Monday, 24 August 2009
cyclists come across all manner of road kill at the speed they go
road kill usually come in batches
this morning, for example, it was frogs
and one day I passed four dead dogs, three of them fresh
here in India, I usually see a snake or two each day, fortunately only rarely a live one
yesterday there was a water buffalo, lying where it had fallen
and today a cow being carried off by half a dozen men
but I’ve never seen anything like this before -->
is it what I think?
(the size is about that of a newborn baby)
Saturday, 15 August 2009
Tuesday, 11 August 2009
Night falls on the forest.
The owl swoops silently from one perch to another
the moon whispers, do as I do, not as I say
the stream seeks silence, hence depth, but cannot restrain its giggling
the grasshopper says, is it?
the squirrel says, right
the tree says, tree
the worm rarely speaks, but when it does, everyone listens
the pine needle, daisy and cricket sing in harmony, don’t blame us
the mosquito joins in, mostly on the choruses
the frog is the only one to complain about the weather
the daffodil wakes, says, shh, and goes back to sleep
the mongoose says, clean up after yourselves please
the bat asks, is it there that the drowned live?
the beetle, Angel of the Forest, says, round, round, round
the termite opens its mouth, but in the end says nothing
the wind talks all night long.
Only the dawn brings quiet.
Thursday, 6 August 2009
You went to a block of flats once to interview an old woman about something or other, and her Alsation dog followed you through the door and into the front room. After about half an hour, the dog got up and crapped in the corner, then sat down by the fire. At first you thought it was none of your business, but eventually you couldn’t keep your mouth shut, and asked her why she didn’t make her dog go outside. “It’s not my dog,” she said, “I thought it was yours.”
... Another woman … [had] a huge Rottweiler bitch ... growling at you. “Don’t worry,” the woman said. “It’s because you’re drinking out of her cup.” That story isn’t true either.
from “Where You’re At” by Simon Armitage in “All Points North” (1988)