Bard's life

As we creep towards the year's end .... THE SNAIL Observe the slowly-creeping snail who leaves behind his silver trail. Each simple journey takes an age: one short trip is a pilgrimage. We watch him moving gingerly, admire his dull tenacity. He’ll get there in the end, he knows, not poetry-in-motion, prose. Click here for a New Year bonus-track .  Fast Train is a Van Morrison song performed by the great Solomon Burke. Not many people can handle a Morrison song better than Van the Man, but, in this instance, Solomon does .   

Jane and I spent Christmas in Venice, staying once again at Ca Biondetti , the home of renowned 18th Century artist, Rosalba Carriera.  Located on the Grand Canal, Ca Biondetti later became the temporary residence of the great American novelist, Henry James.  During our sojourn, Father Christmas made an appearance, travelling not by reindeer-power but instead, by gondola.    

I haven't published any short stories or flash fiction for a while but I've spent a great deal of time in airports and it was during one such boring sojourn, at Venice Marco Polo whilst browsing in Duty Free, that I jotted down the opening lines of The Big Guy. THE BIG GUY Phil fell for the coat the moment he saw it. Luxurious chestnut leather in a style that could only be Italian: Armani perhaps, maybe Gucci. And extra-large, Phil’s own size. He absolutely had to have it. It hung on a retro-style coatstand beside the maitre-d’s desk right there beside his own battered topcoat. Phil reached out to stroke the soft leather and knew he was in love. The bill had been paid, cash as always, and the desk was unattended. It was his last night in Bangkok. On impulse, he grabbed the leather coat, slipped it on and headed for the restaurant’s revolving doors. Outside, the oriental night was a kaleidoscope of neon: a frantic cacophony of noise and hustle. Phil hailed a passing taxi and to...

My country of birth, Northern Ireland, is enjoying an early snow-fall and, although its effects cause inconvenience for many, there's immense fun to be had in the snow, for parents and children alike, during the first few days. Residents of East Belfast, where I grew up, gravitate en masse to the extensive parkland at Stormont. Last year's dusty toboggans reappear and are put back into service for a few carefree hours. Parliament Buildings, Stormont, Belfast. TOBOGGANING   The seat feels quite precarious but once I’m down, that feeling goes. So odd to be this close to snow, chilling the fingertips, the nose: a child’s sensation, I suppose ... most adults are incurious. A snowy paradise, indeed, this afternoon on Stormont hill where children’s voices, wild and shrill, applaud the crazy vaudeville of adults launched, against their will, downhill, on icy blades, at speed. This granddad hugs his grandson tight then edges forward with his heels on modern blades of stainless steel...

An unpopular chap, the rat, unless he's of the fancy variety bred in captivity and kept as a pet. Your average rat is a bit of an outlaw, constantly living on his wits and a figure of distaste for many. The rat's had plenty of bad publicity: a James Herbert novel that demoni z ed him, a grotesque cameo in American Psycho by Bret Easton Ellis, and of course that terrifying scene in George Orwell's 1984, so we're bound to be prejudiced against him. Nature's order, however, is always subject to change so here's some cautionary advice. THE RAT The jolly rat, though he be mild, is universally reviled. Indeed, he is a clever chap, evading every baited trap to gorge, content, on bread or seed put out for chaffinches to feed or nuts from cages hung for tits: from these, he often purloins bits. He is, undoubtedly, a pest: of quadrupeds, far from the best, but let’s be friendly to the rat for one day, when our world goes splat and we are foraging for scraps, he may be o...

Who can resist the awful smile of the predatory crocodile ? THE CROCODILE My favourite creature, by a mile, is the repulsive crocodile. He has a most endearing smile and if you linger for a while unwarily beside his swamp he may lurch out at you and chomp or sidle up to you and snap ... he is an untrustworthy chap. There’s no use shouting out to him Oi, fetch me back my severed limb ... He’ll stand his ground, he’s hard to rile, and give you his endearing smile.

This is a bad time of the year to be a turkey, although it’s probably fair to say that being a turkey at any other time is not particularly pleasing either. Of all the birds one might choose to be, the turkey is probably pretty far down the list. Turkeys don’t sing, they don’t soar and, additionally, they’re really rather ugly. Jane and I will not be adding to the massive slaughter of these unfortunate creatures this year. We have alternative culinary plans. SONG OF THE CHRISTMAS TURKEY We have grown fat, my friends and I, and although some birdbrains say these gifts of food Men bring us must be treated with suspicion, this I doubt. I feed on corn aplenty and rejoice, grow plumply satisfied and portly stout. My fellows fast become inflated too: such fine birds with no work at all to do.   I call the doubters paranoid and mock their pessimistic attitudes and gloom. Another feast arrives, I gulp it down then gobble thankful sounds and strut about. We grow each day more pill...

For those of you who may have wondered, here's the answer to a question that's caused you sleepless nights. WHY THERE ARE NO UNICORNS The Unicorns, a charming pair, had matching horns and silver hair, at parties, always, I believe, first to arrive and last to leave. A couple, extrovert and chic, each with a fabulous physique, so muscular, whiter than white, with shiny hooves, reflecting light. A perfect couple, all agreed, and never likely to stampede. But when the Great Flood came to pass and Noah started to amass all Creatures of the Earth to board he was, by Unicorns, ignored. What foolishness, they both agreed, this puddle surely will recede. (They had a tendency to scoff.) It rained. It poured. The Ark set off. As rising water reached their chins, they lost their smug complacent grins. and when it reached their horns, they frowned till they, inevitably, drowned. So that, today, alas, explains why not one Unicorn remains.

Who can possibly love the subject of today's poem?  Physically unattractive and with repulsive dietary habits, the vulture tops no one 's list of endearing creatures. R arely portrayed favourably in literature, there is however a n amusing poem by Hilaire Belloc entitled T he Vulture .  Here's my version.     THE VULTURE While other birds are ultra-cute, the vulture is an ugly brute: someone you wouldn’t want to meet when stumbling onward through the heat, with parched throat, arms and legs gone numb, half dizzy with delirium. It would upset most people’s nerves,  the thought of being his hors d’oeuvres .

The animal world encompasses extremes. Elephant and mouse, gorilla and guinea pig: all manage to survive on this amazing planet and seem to confirm that size doesn't matter.  Today's poem is about that astoundingly elongated creature, the giraffe. THE GIRAFFE The lofty giraffe, it would seem, is vertical in the extreme. With head and hoof so far apart, his height is almost off the chart. He is unquestionably thin and has exotic mottled skin. His neck leads to a freakish head that he can easily embed in foliage that just cannot be reached by creatures short and squat, but when he runs, with loping stride and head held high as though with pride, perhaps for joy, perhaps in flight, he is a most ungainly sight.