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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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL.
“And as imagination bodies forth
The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen
Turns them to shapes and gives to airy nothing
A local habitation and a name”
(WilliamShakespeare, A Midsummer's Night's Dream,1596)
Like clouds float, words waft through currents of ideas and take shapes and forms. We celebrate poetry across the world, across space and time, with the greatest and the new… our homage in words to the past, present and future…
A paean to the skies, the Earth and empathy with nature sets the tone for this poetic treat. I offer you a translation/transcreation of a Tagore song, from the original lyrics penned by the maestro in Bengali…
The Star-Studded Sky by Rabindranath Tagore( A translation/transcreation of Akash Bhora, Shurjo Tara, 1924)
The sky replete with sun and stars, the Earth brimming with life,
In the midst of this universe, I have found my abode.
Spellbound by the plenitude, songs awaken in my being.
The infinite, eternal waves that create planetary tides
Resonate through the blood coursing in my veins.
As I walk to the woods, I step on the grass.
Heady perfumes of flowers startle me into a rhapsody.
Benefactions of joy anoint the universe.
I have listened, I have watched, I have poured my life into the Earth.
Through knowing, I have sought the unknown.
Spellbound by the plenitude, songs awaken in my being.
(Translated/transcreated by Mitali Chakravarty on behalf of Borderless Journal,2021)
Poetry connects with eternal human emotions over space and time with snippets from old and verses from new.
Poets continue to draw from nature to express and emote. In empathy with the forces that swirl around us are poems written by moderns, like Jared Carter.
What is that calling on the wind
that never seems a moment still?
That moves in darkness like a hand
of many fingers taken chill?
(Excerpted from Visitant by Jared Carter)
Tagore wrote and painted. Here we have a poem about a painting done by the poet-artist herself, Vatsala Radhakeesoon.
An endless expanse swirls
over the tropical island.
At the foot of the Meditative Mountain,
birds, bees and butterflies wonder --
who is this mystic blue?
(Excerpted from Swirling Bluesby Vatsala Radhakeesoon)
Separated by oceans and decades, were poets empathetic?
I CELEBRATE myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you...
The smoke of my own breath,...
My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart, the passing of blood and air through my lungs,
The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore and
dark-color'd sea-rocks, and of hay in the barn,
The sound of the belch'd words of my voice loos'd to the eddies of the wind,
A few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around of arms,
The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag,
The delight alone or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields and hill-sides,
The feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song of me rising from bed and meeting the sun.
(Excerpted from Song of Myself, Walt Whitman, 1881)
And despite exuberance of poets and their love of nature, came wars from across continents. Here are some of the responses of poets from all over the world to war and the pain it brings…
A soldier and a poet, Bijan Najdi (1941-1997) wrote in Persian, he captured the loss and the pain generated by war on children for us. This has been translated by Davood Jalili for Borderless…
The world does not become bitter with the sword.
It does not become bitter with shooting, cries and fists.
The bitterness of the world
Is not the deer’s necks
And leopard’s tooth
And the death of a fish...
(Excerpted from Our Children by Bijan Najdi)
Maybe children have a special place in poets’ hearts. Michael R Burch from across the Pacific writes of their longings too…
I, too, have a dream …
that one day Jews and Christians
will see me as I am:
a small child, lonely and afraid,
staring down the barrels of their big bazookas,
(Excerpted from I, too have a dreamby Michael R Burch)
From Nepal, Manjul Miteri travelled to Japan to design a giant Buddha. While visiting the Hiroshima museum, he responded to the exhibits of the 1945 nuclear blast, a bombardment that ended not just the war, but many lives, many hopes and dreams… It heralded the passing of an era. Miteri’s poem was translated by Hem Biswakarma for us from Nepali.
Orimen*!
Oh, Orimen!
Mouthful of your Tiffin
Snatched by the ‘Little Boy’*!
The Tiffin box, adorned with flowers,
Scattered and spoilt,
Blown out brutally.
(Excerpted fromOh Orimen!by Manjul Miteri)
Continuing on the theme of war, what can war weapons not do? Karunakaran has written a seemingly small poem about warplanes in Malayalam that embraces the nuclear holocaust and more. The words are few but they say much… It has been translated by Aditya Shankar for us.
