Issue 13: January 2007
Simon Barraclough | Dean K Farrow | Valerie Josephs | John Stiles | Tim Wells | Dean Wilson
VALERIE JOSEPHS
A Frog He Would A-Wooing Go
"All I want is an omelette" my father used to say,
while my mother was cooking a gourmet meal.
Psyllophryne didactyla, the world's smallest frog
hides in debris on the forest floor in Brazil.
"Nothing you do surprises me" my father said to me
which is why I have never resisted a challenge.
I have crouched in cold rushing water
to catch the mating dance of a male Hylodes asper,
while his future mate hops onto my leg,
as if it were a rock. I saw them jump
into the water together, legs entwined,
to reach their particular heaven.
According to Aristophanes, frogs chorused like this:
Brekekekex koax koax
Their mating songs advertise what kind of animal
they are, what kind of mate they are seeking -
just like the Personals. Females prefer big strong males
and choose a bass rather than a tenor.
The male Midwife toad attracts the females
so he can wear their strings of eggs like beads
in a rosary, between his thigh and waist.
Before my sister and I were born,
our parents would punt on the Thames,
its soupy water running between my mother's fingers.
A Man I Slightly Know
We share the arm between the seats,
our breathing sometimes coincides,
and we are conscious of a closeness
in the absence of our mutual friend.
It can't do much harm to flirt a little —
Prenderò quel brunettino Dorabella sings,
her sister Fiordiligi will take the fair one —
they anticipate the joys ahead.
We hardly know each other, and in silence
communicate, now and then, discomfort
at too intimate a touch. We shift
position, one of us surrenders the arm.
Talking Drummers
But if I find myself one evening
say, in Dharamsala,
and I smell smoke from a wood-burning stove,
I will be back in a cottage in Shropshire,
seeing the sun rise over the hills,
because I've been up all night
painting the fridge in wood grain:
and I hear a man on the radio
talk about scattering his father's ashes
in Scotland, and when he looked up
saw a golden eagle so near he could see its eyes
open and close, how afterwards it flew away;
once again I'm in Hokaido
to photograph eagles and the Japanese Crane:
because I see someone who reminds me
of a man I used to know,
I'm back at the Festival Hall with him
and we're dancing to the music of Baaba MaaI,
barefoot in his flowing robes,
the talking drummers parade,
everyone is out of their seats,
and nothing separates me from anything else.
The Turret
In Place St Michel I could not tell
which was the street and in the heat
each name seemed to be familiar to me:
St. Andre des Arts where I'd said au revoir
to my friend Marcel or was it rue de l'Hirondelle?
I stopped in Passage Dauphine for salad with terrine
whilst with savoir-faire I read L' Étranger by Baudelaire.
I tried rue de l'Eperon off rue Danton,
then slithered into rue Serpente and still quite nonchalant
I sidled along a cul-de-sac and the name came back,
it was rue Hautefeuille and I started to enjoy
my solitary gavotte, knew I was getting hot
as I strolled up to La Tourelle, saw Mont Blanc and quenelles
on the prix fixe, sublime, after all this time.
Waterloo
From our bedroom windows I stare at the sea
of dark oaks, their gnarled branches storm-tossed.
Our unslept bed is newly made, its white sheets tucked
in hospital corners, housewife pillowcases ironed.
Today I came home. The children are asleep,
the dogs, curled up in their baskets, will bark on cue.
Supper is cooked; it's on a low light; the chimes
of the kitchen clock warn me you'll soon be here.
They needed you to fly off to record
your score for the de Laurentiis Waterloo.
Perhaps your plane from Rome will be late,
but I hear the taxi engine, the pause while you pay.
I clutch the banisters, I know I must greet you,
the stairs rise and fall like the crests of high waves.
On the Silk Road 2004
after Tu Mu (803-852)
An Overnight Journey
On the soft sleeper to Xian, blind open to see the moon,
I look up at him. He tells of a lake with monster Redfish.
In the darkness I feel like someone much younger,
earlier our knees touched under the spread-out map.
The Hedge
Rain rattles onto the motorway, traffic at a standstill.
On the other side of the hedge the road is empty
except for soldiers on guard at fifty metre intervals.
In forty minutes Putin’s cavalcade will streak by.
Travelling to the Roof of the World
Six hours up the Karakoram Highway to reach the lake;
caravans used to gather here for the climb over the high pass.
The clear water is icy, even though the sun torches a path;
I adore my thermal underwear; for some he’s hired oxygen
Written after Lunch in Turpan
In the second lowest place on earth; Huozhou,
Land of Fire, Storehouse of the Wind;
our Uygur host serves naan and kebabs, though it’s Ramadan.
We leave with bags of green raisins, mare’s-nipple grapes.
On Getting Up Very Early to Climb the Mingsha Dunes
Barefoot, I climb fifteen ladders built into the sand.
I have to stop halfway, when I look up he’s already there,
but go on to reach the summit, four hundred rungs;
he grasps my hand and we are just in time for the sun.
Stopping on the Road around the Taklamakan Desert
Outside the one yurt, a woman holds six necklaces;
I choose one with red stones. Inside, a man cooks mutton on the fire.
These people have few possessions but can take their world with them.
I look back at the Heavenly Mountains, the grazing camels.