THE CASANOVA KANGAROO
The Casanova Kangaroo
is a bounder
but he’s no cad
or utter rotter
(and if he was an otter
he wouldn’t be
fishy either). He’s not a
womaniser
who disguises his desire
as charm. In fact
the only thing he has in
common with
the original Casanova is
that they both wrote
their memoirs.
Chapter One,
‘My Early Life in a Pouch’
PANDEMONIUM
Pandemonium is
not a state of disorder
but a state ruled
by pandas. They
will try to bamboozle
you with booze
made from bamboo
shoots and seduce
you with the music
of bamboo flutes.
The capital of the state
of Pandemonium
is called Nebulosity
City but I don’t know
why. No one actually
lives there. Pandas
prefer the countryside.
Rhys Hughes has lived in many countries. He graduated as an engineer but currently works as a tutor of mathematics. Since his first book was published in 1995 he has had fifty other books published and his work has been translated into ten languages.
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Time Out
Hawking’s Brief History of Time
is such a relief! How sublime
that time, in reverse,
may un-write this verse
and un-spend my last thin dime.
Time Back In!
Hawking, who makes my head spin,
says time may flow backward. I grin,
imagining the surprise
in my mother’s eyes
when I head for the womb once again.
The Dromedary
There once was a dromedary
who befriended a crafty canary.
Budgie said, “You can’t sing,
but here’s the thing:
just think of the tunes you can carry!”
The Better Man
Dear Ed: I don’t understand why
you will publish this other guy—
when I’m brilliant, devoted,
one hell of a poet!
Yet you publish Anonymous. Fie!
Dot Spotted
There once was a leopardess, Dot,
who indignantly answered: "I'll not!"
"The gents are impressed
with the way that I'm dressed.
I wouldn't change even one spot!"
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Michael R. Burchhas over 6,000 publications, including poems that have gone viral. His poems have been translated into fourteen languages and set to music by eleven composers. He also edits The HyperTexts (online at www.thehypertexts.com).
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Kissing frogs is
sometimes a wise thing to do
but mostly no,
it’s not. They may
turn into a prince, true,
or they may turn into
something different, a thing
that will make you wince.
Who knows? I don’t.
A romantically inclined girl
with amorous curls
tumbling over her shoulders
was picking her way
one day along a narrow track
liberally strewn with
boulders. Unhappy was she
with her family and desperate
to move out of her home
and so she liked to roam
while daydreaming
of magical encounters.
On the rim of a pool
she spied a frog sitting
on a log and she said
to herself, “If I kiss his lips
maybe my wish will be granted.”
With excitement she panted
and supposed that this amphibian
had been sent by a god
slanted in her favour
so right on the meridian
of his mouth she planted a smacker
with a passionate flavour.
Oh dear! Expectations
are often thwarted and when all the
mistakes of humankind are sorted
and noted down
the assumption that a kissed frog
will always turn into a prince
must certainly be somewhere on the list.
It was the girl who changed!
Her personality remained the same, yes,
but her outer form
became perfectly frog-like
and now the frog on the log
who had long been alone
had a female to call his own
and he kissed her lips
to express his amorous nature.
But the lips of a frog
have a magical force and no sooner
had the kiss been delivered
than his bright green darling turned
into a handsome prince. He winced
if frogs can be said to wince at all
and his disappointment was evinced
by the fact he hopped away.
What use is a prince to a frog?
Let’s take this absurdity no further.
The prince turned on his heel
and went back along the difficult track
to reconcile himself with
a very surprised mother and father.
Rhys Hughes has lived in many countries. He graduated as an engineer but currently works as a tutor of mathematics. Since his first book was published in 1995 he has had fifty other books published and his work has been translated into ten languages.
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Queenie the Sloth
Queenie the sloth
lives in the labyrinth
of the Olive Green Pen
and toils daily to trace
straight lines on pink A4 sheets
Her behaviour often confuses me
and when I ask her,
“Do sloths work so hard?”
She laughs then sings,
“Banished was I ten years back
from Yellow Land of Lazy Hands
for building a bridge from Ant-land
to River of Silvery Friends
O sloths!
O sloths!
Laze around, laze around
and let the Earth rock
on its own beats!
That’s what most sloths do, don’t they?
But I’m Queenie
and I’ve chosen my way
Yes I’ve dared, I did, I did it
and I’m happier with my purposeful life”
“But don’t you miss your family?
Don’t you ever feel sad on New Year?”
I asked
“Oh no, no my friend!
In life, Never regret!
Have a cookie
Enjoy a chocolate drink
Laugh, pray
and let your mission shine
all day!"
