Archive for the ‘Poems’ Category
Ode to the Federal Budget
Oh, to be in Pakistan now that June is here
And the federal budget is drawing near.
“Come quickly, come quickly, my dear,”
Says your other and better half,
“There’s a good-looking guy on TV
“Talking about the ratio of debt-to-GDP,
“Whatever on earth that may be.”
Startled, you scuttle into the room,
Like a man prepared for the worst.
“Forget the debt,” you say,
“And, for good measure, forget the GDP.
“Where’s my cup of tea?”
“Coming up in a minute, dear,” says she,
In dulcet tones that brook no argument.
“I must warn you, though,” she adds,
“It will have to be without sugar.”
This upsets you no end.
“What!” you cry. “No sugar in my tea?
“What’s the world coming to?
“Can’t they get anything right? Is tea
“Minus sugar now fated to be our destiny?
“I don’t know about that,”
Is your lady wife’s reply,
“But sugar prices have gone through the sky.”
Being a stickler for correct English, you say,
“You mean roof, don’t you?”
“No, I mean sugar,” says she.
She always was a stickler for practicality.
Or perhaps she’s being deliberately obtuse,
Just like the budget,
With its caveats-within-caveats,
And mind-boggling numbers.
Even someone like old Einstein
Would have trouble figuring it out
No Einstein, you can only repeat your plea
For a cup, even, of unsweetened tea.
“All the macro indicators are good,”
Says the guy on TV.
“What’s a macro indicator?” says the lady wife.
“Is it some new brand of macaroni?
“If so, I must say it sounds pretty phony.”
To which, you say, sort of sotto voce,
“If you want to know about macaroni,
“Ask Berlusconi.” There’s a long pause
While the wife digests this intelligence.
“Who’s Berlusconi?” she says at last.
“The ex-prime minister of Italy,” you reply,
“The richest man in the country.”
Tearing her eyes away for a moment
From the guy on TV,
Your wife says, “The richest man in Pakistan?
“I thought that was Shaukat Aziz.”
“No, no, Berlusconi is the richest man
“In Napoli, not Pakistan,” you cry.
“Napoli?” says the wife.
“I thought you said Italy. Are you feeling alright?”
“As well as can be expected
“On Budget Day,” you say.
“And can I have some sugar, please?
.“Tea doesn’t taste the same without it.”
“Well, you’d better get used to it now,”
Says the lady wife,
Digging in the budgetary knife.
“You can now have sugar in your tea
“Only once a week.
“It’s either that or we cut back on electricity.”
“There isn’t any electricity,” you say.
“It’s been privatized.
“Try that one on for size, my dear.
“Yes, try that one on for size.”
The guy on TV, meanwhile,
Is talking about electricity in every village.
Not content with that, he’s also promising
Water and gas in every village as well.
“What I’d like to know,” says the wife,
“Is who’s going to pay for all this?”
To which, you smugly reply,
With an infuriatingly all-knowing air,
“The World Bank, of course,
“Or Uncle Sam or the good old ADB.
“Don’t you read the newspapers?”
Now, it’s the wife’s turn to be smug.
“If Bush doesn’t read newspapers,
“I don’t see why I should.”
But a bit later she says, “What’s the ADB?”
“It’s a set-up in Manila,” you reply,
Wondering how many more questions
You’ll have to answer before the guy on TV
Is through with his budget speech.
“Manila!” exclaims the wife,
“Isn’t that where every woman
“Has 3,000 pairs of shoes?
“I want 3,000 pairs as well,
“Or you can tell the budget to go to hell.”
“Now, now, my dear,” you say,
“That’s no way to talk about budgets.”
But the wife isn’t having any of it.
“Budgets are for the birds,” she cries.
“Does anybody understand them? I mean,
“What are all these acronyms:
“All these ECNECs and NEPRAs and OGRAs?
“And what’s all this talk of the PSDP and stuff?
“And so many billions for this, and
“So many billions for that?
“And while we’re on the subject,
“What’s a billion anyway?
“I mean, has anybody actually seen a billion?
“Or is it just another pie in the sky?”
In full cry now, she adds, “And what’s this
“About the government spending
“350 billion more than it earns?
“Is that legal or even possible?”
“Oh, it’s possible all right,” you say.
“Governments do it all the time,
“It’s called deficit financing.
“But as to whether it’s legal, well,
“That’s another matter.
“That’s what we have the higher judiciary for,
“To decide what’s legal and what’s not.
“Now, please can I have my tea?”
Trout
By first light we are at the river’s edge,
Unsnarling tackle. Hands, with a new day’s life in them,
Choose favourite spoons and pocket sweets
For the thirst that will come later. Spacing out
Along the boulder-strewn bank,
We agree to meet for lunch sharp at noon
And leave the libations in a safe place underwater.
I head for Cunningham’s Pool,
Eager for the big one that got away last year.
The rock that marks the place is wet and huge.
Grass, too rough to lie back on,
Surrounds three sides;
The fourth juts darkly against the water.
Giving it the right degree of wrist,
I test my preparations and make a cast.
The line snaps out, sings thinly in coniferous air
And curves down short
Of the far side. My arm feels good;
And breath steams with anticipation. The eyes
Jump to the swirl where the sink goes in.
I wonder how big the big trout will look
In a photograph. Will it
Be a record for the valley? Will I be the only one
Who does not have to lie? I reel in empty
And sense no presence deeper than this morning.
Sunlight creeps down the face
Of the mountain opposite, tips the water
With the stirrings of a wispy sky. A fast cloud
Darkens the river’s surface,
Cancels my shadow, moves away. A moment happens.
O loose a spoon, replace it with a fly
And watch the line more carefully.
It tugs – once, twice, again. I have a bite.
A good beginning. Hours later,
I am still.doing alright. It is something to know
The hand retains its skill from other times.
I came here first with father. He is dead now.
The worms that hooked his flesh
No longer smell. He thought I was lost once,
On that first trip, and I heard his large voice
Echo and call till I was safe. I have carried
The sound of those words for twenty years.
But I am blank now,
Oblivious to everything except the need
To maintain silence, keep the rod at the right angle
And wait, never knowing when the next one will come,
For the heart-stopping pull
That signals something alive at the other end.
It is time. The sun is overhead and the brown beauty
From last year has escaped again.
But there are others. I heft my catch
And trudge upstream, thinking of nothing much –
Not a bad morning’s work and a lazy blue
Afternoon of love to look forward to.
Hunters in the snow
(After a painting by Pieter Bruegel)
Ankle-deep in snow, they loom above the village,
Their spears at slope, their thick bodies muffled
Against the friendly cold, and dangling from their belts
The leashes of their dogs, lean animals that follow
Closely at their heels, that do as they are told,
Some tense with expectation from the hunt,
Some drenched with blood, and some
Too small to be of real consequence,
Though trained to fetch carcasses for these men
Who have killed before, will kill again,
And make a feasting of it until the countryside
Is as denuded as their hearts, as still
Within the forest as it is outside.
But down in that village, there is life
Busy with the citizens it sends across the ice,
A man with a fire-load of wattles on his head,
A woman with a pail, and on the frozen pond
The games of the children, a boy with a stick
Raised above the ball he prepares to flick.