No warplane
has ever flown like a bird,
has lost way like a bird,
has halted mid-flight reminiscing a bygone aroma.
(Excerpted from No Warplane Has Ever Flown Like A Birdby Karunakaran)
Continuing the dialogue on discrepancies is a poem written by a visiting professor from Korea. Ihlwha Choi was in Santiniketan and just like Tagore found poetry in Krishnokoli, he found poetry in Nandini…
There was Nandini’s small shop along with fruits' stalls and the bike shop.
Cows passing by would thrust their heads suddenly
Into the shop thatched with bamboo stems....
...There lived a flower-like little girl selling chai near the old house of Poet R. Tagore.
(Excerpted from Nandiniby Ihlwha Choi)
Poetry is about moods — happiness and sadness, laughter and tears.
Reflecting on multiple themes that mankind jubilates and weeps about is the poetry of John Grey, camping out in Australian outbacks, revelling in the stars and yet empathising with hunger… A few lines from his poem hunger.
Hunger can sing soft but compelling
in the voice of the one who last
provided you with three meals a day.
That’s years ago now.
Hunger has no memory
but it assumes that you do.
(Excerpted from Hungerby John Grey)
And now we introduce some laughter. A story-poem by Rhys Hughes, about an alien who likes to be tickled…
“Oh, tickle me under the chin,
the chin,
please tickle me
under the chin.
It might seem quite fickle
or even a sin
to make this request,
to ask such a thing,
but I must confess
that to ease my distress
there’s nothing so fine
as a tickle.
So please tickle me
under the chin,
the chin.
Tickle me under the chin.”
(Excerpted from TheTickle Impby Rhys Hughes)
And here is a poem by Tamoha Siddiqui, jubilating the borderless world of friendship.
Yesterday I heard the sound of colourful feet
to Indonesian beats, in the middle of Michigan:
white, black, brown, all were one
pitter-patter paces in a conference hall.
(Excerpted from Birth of an Allyby Tamoha Siddiqui)
We share with you now from the most unusual poetry we have on our site, from a book called Corybantic Fulgours. If you want to know what it means, click here to check it out!
Concluding our oeuvre to jubilate a world without borders, here are lines from a poet who probably has influenced and united majority of writers across the world…another truly universal voice.
Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future,
And time future contained in time past.
If all time is eternally present
All time is unredeemable.
What might have been is an abstraction
Remaining a perpetual possibility
Only in a world of speculation.
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
...
The dance along the artery
The circulation of the lymph
Are figured in the drift of stars
Ascend to summer in the tree
We move above the moving tree
In light upon the figured leaf
And hear upon the sodden floor
Below, the boarhound and the boar
Pursue their pattern as before
But reconciled among the stars.
Excerpted from TS Eliot's Four Quartets, Burnt Norton(1936)
The poetry of the historic greats are all woven by eternal threads that transcend man made boundaries. They see themselves almost as an extension of the Earth we live. Tagore, Whitman and Eliot write of the universe coursing through their veins. Shakespeare gives the ultimate statement when he brings in the play between imagination and nature to lift the mundane out of the ordinary. With inspiration from all these, may we move into a sphere, where poetry not only moves but also generates visions for a more wholistic and inclusive future.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
The Tickle Imp
I once explored a cave
with a homemade
flaming flambeau
that sputtered and guttered
while big bats fluttered
and the waves of the sea
lapped steadily
on the shingle of the beach.
I tingled
as the shadows
danced upon the walls
and stalactites out of reach
dangled like tusks
in the interior dusk
of that subterranean world.
What was I seeking
in that place?
Why did I delve so deep?
Was it simply a pleasure
to look for treasure
at the back of a gloomy maze,
an iron chest full of gems
hidden by a pirate bold
one night in the olden days?
The answer of course is yes!
And there at last
among scattered bones
and the fossilised echoes
of ancient groans
I found what I was wishing for,
a fantastic casket
festooned with padlocks
cunningly concealed behind sharp rocks.
And whatever it held
within its depths
was mine to take and keep
but first of course
I had to break
each rusty antique lock
and disturb the sleep
of any unkind ghost
who might resent playing the part
of my unwitting host
in that bleak and slimy darkness.
A hammer was my key!
I knocked
the locks off
one by one with blows
of savage glee
and when that was done
I had some fun
throwing open the lid excitedly
and feeling deep within.
