Kind of Tragic

Has a nuclear plant blown up in Japan? asked Pliny.

Not that I know of, I replied.

Has Colonel Gaddafi killed more of his people.....?

No, no, Pliny, it's not that kind of tragic. No need to look pale. It's the pittosporum tree in the back garden. It's got a disease, and we're going to have it cut down. I know you'll be sad.

Will I? said Pliny, surprised. I don't think so. I always thought that tree was too close to the fence.

But you loved that tree Pliny. Remember when we first got it. It was in a pot. My mother bought it for my daughter so she would see something green from her bedroom window instead of the fence.

No, I don't remember, said Pliny. When was this?

Eleven years ago, Pliny. Then my daughter changed bedrooms and decided to plant the tree in the garden.

And it grew, said Pliny. As trees do.

Yes, and when my daughter was away overseas I used to write to her saying the tree is now as tall as your brother.

How sweet, said Pliny.

And it grew and grew. Soon I was writing that it was as big as two brothers.

One on top of the other? asked Pliny.

Yes, then it thickened and grew to become as dense and as tall as five brothers.

Five brothers, said Pliny. I thought she only had two.

Once, I said, gazing into the distance, I sent her a little blood red flower from the tree, stuck to the writing paper with clear sticky tape. It was probably illegal, I added.

No doubt, said Pliny. Well I can see you are sorry to lose this five-brother-blood-red-flowering tree. I am prepared to acknowledge the tragic nature of its demise. When is it to be?

Tomorrow morning, I said mournfully.

I shall write you a poem, said Pliny.

Yang Ming at Brighton

Now I'll tell you a story, I said to Pliny. It will be in the form of a poem.

Good. I like poems, said Pliny.

You'll love this one, I said confidently, and began to recite :

YANG MING AT BRIGHTON

it was yesterday at brighton and the weather was very nice
the sun was out the sky was blue the sea was sporting stripes
of emerald and sapphire ochre aqua green and olive, and
a colour that has no more descriptive name than this one: sand

That is terrible, said Pliny.
I'm making it up as I go along, I said.
That's quite obvious, said Pliny. But go on..

i walked along the waters edge i had my camera on
and took some random photos walking rapidly along
the jetty, the palm, the yellow tent, the wall painted with words in red
i don't know what the words meant but yang ming was what they said.

This is execrable! groaned Pliny. But go on...

sadly when i got home and uploaded my photos on
to where they get uploaded i saw one of them looked wrong
the red words were unreadable, i forgot to use the zoom thing
but i remembered what they were the words were these words : yang ming

what does yang ming mean? why was it on the wall?
google has the answer, google answers all
yang means the bright side of the hill, i thought it might
mean something else but no it didn't, google would be right
and ming is a chinese name that has the meaning BRIGHT.
What a wonderful poem, said pliny, and now i see the light.

Hey! said Pliny. Leave me out of it!

Pliny's Green Poem

Pliny the Elder has been cock-a-hoop since the election, having recently decided he was Green. This morning he showed me a poem he had written in honour of their great result on Saturday. This was it:

Viro Sum

Viro sum et felix
Factiones maiores frustrati
Balaena infanta hodie nata
Omen Virides admovent.
Bono anima estis!
Viridis unum in consilium plebi
Nunc in senatu
Novem

I got out my Latin dictionary and had a go at translating it:

I am Green

I am a happy Green
The major parties are stuffed
A baby whale was born today
A sign the Greens go forward
Be cheerful everyone!
There is now a Green in the House of Reps
And nine Greens in the Senate.

Oh! What a lovely poem! I like the bit about the baby whale.

Glimps

This is a poem about yesterday. A dashing-about-being-useful sort of day. Never quite seeing anything properly....

Has it started yet? No, not yet.

GLIMPS

Has it started now? Yes. That was the title. It's called GLIMPS

Weird title!

It's supposed to be about glimpses, so I called it GLIMPS.

Ah! Clever.

Right then, this is it...

GLIMPS.

Part one - The Sea

At the end of Wattle Street
Between tall yellow houses
A glimpse of the sea
One inch wide.
White sea horses
Rolling north
On bluegreen rollers.

