HOW TO TREAT THE HOUSE-PLANTS

All she ever thinks about are house-plants.

She talks to them and tends them every day.

And she says, 'Don't hurt their feelings. Give them

Love. In all your dealings with them,

Treat them in a tender, human way.'

'Certainly, my dear,' he says. 'OK.

Human, eh?'

But the house-plants do not seem to want to play.

They are stooping, they are drooping,

They are kneeling in their clay;

They are flaking, they are moulting,

Turning yellow, turning grey,

And they look . . . . . well, quite revolting

As they sigh and fade away.

So after she has left the house he gets them

And he sets them in a line against the wall.

And I cannot say he cossets them or pets them -

No, he doesn't sympathise with them at all.

Is he tender? Is he human? Not a bit.

No, to each of them in turn he says: 'You twit!'

You're a

Rotten little skiver,

Cost a fiver,

Earn your keep!

You're a

Dirty little drop-out!

You're a cop-out!

You're a creep!

You're a

Mangy little whinger!

You're a cringer!

Son, it's true -

I have justbin

to the dustbin

Where there's better men than you!

Get that stem back!

Pull your weight!

Stick your leaves out!

STAND UP STRAIGHT!

And, strange to say, the plants cooperate.

So when she comes back home and finds them glowing,

Green and healthy, everyone a king,

She says, 'It's tenderness that gets them growing!

How strange the change a little love can bring!

'Oh yes,' he says. 'Not half. Right. Love's the thing.'

Kit Wright

1944

THE MAD GARDENER'S SONG

He thought he saw an Elephant,

    That practised on a fife:

He looked again, and found it was

    A letter from his wife.

'At length I realise,' he said,

    'The bitterness of Life!'

He thought he saw a Buffalo

    Upon the chimney-piece:

He looked again, and found it was

    His Sister's Husband's Niece.

'Unless you leave this house,' he said,

    'I'll send for the Police!'

He thought he saw a Rattlesnake

    That questioned him in Greek:

He looked again, and found it was

    The Middle of Next Week.

'The one thing I regret,' he said,

    'Is that it cannot speak!'

He thought he saw a Banker's Clerk

    Descending from the bus:

He looked again, and found it was

    A Hippopotamus.

'If this should stay to dine,' he said,

    'There won't be much for us!'

He thought he saw a Kangaroo

    That worked a coffee-mill:

He looked again, and found it was

    A Vegetable-Pill.

'Were I to swallow this,' he said,

    'I should be very ill!'

He thought he saw a Coach-and-Four

    That stood beside his bed:

He looked again, and found it was

    A Bear without a Head.

'Poor thing,' he said, 'poor silly thing!

    It's waiting to be fed!'

He thought he saw an Albatross

    That fluttered round the lamp:

He looked again, and found it was

    A Penny-Postage Stamp.

'You'd best be getting home,' he said:

    'The nights are very damp!'

He thought he saw a Garden-Door

    That opened with a key:

He looked again, and found it was

    A Double Rule of Three:

'And all its mystery,' he said,

    'Is clear as day to me!'

He thought he saw a Argument

    That proved he was the Pope:

He looked again, and found it was

    A Bar of Mottled Soap.

'A fact so dread,' he faintly said,

    'Extinguishes all hope!'

Lewis Carroll

1832-1898

In case anyone is wondering what has happened to the usually so serious tone of Friko's poetry blog since the long August break, I have decided to stay with humorous verse for a bit.

THE JAMES BOND MOVIE

The popcorn is greasy, and I forgot to bring a Kleenex.
A pill that's a bomb inside the stomach of a man inside

The Embassy blows up. Eructations of flame, luxurious
cauliflowers giganticize into motion. The entire 29-ft.

screen is orange, is crackling flesh and brick bursting,
blackening, smithereened. I unwrap a Dentyne and, while

jouncing my teeth in rubber tongue-smarting clove, try
with the 2-inch wide paper to blot butter off my fingers.

A bubble-bath, room-sized, in which 14 girls, delectable,
and sexless, twist-topped Creamy Freezes (their blond,

red, brown, pinkish, lavender or silver wiglets all
screwed that high, and varnished), scrub-tickle a lone

male, whose chest has just the right amount and distribution
of curly hair. He's nervously pretending to defend

his modesty. His crotch, below the waterline, is also
below the frame - but unsubmerged all 28 slick foamy boobs.

Their make-up fails to let the girls look naked. Caterpillar
lashes, black and thick, lush lips glossed pink like

the gum I pop and chew, contact lenses on the eyes that are
mostly blue, they're nose-perfect replicas of each other.

I've got most of the grease off and onto this little square
of paper. I'm folding it now, making creases with my nails.




May Swenson
1913-1989

THINGS

There are worse things than having behaved foolishly in public.

There are worse things than these miniature betrayals,

committed or endured or suspected; there are worse things

than not being able to sleep for thinking about them.

It is 5 a.m. All the worse things come stalking in

and stand icily about the bed looking worse and worse and worse.

Fleur Adcock

born 1934 in NZ, of English/N. Irish origin

SUMMER from THE LIFE OF LOVE

Gibran's painting of his sister Mariana

Let us go into the fields, my beloved, for the
Time of harvest approaches, and the sun's eyes
Are ripening the grain.
Let us tend the fruit of the earth, as the
Spirit nourishes the grains of joy from the
Seeds of love, sowed deep in our hearts.
Let us fill our bins with the products of
Nature, as life fills so abundantly the
Domain of our hearts with her endless bounty.
Let us make the flowers our bed, and the
Sky our blanket, and rest our heads together
Upon pillows of soft hay.
Let us relax after the day's toil, and listen
To the provoking murmur of the brook.


Khalil Gibran
18883-1931

QUIETNESS

Rumi

Inside this new love, die.

Your way begins on the other side.

Become the sky,

Take an axe to the prison wall.

Escape.

Walk out like somebody suddenly born into colour.

Do it now.

You're covered with thick cloud.

Slide out the side. Die,

and be quiet. Quietness is the surest sign

that you've died.

Your old life was a frantic running

from silence.

The speechless full moon

comes out now.

Rumi

1207-1273

translated from the Persian by Coleman Barks with John Moyne

KEEPING QUIET

Now we will count to twelve
and we will all keep still.

For once on the face of the earth
let's not speak in any language,
let's stop for one second,
and not move our arms so much.

It would be an exotic moment
without rush, without engines,
we would all be together
in sudden strangeness.

Fisherman in the cold sea
would not harm whales
and the man gathering salt
would look at his hurt hands.

Those wo prepare green wars,
wars with gas, wars with fire,
victory with no survivors,
would put on clean clothes
and walk about with their brothers
in the shade, doing nothing.

What I want should not be confused
with total inactivity.
Life is what it is about;
I want no truck with death.

If we were not so single-minded
about keeping our lives moving,
and for once could no nothing,
perhaps a huge silence
might interrupt this sadness
of never understanding ourselves
and of threatening ourselves with death.
Perhaps the earth can teach us
as when everything seems dead
and later proves to be alive.

Now I'll count up to twelve
and you keep quiet and I will go.



Pablo Neruda
1904-1973


translated from the Spanish by Alastair Reid