by George Chopping

Eventually back on board the boat
to an angry cat and a cold dead fire.
But better that, than an angry fire
and vice versa.

The river’s a ruffled cravatte;
a moderately annoyed pensioner
listening to the shipping forecast
which still makes little sense.

Words of customers wash o’er head
after another day at the fucking cafe.
Froth spat from up off the tops of coffee cups
in cranial canyons it lies like tidal scum

Foam treasured like a chest
washed up; a handbag for the seagulls
to dance around.  Tapping, slapping
on the hard, dark sands of Torquay.

Then, the sudden sound of a dishevelled,
feathered pigeon flies up from under the fence
by the bins whilst I dispose of night before’s bottles.
Still stunned, I stand frozen.  Un-cradling of my unsettled state:

The pigeon coos, “Ha, ha!  I’ve escaped!  And you’re still here,
trapped like a coffee bean tumbling towards the grind!”
“Yes, true.”  I reply.  “And probably not tomorrow, nor certainly today
But pest control will drive-by soon and shoot you down like clay.

So remember that, you foul-beaked
waddle of vermin!”
“Don’t forget to clock back in, wage slave!” Taunts the pigeon
“Good luck in the next race, you feathered bag of lard!” I retort.

On return to duty I put chalk
to black board and although not in my mind
in black and white
the pigeon became somewhat ‘special’

in pie.

by George Chopping

Do Not Feed the Pigeons
     Based on a true story from 1997, when studying at
     Catering College in Torquay, Devon

Back from a sandwich on the seawall
I dropped in at the bakery for dessert —
some sweetness to counteract the lingering
savoury flavour of the salt sea air
(as one does)

Onward ambling up hill to campus
distracted by the stale status of my Chelsea bun
I reluctantly tore strips from it’s sugary coil
and whilst popping one particular piece
of the currant weighty pastry into my mouth
I came across a pigeon

inflated chest; a supervisor’s strut
hopping like a child on the scotch; on and off
the pavement curb, between me, the row of parked cars
and the stream of oncoming traffic

Disappointed by each mouthful of the cake
a charitable gesture ensued, yet a gesture with an underlying
rather murderous motive which triggered
the tearing and throwing of a small piece of bun towards the bird
(that was bobbing about between the bumpers of parked cars).

Sadly, due to the not-so-fresh nature of the cake
the bun bounced
and post the pigeon’s pounce
upon the Chelsea pensioner piece

from behind came
the wheels of a downhill headed van
that rolled straight over
the downhill facing pigeon

I couldn’t look but only gasp in shock
at what
I imagined to be
a sight of splayed feathers and bun.

Back to class to share of my despair
was where the response was not “there, there”
to spare me the guilt of guts spilt
But the feelings were

of upset and disbelief at the malice
that caused me to engage
in such a thoughtless act.

Especially amongst the vegans.

by Xue Di

Bright Landscape
     translated by Waverly and Keith Waldrop

In the extension of family he’s called Xue
mature child remembered
Watches clouds.  Regards waters
Tilts his body to the wind
Reworks old work in a warm shelter
Character changed by continual rewriting
His love of a local girl is like the
bend in a river.  His face thins
when animated.  Agape, his
eyes resemble two deer in a race
uphill.  Who listens along the grasslands
makes less sound than a spell of crickets
Dimmer than distant peaks

Calling Xue.  When he turns
his poetry now comprehends the dark
Scattered over the page are people in clusters
scribbled and rescribbled portions of the poem
black patches of the sort that make historians
sigh.  The state disappears under
the pen of self-pitying cartographers
A drove of stallions courses lightly.  The valley to the
left, pace by pace, disappears
from the lone sightseer’s memory

Those who only now see him call him Xue
An abandoned stable the shape of melancholy
The smallest mare in classical beauty among
haystacks a hermit has piled
A wildcat prowls at the edge of the forest
The traveler on foot feels lonely.  Trudging
uphill, he realizes maturity
Ahead, the road forks

by Xue Di

Celia
     translated by Hil Anderson and Sue Ellen Thompson

I see you, with your panther eyes and the body of a lamb
among the cut gems of summer
laughing.  Your body leaning forward
in the lush, sunlit grass
hiding two locusts whole only desire is to leap.
Summer spreads its palm
over the land.  A child
sees the sediment of the adult world
reflected in the tear from an animal’s eye.  My
Celia:  when I speak your name
I feel sinfully guilty
I feel love, so pure
and cool it is like
laughter washing over me.
My nerves are so frayed
they can only sing remembered songs,
relying on memory’s keen palate.
I think of how young you are
compared to my nearly forty years.
I still write whole poems
for the sake of a single word, sacrificing a tuft of hair
for each line, my tears flowing in the dark.
Then the shame
of my effort, knowing that you
are my subject.

A child with panther eyes and the body of a lamb
In the summer of 1993, running
like a startled deer.  The news is rife
with murder and sex.  A poet
who is ashamed to say he writes poems,
a rock star threatened by scandal.

What I’m talking about is
spirit.  On a night like this, downcast,
I think of spirit.  Because summer
is closing its hand around me
I think of my gem, my Celia.