King Snaky-Dragon
When King Snaky-Dragon
loses a battle
he often wears
his huge fan-brush hat
and orders the largest canvas
As he paints
a leafy green Pringles can
and writes with the finest brush,
“Drum it’’.
Mischievous Raccoon whispers,
“ Flip the fan, flip the fan!”
The king frowns
and shouts,
“Don’t you ever dare to challenge my wise fan!”
Vatsala Radhakeesoon is an author/poet and artist from Mauritius. She has had numerous poetry books published and she is currently working on her flash fiction/short stories book. She considers poetry as her first love and visual art as a healer in all circumstances. Vatsala Radhakeesoon currently lives at Rose-Hill, Mauritius, and is a freelance literary translator and an interview editor of Asian Signature journal.
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Rhys Hughes takes us through Greek mythology with his own brand of humour blending the past and the present
1
When Bellerophon
saw a unicorn
upon his lawn
he was somewhat
disappointed.
“I have no wish
to make a fuss,”
is what he said, “but this
is the day appointed
for me to receive
a visit from
Pegasus instead.”
2
Hydras are bad
in Hyderabad
or so
Hercules has heard.
Needless to say
he therefore
plans
to go there
gladly
on Pegasus Airlines
but not before
he goes to Goa
because he badly
needs a holiday.
What a legendary chap!
3
In order to earn
money as well as learn
something, while
writing her thesis on Theseus,
Ariadne works
as a guide
to sightseers
and gives them
a Minotaur of the famous
labyrinth.
4
Sovereign of dolphins,
king of the waves,
the god of the sea
makes bubbles
without any trouble
when he plays the flute
as he bathes.
And jazz in the oceanic
jacuzzi is cosy
and groovy
but the melody
is unfamiliar to you.
Yet I can name
Neptune in one.
5
There’s a Zeus
loose about this house,
his thunderbolts
will cook your goose,
assuming that
you are unlucky
enough to have one.
But even if you don’t,
when you hear
him stir,
it’s better to duck!
6
Simple arithmetic
ought to be taught
in the schools
that heroes go to,
so they will know,
without any doubt,
that one minus one
equals nought.
The stealing of
the Golden Fleece
celebrated with
a premature feast
in the near vicinity
of the daring theft
adds up only to trouble.
Sail away first
before slaking your thirst,
sail far from the
hostile nation.
But enraptured by wine
and more potent brews
Jason plus crew
(that fiery few)
are captured and thrown
into jail.
While serving time,
forget the blue sea,
remember instead
all that you learned
about subtraction
and count down the years,
one minus one
equals nought, a free
Argonaut…
and that is the sum
of this tale.
7
Atlas, holding up the sky,
looks and sees
aeroplanes flying by
around his head
and through his legs,
the passengers
respectful to his
massive thighs
but oblivious
of his giant sighs.
8
Pan in the kitchen
clattering pots
and chopping boards.
What’s the god
of nature doing
indoors? He’s frying
so hard to be
a domesticated chap,
that’s what!
A non-stick goatish
do gooder with
a skillet skill set.
9
Prometheus on
the promenade
walking in
the shade of trees
no longer gives
away anything
to humanity
for free, not even
lemonade: those
days are over.
Now he hopes
to make money
and only offers
his fire for hire.
10
Socrates was such a tease
in the market square.
He doubted this
and questioned that
until some people
had had enough.
They felt he mocked
their authority
and in a cup
of hemlock they turned
a key, the skeleton
key of his mortality.
11
While the rock
goes up his socks
fall down. Poor
Sisyphus!
When the rock
rolls down his socks
are quite forgot.
Mighty but mild
Sisyphus!
As the moon goes up
his efforts are
with moonlight
flooded thus. Don’t
make a fuss, old
Sisyphus!
12
A cyclops is like
a bicycle headlamp
coming the other
way. We meet them
on country roads
at night when we
are cycling far away.
“How do you do?”
we always ask
as we zoom past
very fast, but they
never deign to reply.
They just hiss
and wink darkness
back to life and
softened by gloom
or the glow of
the moon they
become rather more
beautiful. Now
there’s a cyclops for
sore eyes!
13
Icarus upstairs
on the omnibus.
His wings
were things
that fell apart.
Some people fly
for business,
others for sport:
But since his
accident Icarus finds
that he prefers
public transport.
Rhys Hughes has lived in many countries. He graduated as an engineer but currently works as a tutor of mathematics. Since his first book was published in 1995 he has had fifty other books published and his work has been translated into ten languages.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL.
Poems by Tom Merrill have recently appeared in two novels as epigraphs.He is Poet in Residuum at The Hypertexts and Advisory Editor at Better Than Starbucks.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Rhys Hughes has lived in many countries. He graduated as an engineer but currently works as a tutor of mathematics. Since his first book was published in 1995 he has had fifty other books published and his work has been translated into ten languages.
