Sunday, 30 January 2011


Where was I now? Ah yes, I must insist
Wherever I was, I wasn’t turking you.
What saint would?
Although you were so pink and curvy cute.
But you and I rushed onto my rush mat
With bounce enough for
The four-and-twenty pet budgies
Which we did not possess.
As for the screw? You hated the machine
But I was proud of it
And folk would come for miles
To see our telamons
And to watch Edward, our sad donkey,
power old Archimedes.
You hated it a lot
Since that fell day
When, soaking wet and dizzy,
You spiralled up into
The irrigation channels.
Fish would have swum,
Budgies would have flown away
But pigs can neither swim nor fly.
They say the latter is a good job too,
And they are right.
I think you saw your Mum in that machine
Straight as a sow’s tail with teeth that nip
And with a bent for sitting on your head.
And where was I the while?
Knocking back the Guinness here
With Columba,
A saint, God bless him!,
And other holy Teagues at Ali’s bar,
Harping on to the Irish, stout chaps,
About your rubber bum
And hope-you-dont-mind ear.
(O Ali, take away this foaming brew,
Its far too black! Have you no paler ale?)
While you were being screwed.

Friday, 21 January 2011


Hell, well, what is this all about?
I mean life, Piggles.
There's something fetching in a home address
Which saint or poet
Or pigling has immortalized,
Conscious that queues of silly pigrims (sic)
Might one day just make the effort.
So here, in Sinai, at the Hermitage,
I lay your curly trail
And mine.
Would that be arrogance, presumption or simply bounce?
Here you ran snuffling like you were truffling.
I knew that you were searching madly for
Your lost long Mummy and not finding her.
Not surprising I thought, for she long had been
Transumed to sausages and chops and ham
Black-puddings, streaky-bacon and the rest,
And not surprising for she long had been
Eaten mostly.
I loved you maugre your ugly Nubian snout,
Your piggy eyes that proved you were no film-star,
Your torn ear, hope you don’t mind
Me mentioning that ear again,
Your hairy nostrils and your rubber bum.
I kissed you and I held you in my arms.
I took you to my bed, but, let’s be clear,
No saint I know would ever turk a pig.
Nor did I neither.

Sunday, 16 January 2011


I knew from the first
That you had trouble with words.
It was what I expected from a pigling.
When you saw the lion you squeaked
Or squealed. It was enough.
I understood.
You had no wish to be diminished.
You skipped across the desert and it was
Once more a streak of sunset on the Nile.
What saved you this time? Maybe a stray sheep,
Lions preferring mutton to pork chops
Any day of the week, or so I’m told.

Later I picked up the horny skull
Of some old sheep,
Killed by your lion or wasted by disease?
Was this a trophy, Piggles,
Or an atrophy?

Monday, 10 January 2011


You were lucky not to have snuffed it
The way your Mum kept sitting on your head.
Was there no creep to keep you
Safe from those clumsy, mumsy hindquarters?
But she’s dead now. Her hams are dead and eaten.
I might observe, Piggles,
Death seems to run in your family,
Gallop even.
Then there’s that torn ear,
You don’t, I hope, mind me going on about it,
Now that both you and Mummy are so dead.
A mother should not nip her little-ones.
A mother is for nipples not for nips
And those peevish pigs’ teeth
Might have settled your hash,
cooked your goose, made mincemeat of you.
As Adulf said, das ist ein Sauerei!
Jawohl, Adulf, mein Freund!

Monday, 3 January 2011


Adulf, a saint, bless him! came along.
Sieg heil, Adulf! He did not smile.
Darf ich vorstellen brother Botulf,
My brother, brother,
And by my brother, I really mean
My brother, not just any old brother, brother.
Some name him brother Botolph, others brother Botulf
A saint may choose, mein Freund, out from UK.
More English than the English, these days.
Done the Nile, done the pyramids,
He wanted not to miss
Tony and his telamons

Ach, wo! but who’s this little swine?
I introduced you to them.
O what a tight, rubbery ball of joy!
You wobbled on perfect, pink,
Allthewayuptoyourbelly, trotters.
Than ever you were before,
Your piggy eyes bright as a squashed glow worm,
Bright as a Pembroke scholar,
And the torn pig’s ear where your mother nipped you
Smiled in welcome.

I say! Really! Gosh! What a jolly nice pig!
Botulf swayed on his English legs and swooned.
You were just too pink and precious,
Just too elegant and Nubian,
Meeting you was
Just too much.