest she thinks I’m following her, I quicken mine.
She quickens hers. I break into a run.
So does she. It’s looking bad now.
I’m gaining on her. God, what happens
When I catch up? Luckily, she trips
And sprawls headlong into a bed of nettles.
I sprint past with a cheery ‘Hello’.
***
Out of sight, I leave the path and scramble
Down to the water’s edge, where I lie down
And pretend to be a body washed ashore.
There is something very comforting