.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL.
of autumn’s heavy late-afternoon traffic – an urgent
meeting of brown dry leaves
and some broken yellow sunlight
.
Here I am going to leave
all old latitudes and longitudes
neatly creased
and folded like a new tourist map
near the empty tea cup; in them, you may find
shadows of fish, bougainvillea seeds,
bees in November, dry deciduous leaves
and ample ember
.
But coordinates are much like our obsessions– hard to go;
they will follow
you through the busy streets in the evening
behind every pedestrian with algae masks
like numerous notifications
for one lost search
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Sekhar Banerjeeis an author. He has four collections of poems and a monograph on an Indo-Nepal border tribe to his credit. He is a former Secretary of Paschimbanga Bangla Akademi and Member-Secretary of Paschimbanga Kabita Akademi under the Government of West Bengal. He lives in Kolkata, India.
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As Mr. Jologg was getting ready for a date He was hooked by some twist of fate . In the centre of his face waved a red satin heart all flappy and as soft as petal . “Oh my nose! Where is my nose?” He shouted . Hastily he cancelled his date He called some healthcare modernists He called some traditional apothecaries They prescribed him capsules They prescribed him potions Some even prescribed him songs and some even pyramid- shaped canvas He tried them all Nothing worked . Then he jumped, jumped, jumped on the green grassy hill He ran, ran, ran across the Antelope-fields But nothing worked . Lost in despair, he called Vanilla – his girlfriend, the nurse with sunflower smile . “There’s no curse, Jologg” She assured, “Go on , take this, Sniff, sniff, Breathe in”
As he did what she said black and white pepper swirled magically A roman nose settled in
.
“Oh, my nose! My nose!” he exclaimed overjoyed “ It is back but never forget Watch out! That trickster! The nose!”
Vatsala Radhakeesoon, born in Mauritius in 1977, is the author of 11 poetry books, including Tropical Temporariness (Transcendent Zero Press, USA, 2019), Whirl the Colours (Gibbon Moon Books UK/Kenya, 2020) and नीली हंसिनी के गाने – Songs of the Blue Swan (Bilingual Hindi -English, Gloomy Seahorse Press, UK/Kenya,2020). She is one of the representatives of Immagine and Poesia, an Italy based literary movement uniting artists and poets’ works. She currently lives at Rose-Hill and is a literary translator, interviewer and artist.
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The scientist who meddles with dark thoughts in the privacy of an apparatus-cluttered attic
is feeling ecstatic because of the sight that greets him on the automatic operating table in the centre of his gloomy room.
It is a monster constructed from parts that once belonged to people who now are dead
but he only knows for definite the name of the one who contributed the brawny left arm and that was Fred.
.
When read aloud the names of the others might resemble a chorus of doom
especially as he thinks he vaguely recognises the chap who contributed the major portion of the misshapen head
(a fellow who expired so recently that standards of decency prevent me from revealing exactly how, for what that’s worth)
so Victor the experimenter won’t mutter anything at all, thank goodness! and yes that’s the name he was given at birth.
.
He hopes to be famous for being the first man to create artificial life on Earth.
If he is successful with this monster he will go on to design himself a wife.
Not that he couldn’t find himself a girlfriend to marry if he really applied his mind.
But he prefers to make a refined spouse from scratch right at the top of the house and mend her as required.
.
All the body parts he stole came from the graves of very polite people
but he wasn’t aware of this fact when he exhumed the corpses with a spade in the moonlight shadow of a churchyard steeple.
And now the monster is ready and he will dare in his lair to pull the lever that sends electric current tearing through the flesh,
most of which is fresh but with a few gone off bits here and there.
.
The creature stirs, sits up and murmurs a gracious hello to his creator and notes that Victor appears to be famished
and so he invites him for tea and some buns with honey at a nice café later even though he has no money to pay for them.
His instinct is to be civil at all times even with a bolt through his neck that prevents him from courteously nodding
and thick cotton wadding in his mouth that stops him from speaking clearly when he is being impractically lavish.
.
Victor is baffled by this behaviour of the ghastly creature, whom he expected to act in a manner more horridly apt
but he simply shrugs his shoulders and accepts the situation as a hungry cat might allow a radish to be placed in its dish.
Not that the comparison is a good one, but the hour is late and I’m the one who happens to be writing this poem
so we’ll let it stand as it is and wait for Victor’s shrug to finally vanish.
.