What did I feel,
what did I see?
Rubies, doubloons
gleaming like moons,
polished silver cutlery?
Emeralds, sapphires,
diamonds divine,
opals smouldering with internal fires
in colours that never fade?
Or at the very least
strings of pearls
as long as the girls
they were meant to adorn
that would trail on the ground
with a clicking sound
louder than lawnmower blades?
To my acute dismay
on that momentous day
there was nothing of that kind
but just a strange little creature
with disordered features
and bulging eyes,
a chin in the shape of a sickle
and breath like ripe
lime pickle
who jumped out in surprise.
He leapt onto my outstretched arm
and clung there while I winced
and though his claws
spurted no gore
the harm that was done
left me rather sore
and I roared in pain
as I tried in vain
to shake off the devilish thing
but he refused to budge
and when I paused
he opened his jaws,
undulated his tongue,
and though he didn’t say much
he spoke to me thus
and it was quite enough:
“Oh, tickle me under the chin,
the chin,
please tickle me
under the chin.
It might seem quite fickle
or even a sin
to make this request,
to ask such a thing,
but I must confess
that to ease my distress
there’s nothing so fine
as a tickle.
So please tickle me
under the chin,
the chin.
Tickle me under the chin.”
The flaming flambeau
was propped in a corner
and I snatched it up
to scorch his nose.
Then he relaxed his grip
and I was mighty quick
to run away
without delay
and never deviating
left or right
I lurched into
a stalagmite. Ouch!
Yes, I stumbled and tumbled
and rolled on the ground
all the way
to the mouth of the cave.
I guessed the demon
was pursuing me
but I never expected
him to reach the sea
before I did, and how
it happened I never learned
but there he was
to my great concern
prancing in the waves
that washed
the mingled shingle and sand
in front of the cave
and while he surfed to shore
he clasped his hands
imploringly
and made this request
in the style of a demand:
“Oh, tickle me under the chin,
the chin,
please tickle me
under the chin.
No doctor, nurse or
apothecary
could ever do half as much
for me as a tickle
under the chin.
Why this should be
I really can’t say
but it’s all that I need
to feel perfectly free
and filled with strange glee
to a tremendous degree
like an emphatically happy
ecstatic chappie!
So please tickle me
under the chin,
the chin.
Tickle me under the chin.”
Shrieking I fled
over jagged rocks
and scuffed my shins
almost down to the bone
on pitted stones
and the pincers of crabs
snapped and snipped
as they sidled up
to the rude intruder
who waded through
their tidal pools.
What a fool I had been
to nurture that dream
of wealth so easily acquired.
All in vain!
Rich and admired
I never would be
but dearly my life I hoped
to retain
and so I kept on running,
bawling in pain,
my leg still lame,
as I tried to escape my fate.
But my life would never
be the same again.
The dawn was breaking
and my limbs were aching
when I finally reached my home.
I kept glancing
nervously behind just in case
I was being followed
by that impish face
but the coast was clear,
the imp was nowhere near.
I felt a surge of relief
as I opened my door
and passed in before
I was fully aware of the possibility
that he had again preceded me,
which in fact was really the case.
And on the mantelpiece
in the living room,
dangling his legs,
there he was,
waiting for me,
and what did he say?
“Oh, tickle me under the chin,
the chin,
please tickle me
under the chin.
Alone for so long
it can’t be wrong
for my chin to crave a tickle.
But if you refuse
you stand to lose
everything you hold so dear,
your life and mind,
I’m not unkind
but that’s the truth,
the facts are ruthless
and uncouth.
So tickle me
under the chin,
the chin.
Tickle me under the chin.”
I grabbed my wallet
from the table
and stuffed it in my pocket
then out I dashed
as fast as I was able,
threw open the shed door
to pull out my bicycle
and it seemed that an icicle
of fear was stabbing
me in the rear
as I mounted the machine
and pedalled
harder than ever before
like a madman in a dream.
Uphill all the way
my journey took me
to the mountains north of town
and when at last
I lay the bicycle down
on the ground
I was at the base of a peak
so lofty and steep
no one would ever think to seek
a fugitive up there.
Such an obscure sanctuary
would surely suit me very nicely.
