A few goat poems from ALIEN TO ANY SKIN

new-36


Amber Fort Goats


The first one I saw was close

to the hotel, standing on its hind legs,

udders dangling like a pair

of lifeless arms.


She was the neighbourhood���s

resident pruner of shrubs and trees,

chewing away at the reds and greens

of bougainvillae along a spiked fence.


Later as I took on the stone steps

up Amber Fort I saw more.

Long limbed and silent hooved,

nudging not a pebble as they trotted.


Free to roam the ruins, more at home

here than the lumbering elephants

forced to ferry tourists past arches,

brown as burnt french fries.


Perhaps in another life

they were princes,

courtiers, palace officials,

a conquering raj.


I must practice my curtsey, wag

an ear or attempt the humblest bleat.

I might have a turn one day sifting through

garbage, savouring petals of velvet red.


Dream again of being king.


�� February 2010

-o-


Goat, Rope, Rock


There is a goat in front of a house surrounded by sand.

Its left foot is tied to a rope

attached to a chunk of rock.

The desert town of Jaisalmer grows dark.

It is possible there are other goats

like this one, tied similarly to a rock.

But this is the goat that will not surrender

gnawing at the rope even as darkness reigns.

It will not give up while rope

taunts the limits of teeth.�� Even when I

am no longer by the window to witness

its freedom.


March 2010

-o-


The Camel, The Poodles, the Pygmy Goats


There was a flourish of canned music and a wild

bouncing around of the one lone spotlight,

but the curtains didn���t part.�� We sat

on plastic chairs that grew

even more uncomfortable.


Suddenly a camel came charging through

the golden curtains, the trainer unable to keep up.

Perhaps sensing there was no desert night,

it reared.�� Front hooves

the size of a child���s skull.


The frantic trainer called for help

and the beast was led away amid screams

backstage.�� More waiting until two poodles

shuffled like mechanical toys to the centre

of the ring.�� They did their routine: hoop-leaps,


Two-legged spinning in tutus.�� With ���Awww so cute���

and giggles we soon forgot the previous commotion.

They left the ring with a yelp

after the last doggie treat

disappeared down their throats.


And so we came to watch the last

animal act: Billy and His Kid.

Being pygmies, they quickly drew a sigh

from the audience.�� Small is beautiful

even if barely trained to do more than cross a plank.


I suppose we���ve come a few more steps

away from the sight of roaring lions made to jump

through flaming hoops.�� We didn���t see

a single whip, though next to the pouch

of treats was a black stick.


���Perhaps next year,��� the ringmaster blared,

���our lion cubs will be old enough for the show!���

We couldn���t wait to leave.

But the kids gave us the look, a reminder

of how we pay for our mistakes.


-o-


Late Autumn, Early Winter


Hadeda ibises scythe the air

with their cries.�� Not like crows

or vultures, but something closer

to a human voice caught

between a wail and a screech.


I cannot see them among the branches

of an invasive American pine tree

just twenty paces away

from where I struggle.


They watch me dig

this sandy soil

that slips back into the hole

almost as quickly as I try

to make it wider, deeper,

with a rusty shovel.

This is a grave

for a pet who is still

munching lucerne in the garage.


Not the first grave

I have dug.�� And I know

it won���t be the last.

I lean the shovel

against the trickling wall of sand

to pause and measure.


Do I need to keep digging?

Is there room enough

for Marie?�� Born with back legs

that were as limp as fallen branches,

she defied the pull of the earth

and used her front legs to run

almost as fast as any goat

for many years.


Now this.

Almost a week now

her legs have lost all strength.

The vet knows Marie���s genes

had struck the dreaded hour.

I have prepared a blanket

for her when he���s done.

The appointment is at 11:00.


It is late autumn, early winter,

then suddenly there is sunshine

on the damp grass

at level to my hips.�� Dark clouds

broken as brief as a breath.

But it happens.


�� May 2008

-o-


Happy New Chinese Year! Here’s my small way of bleeting. :P


I have been promised by my publisher that sooner rather than later the book will be available on digital format. Here’s hoping.


ALIEN TO ANY SKIN (UST Publishing House, 2011)


Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: Alien to Any Skin, Chinese New Year 2015, goats, Jim Pascual Agustin, poems from ALIEN TO ANY SKIN, poetry, year of the goat, year of the ram
 •  0 comments  •  flag
Share on Twitter
Published on February 19, 2015 01:51
No comments have been added yet.