Still hoping for an answer, the monster steps off the table onto the floor and offers his right hand for a friendly shake
and Victor doesn’t know the name of the original owner of that particular set of fingers but suspects it belonged to a girl.
Then the monster pats his creator on the back and thanks him again and again with a smile like an array of black pearls
and wishes him all the best and inquires after his health and praises his lustrous curls.
.
But Victor’s curls are nothing special for they are just unkempt locks that have been combed by his studious fingers.
The warm but slightly odd feeling generated by the monster’s compliment nevertheless continues to linger within him.
In the mind of Victor as he inspects his creation at a more judicious angle there rise doubts about what he is dealing with
and he feels alarmed at the distinct possibility that his monster might be congenitally friendly to all and sundry.
.
Monsters are supposed to be malign and frighten everybody in the nation
but this one is turning out to be the most genial entity in the entire history of biological experimentation.
Victor is bemused and considers the patchwork of good manners that stands unsteadily before him on mismatched feet
while the devoted monster sways but says thank you and remains sweet without an obvious motive or reason.
.
Then the scientist comes to a sudden decision and lunges for his adjustable spanner
and undoes the neck bolt with savage twists until the head falls off and rolls along the floor into a collision with the corner
but the dreadful head in motion still mouths a silent thank you and blows a majestic kiss, polite to the bitter end.
I don’t want a wife like that, Victor tells himself with a shiver, for she would offend my notion of domestic bliss.
.
I want a spirited woman who will keep me on my toes and not a docile little lady who will apologise when I pull her nose.
He considers his experiment a failure and plans his next move and soon in that attic room he is full of qualms and fears.
Should I take all the parts back to the graveyard, he asks himself, his chin upon his hand, or keep them as souvenirs
of the time I proved to myself that a rude and lewd nature is more desirable in a monster than a respectful gentle mood?
.
In the end he judges it easier to keep the parts, but the jars in which he seals the flesh turn out not to be quite airtight
and depression makes him indolent in the weeks that follow and he watches sadly as the bits slowly decay away.
He wasn’t exactly the greatest scientist of his day nor the happiest man in his town
but one thing can be said in his favour that should add considerably to his renown…
.
To the Victor, the spoils!
Pumpkin
Would you like some toast?
(The waitress was a most gracious
host as she approached.)
.
You have bread! I said.
.
And she replied:
Yes, of course. A thoroughbred horse
is the best kind of bred.
.
Then in my silence
she continued:
I would deduce you have led a
sheltered life if you prefer any variety
other than that?
.
To which I responded:
.
A horse is not a loaf
all things being equal. I don’t wish
to make a fuss but equus
for breakfast is worse
even than a poached top hat.
What else do you have?
.
No top hats at all, she sighed.
.
How about a bowler soup?
I inquired with a drooping
mouth (it surely was
uncouth of me to look like
that… but no top hat!)
.
Nothing, she sighed. The
kitchen flooded and all the food was
spoiled. We are growing
pumpkins to pump out the water but
they will take many more
months to be ready.
.
At this point I felt quite unsteady.
Pumpkins won’t pump out water!
That’s absurd. Consider
the word more carefully. They
pump kin. Though I will
concede that they sometimes
shift kith too. But H2O?
No! Rue the day that
idea came your way. Why it’s
chemically outrageous,
the logic of the notion is
quite fallacious. Now please be
gracious enough to show
me the door.
.
There it is, she said
as she pointed with a long
itchy finger. It is ajar,
a jar of apricot
jam.
.
The door jambs were made
from fruit,
this is true, yet
there was still no proper toast
so the point is
moot. I stood up in my boots.
.
I swear that
I’ve had better service from
a ghost, one with a
pumpkin head,
I said as I departed. But the
waitress snarled
at my retreating
back and started to hurl abuse.
.
You ought to drain your spinal
fluid, oh pesky druid.
Warts for keys!
Birds and fleas!
Pumpkins for frumpkins such as you!
There is no such word
was my final retort as I slammed
the door behind me.
Air Guitar Contest, Wiki
Air Guitar Poem
.
Many people play
the air guitar. I have a friend
who plays an air lute
instead. It is cute that he feels
the need to be so
mediaeval. As for myself: I play
the air tambourine,
the air cymbals,
the air harmonium,
the air flugelhorn,
and pretty much the entire range
of possible musical
instruments, even those that
are tuned differently
from the scales I
know so well. And I even play
the air cow bells.
.
The only
instruments I avoid are the
air wind chimes and
the air Aeolian harp.
.
I find those rather tricky…
.
Rhys Hughes has lived in many countries. He graduated as an engineer but currently works as a tutor of mathematics. Since his first book was published in 1995 he has had fifty other books published and his work has been translated into ten languages.
.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL.