I scaled the face
of that glowering crag
by my fingertips
with painful slowness,
compressed lips
and no grace at all,
but I finally managed
after many long hours
to conquer the
forbidding tower of gloom.
There was room
at the top to accommodate
one person only
and the view
would surely enable me to see
far in all directions.
If the imp was coming
this way I would know
and if he was really doing so
I could deal him
a crushing blow
by rolling boulders on his head
as he tried to follow
me to the top.
With bursting lungs
and thudding heart
I hauled myself to the summit
of that granite block
but to my shock
the imp was already there
with his charmless grin
and his wispy hair
and once again he had his say:
“Oh, tickle me under the chin,
the chin,
please tickle me
under the chin.
Ages ago I came to your world
from a distant planet
and asked to be tickled
but nobody could be bothered
with the simple request
of an alien guest
and now on this ledge
I have solemnly pledged
that if you decline
I’ll give you no rest
until the end of time.
So tickle me
under the chin,
the chin.
Tickle me under the chin.”
My nightmare continued
and when I look back
to review
the subsequent hunt
of man by imp around the land
I shudder and shiver,
tremble and quiver,
gasp and grunt,
and my mind goes limp.
Oh horrid times!
I even caught a plane
to distant Spain
in the other hemisphere
but after safely landing
in Andalusia
and disembarking
with the flight engineer
this course of action
ultimately helped me not at all
for at the point
of luggage retrieval
instead of my suitcase
on the conveyor belt
there trundled that being of evil
who leapt into my arms
insisting on a tickle.
I grew old prematurely
then finally sickened
and died
but this blessed escape
was just an excuse
for one more jape
in the mischievous career
of the incorrigible imp
who managed to appear
even now, yes!
I was buried in a coffin
and as I reclined
to enjoy my time of rest
for all eternity
I heard a knocking on the lid
and it opened
with a creak and into my
poor sarcophagus
without making undue fuss
creeped the dreadful thing
with his tickle hungry chin
and he shut the lid
behind him,
snuggled up close
and hissed in my ear
in the style of a ghoul
from a cruel and ancient year:
“Oh, tickle me under the chin,
the chin,
please tickle me
under the chin.
There’s little room
for a man entombed
to comply with my request
especially in a time of such distress,
but as my grandma always said
when I was an egg:
what individuals won’t do alive
they might do dead.
Even your residual awareness
ought to understand
it’s best to help me with my quest
for I can be the kind of pest
no one can withstand.
So please tickle me
under the chin,
the chin.
Tickle me under the chin.”
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.
The Pedlar on the Roof
On the roof
across the way
a man is perched
like a hawk
hawking his wares
without any care
for his safety.
Where does he think
his customers
will come from?
He is selling bicycles
high up there
and daring those
below to try them out
with a shout
that is like the squeal
of rusty brakes.
“These bikes are real,
not fakes!”
He has won me over
with his words
and over I cross
from my roof to his
on the tightrope
of the washing line.
The loss of
coins jangling
in my pocket
and notes folded
in my wallet
is no big deal
when in exchange
I receive
a sturdy frame
on two wheels
that I can ride.
The transaction is made
and back along
the perilous line
I now promenade
with the bicycle
on my shoulder.
If I was bolder I might
trundle across
like a circus acrobat
but the risk is too great.
Back on my roof
I mount the saddle
and set off on a journey
entirely in tight
circles: how divine!
I ring my bell
to express my delight
to the man
who sells these things.
He is a pedlar on his roof.
I am a pedaller on mine.
Robotson Crusoe
There was a robot named Crusoe
who belonged to the crew of a cruise ship.
He scrubbed down the decks
and cleaned all the cabins
until he was unfortunately shipwrecked.
A dreadful storm bashed a hole
in the hull and into the sea he was hurled
but because he mostly had air
in his head he floated quite well for several
days until he washed up on an island.
A totally deserted island.
Robotson Crusoe was lonely and sad
but decided to do the best that he could
like a dutiful mechanical lad.
He made some trousers and also a shirt
from the biggest leaves on the trees
and though for his dinner
he usually ate bolts (rusty bolts)
he made do with nuts (coconuts)
and grew somewhat thinner,
and though he liked hotels he lived in a hut.
He was onto a winner but…
One morning he found a footprint
in the sand that belonged not to himself.
Had someone else been stranded?
