Category: Poetry

Poetry and Photography By Rhys Hughes

An anonymous human once did
a small, almost imperceptible,
kindness to another anonymous
human here. But it isn’t clear
what that microscopic kindness
was. All the details are missing
and no amount of listening to
the wind kissing my ears will
give me any significant clues.

Maybe it was to make a dream
come true? Some modest scheme
such as a desire to swim in cream
or perhaps the wish to read maps
upside down without a frown?

I don’t know but now I’m thinking
about those times when I did a little
kindness for someone too. Let me
give you just one domestic example:

She asked me to do the washing up and I did.
I don’t want her to think I take but never give.
So, I did the plates, the cutlery, pots and pans,
and every cooking utensil piled up in the sink,
but my fingers got stuck in the holes of a sieve.

Not convinced of my nobility? Then
I ought to choose some other incident
that will prove my sincerity and ability
when it comes to minor moral actions.
Are you ready for my confession? It
teaches a valuable lesson, yes it does.

After the fiasco with the sieve
I bought her a pair of slippers
made from a new type of fabric
as black as a frogman’s flippers
and when I enquired what she
thought of them the following
day, this is what she had to say:

“My slippers are equally good
at both walking and wallowing,
and so silky and smooth they
glide like the valiant cheeks
of a greased rump on a slide.
A wider rump than mine by far,
my rump is of a reasonable size
and has no excess of friction.
This is not a fiction. Hurrah!”

By which I surmise she liked the surprise
even though I never saw her wear them,
but it’s the thought that counts. Therefore
I must have an abacus somewhere inside
my skull, preventing me from being dull.

And at night I help her fall asleep
by disguising myself as an intruder
who isn’t a creep, a mythic figure
from old fairytales, and she smiles
as I try to croon a soothing refrain:

“Sandman, when it rains
do your grains get sticky?
It must be awfully tricky
to sprinkle sticky grains
into the eyes of sleepers?
And have you seen my
new bed? It’s in the shape
of a hippopotamus head.”

Well, that’s all the evidence I possess
to address the issue of whether I am
the very best or even just a runner-up
at doing small, almost imperceptible,
kindnesses. Maybe you can outdo me,
brewing coffee or tea for grizzly bears
in the depths of a beverage-less forest,
or climbing ladders to rescue adders
stuck up trees, and by ‘adders’ I don’t
mean snakes but men with abacuses
instead of brains, or do you prefer to
shovel snow to clear those lanes that
seem to grow across the hillsides in
spring like tendrils, a peculiar thing?

In the meantime I am bedridden
and that is why I remain hidden
from society, as if I’m anonymous
and consequently synonymous
with that kind human, the subject
of this poem. Why do you say ho
hum? Do you doubt my anecdotes?

Nobody knows how I managed
to get thimbles stuck on my toes
overnight. I rose one morning
to sniff a rose with my long nose
but found I could no longer walk.

How do I feel about this? Just
sew-sew, I guess. I have no need
to talk about it further. Be kind
even if you don’t have an abacus
for a mind. That’s all. Farewell.

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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