Part two - The Eye

How does it look, my eye?
Alright, your eye,
But there is blood
On your face.

Part three - The Knife

Behind a screen door
At the end of a path
Through a garden
My daughter,
In need of a knife.

Part four - The Rainbow

On Greenhill Road
A man with a camera
Trying to capture
A rainbow
In a white sky.

Mysterious Encounter - Part 1

You met Sherlock Holmes! says Pliny the Elder. Impossible!

Not impossible, I say, staring hard at him. I'm almost one hundred per cent sure it was him.

Almost! says Pliny.

Well he was very old, but let me tell you how it happened and how I became convinced he was Sherlock Holmes.

I'm listening, says Pliny.

First I must go and find the book of poems that I wrote ten years ago, because that is where the encounter is recorded, I tell him.

I go away. I return with an old stained brown-paper-covered exercise book. I open the book.

Here we are, I say. Written on the thirteenth of June, in the year 2000. It's called "Dog". I called it "Dog", because at the time I wrote this poem I was unaware of the identity of the old man.

Read it to me, says Pliny.

I read:

Dog
A bent old man with a Toby dog
On a cold frosty night walk
Shuffles slowly, feeling the path with a stick,
Shepherding the dog through the dead leaves.
We pass him; and do not talk;
I perform an oblique stare.
If he looks at me I'll say.....
I'll say Good evening, and smile.
He looks down at his dog, all the while
Of our passing
And I look away.

That, says Pliny, doesn't prove anything. And it isn't even very good.

Wait, Pliny, I say. It is only part one of three. I see him again. As for your saying that it isn't any good, I think you may well change your mind.

Smartie at Home

it's raining
i'm eating a smartie
at home

the rain came
as we left
the art gallery

we were at
an exhibition called
before and after science

it was part
of the festival of arts
it was crap
let me explain

it was basically just stuff
that artists had put there
hoping you'd see
what it meant

it's raining
i'm eating a smartie
at home

i suppose you're thinking
she takes a long time to eat one smartie.
but there's something you don't know
i've eaten six
and there's something else you don't know
they aren't real

at least i've taken the trouble to explain
and i've taken the trouble
to make it a poem
even though.......( you can finish it )

Sorry Poem for Pliny

Pliny, this poem is for you:

Me paenitet pudor
deflectere facie rubrae
ex medio publica
induco anum emergentem
ex mare flammea
sub caelo pulveris;
florae parvae, subrufi colori;
et sonitus noctis candens.

Deterior tuo possuent,
nisi prima verba deleta
at tamen, me excuso.

What's this? says Pliny, reading my poetical offering. Are you saying you are sorry? Your Latin is so abysmal that I cannot be sure.

Yes, I'm saying sorry. What's wrong with it?

Translate it for me, says Pliny.

Alright:

Sorry I am, wishing to deflect
the shame of your red face
from public view
I introduced an old woman emerging
from the sea under a sky of dust;
small flowers of reddish hue;
and the glowing red night noise.

It could have been worse for you
had I not deleted what I first wrote
but nevertheless
sorry I am.

Jupiter! exclaimed Pliny. What did you first write? Never mind, he added quickly. Your verb endings are all wrong and your nouns and adjectives don't agree properly. And you are ambiguous as to whether you are excusing yourself or asking me to excuse you.

I thought you would like it, Pliny. But as to the verb endings and the nouns, some crucial pages have fallen out of my Latin dictionary.

That need not be a disaster, says Pliny kindly, since you have me.

Gryllus sub Luna

Pliny has given me a litte poem. It's called:

GRYLLUS SUB LUNA
Gryllus sub luna cantat
Consistat luna in cursa ut audiat
O luna cur consistas gryllus rogat
Simili mihi multi alii supra collem
Luna : possum agere sicut cupio
Supra collem similis mihi est nemo.

Let me have a go at translating it.

THE CRICKET UNDER THE MOON
The cricket sings under the moon
The moon stops in her course to listen.
Why do you stop O moon asks the cricket
There are many others like me over the hill.
The moon says: I can do as I wish
There is no one over the hill like me.


That's delightful! But was Pliny is being awfully clever or does he really know nothing about cricket?