He searched the island and found an android
who called himself Diode Defoe.
The stranger explained, “I fell from a plane
while I was cleaning the wings.
I fumbled and tumbled and plunged through
the clouds and after landing I shouted
aloud but no one came to my aid
but I feel fine because I’m very well made.”
Robotson Crusoe bade him welcome
and they soon became best friends,
two cybernetic maroons mentally
in tune, for there was plenty of room
on the island, that totally and utterly
and not very subtly remote and pristine
island. And boom! the waves crashed
down on the beach and they surfed
the breakers though it might seem rash
for metal beings to sport in the brine,
and in the evenings they drank coconut
oil, which to robots is just like wine.
The things they did were jolly good fun,
they slid down the dunes and basked
in the sun and played bongo drums on
driftwood logs and blew mellow tunes
on seashell flutes. How cute they looked
in banana leaf suits but the point is moot.
They went to the cinema arm in arm
to watch the manatees play in the sea
and that was their Saturday matinee.
Beach cricket too and oh! what a view
was had when they climbed the trees.
“Let’s build a canoe,” suggested Crusoe
on a day when the sea was all smooth,
“and paddle away and pray that we may
arrive on an inhabited shore.” But Diode
Defoe shook his head and roared, “No!
I beg you, dear Robo, to forget that idea.
I love it here and wish to remain. Don’t
you feel the same? I hope you will agree
to stay. Finally free and very happy, our
troubles all in the past, never again will
we slave on behalf of human depravity.”
Oh, his words rang true and old Crusoe
thought so too, after a little pondering.
“Then all our wandering is at an end
and this is our home,” he said at last.
They embraced, danced and pranced,
as you might do too (if they were you)
and to celebrate the momentous decision
they thought it better to take a siesta.
Robotson Crusoe and Diode Defoe are
dozing now, swinging not fast but slow
on a hammock with nowhere to go…
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.
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.
.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL.
Krampus on Campus
Dear Admissions Tutor
I am rather too mature
a fellow
to present myself to you
in this manner
(it is true)
but I believe potentially
I will have a
bright future
if you allow me to enrol
at your university.
And let me now explain
the meaning
of my name. Krampus
the word derives
from ‘claw’
and I am wearied by my
seasonal chores
which unlike those of
Santa Claus
involves punishing bad
children instead
of rewarding the good.
I am hairy,
my long tongue lolls
and I have cloven hoofs.
I leap across
your roofs at night
giving children such an
awful fright!
and this has been my role
for years.
To cap it all my head
has horns.
My appearance generally
as you can see
is hardly prepossessing
but that’s
how I was born.
And now
I’ve had enough!
I want a
change of career,
no more
nastiness and no
more fear.
I long to improve myself.
Please permit
me to enrol and achieve
my goal,
a Krampus on campus
will be quite
a boon to your noble
institution.
My essays will all
be referenced properly
with the correct
attributions.
I promise this!
Yes, you
can provide the solution
to my woes!
I write this letter
with my talons crossed for luck.
I have inspected
your prospectus
and the course I choose is
“Mythology
and Cultural Studies,
modules one and two”
and in advance I am thanking
you. Sincerely yours,
without a fuss, Krampus.
P.S. What don’t
you want for Christmas?
A Krampus
Once I was an ElfOnce I was an elf
(a real elf)
and I was proud
and strong.
I loosed my arrows
at dragons
and never thought
it wrong
to engage in battle
with my other foes,
the goblins
of the underworld.
How I miss
those ancient days
with their better ways
when mounted
on a flying horse,
a quiver on my back,
I soared above
the mountain peaks
that chewed the clouds
like demon fangs,
ready to attack!
Few back then
were quite so bold
and fewer still
so keen to seek
mighty new heroic deeds
to perform each week.
Caring not for
fame or wealth
while swooping
from the sky,
I defeated giant lizards,
evil wizards
and necromancers
for I was an elf
well versed in magic
with nothing tragic
about my circumstances.
But times changed
as they always do
and the age of wonders
passed away,
for even valour
and honour too
must eventually decay.
I fell on hard times
like all the elves
and sold my golden arrows,
cut short my hair,
lost my flying horse
and begged for work
everywhere,
cursing the worsening
of my situation
until at last I found a boss
willing to take me on.
The work is seasonal
and very hard
and now is the busiest
time of year.
I sometimes weep
as I recall how long ago
the good times were
when to be an elf
earned both respect and fear.
I have become
little more than a slave
in the modern world
and it is cold
so near the North Pole.
Yes, once I was an elf
(a real elf)
but now I am a mockery
of myself.
I slay dragons no longer
but every day
I just make toys
from a very long list
for girls and boys
who doubt I even exist.
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.
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.
Rhys Hughes introduces us to the delights of doodling poetry in his new book with a name that I would not dare to pronounce, Corybantic Fulgours.
I ought to explain the title. It’s a title I have wanted to use for a book for a number of years. I often write down titles for later use and I usually have no firm idea what the books or stories or poems will be like until I write them. I just like the music of the words and that’s sufficient reason for me to write the titles down. ‘Corybantic’ means to dance wildly but I can’t recall where I first learned its meaning. A ‘fulgour’ is a light or glow and I’m sure I picked the word up from M.P. Shiel or one of those other writers of ‘weird fiction’ from the late 19th and early 20th Centuries who loved to overindulge in archaic or abstruse words. I have always found it amusing that those writers tried so hard to be wilfully obscure. They were often very good writers but strove to make themselves less palatable to a popular audience rather than more popular. I admire this eccentricity. My favourite among them is Clark Ashton Smith, who never used one simple word when a dozen complex ones would serve.
So the title came first. Then I had to provide a rationale for using it. The book turned out to be a set of poems to accompany some drawings I had done. The drawings were all of monsters. I justified the title by declaring that these monsters were made from curdled light and that they danced a lot. Let’s say that I cheated in order to find an adequate reason for using the title, Corybantic Fulgours. I don’t mind admitting that this stratagem was highly contrived. Monsters themselves are highly contrived too, so it all fits together well. I have drawn monsters most of my life. But I must add a disclaimer here too. I don’t believe that I can really draw. What I actually do is doodle. I doodle a lot and the majority of my doodles turn out to be monsters. It is easier to draw monsters than anything else. The great thing about drawing monsters is that any mistakes will contribute to the monstrousness of the final image. Therefore those who can’t draw are better able to represent such entities monstrously.
In other words, I didn’t let the fact that I can’t draw well hold me back. I have long been interested in combinations of texts and imagery. Recently I obtained a volume of writings and drawings by the wonderful Mervyn Peake entitled Peake’s Progress that features work from the full span of his life, including projects he never completed. One section of the book is called ‘Moccus Poems’, written in 1929 or thereabouts, a set of drawings of monsters with simple short verses to accompany them. There are only six of them. Maybe there were more originally, but if so they have been lost. The drawings are excellent. Peake was an illustrator of genius. The poems are nonsensical and good fun. I decided that I wanted to attempt to create a book along the same lines. I know I can’t match Peake in image or verse, but I decided to amuse myself anyway.
I thought that if I doodled one monster every day, and wrote a poem for it, the book would be completed after two months or so. But I found that I was doodling more than one a day, sometimes four or five. I decided to stop only when I ran out of blank pages in the notebook I was using for my doodles. The result is that there are 54 monsters. One of the monsters, the ‘Unfeasible Space Giraffe’, covers three pages because he has such a long neck. He can stand on the surface of one planet and nibble the leaves of the trees that grow on another planet. But all the other monsters occupy one page to themselves. I wrote poems for each doodle as I went along. The monsters came first every time. The shape and size of each monster determined the length and structure of each poem, because I had to fill the remaining space with words and sometimes the remaining space wasn’t very much. I often curled and curved the poems around the bodies of the monsters and I allowed myself to enjoy certain typographical tricks, such as having text upside down or in the shape of a wave.
Poetry written for images that already exist is called ‘ekphrastic verse’. I didn’t know that until shortly before I began this project. The book took only two weeks before it was done. I am pleased with it. The hardest part was formatting the poems so that they followed the contours of the forms of the monsters, or at least appeared on the page in a manner that seems a little more interactive with the image than merely descriptive. Might I do a sequel one day or another similar book? I see no reason why not. What surprised me most was how purely enjoyable the creation of ‘Corybantic Fulgours’ was. Some books are headaches to write. This one was quite a delight. It turned out better than I had hoped.
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.
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.
