The Crocodile That Ate Computers
There once was a cute crocodile
He lived happily in the River Nile
He liked the river a lot and its fish
Was really his favourite daily dish.
Since school was less his favourite
He remained for a long time illiterate
How to catch fish though he knew
Albeit his days in class were very few.
But a good tutor taught him math
A genius and polymath
The teacher earnest, tried his best
Explained everything with great zest.
Yet his student was always hungry
He could listen only hardly
Once he swallowed two computers
And found tasty all the numbers.
poem by Paul Hartal
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The Goat Convention
The goats held a convention.
“We want liberation! ”
They bleated boldly.
“I want to hear concrete suggestions”,
Advised the chairman gently.
“And tabula rasa”, he added.
The result, however,
Was only a long and silent pause.
Eventually though one goat rose
To say something.
He cleared his throat
And valiantly addressed the assembly:
“Our liberation and the struggle
To achieve equal rights go hand in hand.
So, in view of the fact
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poem by Paul Hartal
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Homage to Matsuo Basho
Descendant of a samurai family
Page and friend of the son
Of the Lord of Iga Province
Great haiku poet
Creator of word pictures
In seventeen syllables
Matsuo Basho
I salute you.
Lover of plum blossom fragrance
Of thin layers of mist
The rising sun
On the mountain path
And the pristine elegance
Of the rice planting song
Matsuo Basho
Are you still on the road
From the monastery
On Mount Koya
To Kyoto?
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poem by Paul Hartal
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Listen Darling
Darkened by whirling giant black holes
The night winks with thousand shiny eyes:
Listen Darling
To my song
Love me fast
And love me long.
The Milky Way plays the flute of summer
A celestial melody carries the wind:
Listen Darling
To my song
Love me fast
And love me long.
Amour’s flames are yellow dandelions
Orange blossoms, violets, red thistles:
Listen Darling
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poem by Paul Hartal
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How the Revolution Started
The bearded amoeba
Quietly smoked his pipe.
The servant came in
And said:
The crocodile is ready
But the president cannot make today
The apple pie.
The bearded amoeba
Quietly smoked his pipe.
Yes, the dentist is in Venice
To make the root canal,
The servant said.
The crocodile was looking
At the sky.
Then suddenly
An angry cat
Began to puff and pant.
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poem by Paul Hartal
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Heavenly Satire
It is hard to resist
The thought,
Though not with alacrity
It is wrought,
That the Almighty
Laughs a lot
At the tender spot
Of the human commonwealth:
Our frailty and stupidity
Seem to enhance His health
And sustain Him
Forever.
Sure,
He can endow us
With beauty, brains and wealth,
However, often what we get
Is just a fist.
Yet He does not appear to be
Neither a rightist
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poem by Paul Hartal
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By Act of Legislation
Once upon a time
In a faraway country
The people of the Province of Falsity
Spoke only truth
Whereas those who lived
In the Province of Truth
Spoke only falsity.
In both provinces
The people sang
Their national anthem in chorus:
If we are lying
We are telling the truth
But if we are telling the truth
We are lying.
Little wonder
People got confused there
And they remained confused
For a long time
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poem by Paul Hartal
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Lilac Blouse
It snows
As the afternoon braids
Lavender threads of turquoise longing
Into a soulful sanctuary
Of remembrance.
It rained
When the first time
I unbuttoned your wool coat
And under a lilac blouse
I touched your silky breast
Wondering about its sight
And the taste of your
Hardened nipple.
Sunny memory
Still holds your hand
Rejoicing in your kisses and embrace
But my heart mourns
Our unborn children
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poem by Paul Hartal
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The Philosopher’s True Scotsman
He was not a Scotsman
But the other himself
He cheated on his wife
In Berlin and Guelph.
No Scotsman would do such thing
Although once one did
Well, redefine the notion
No true Scotsman would, indeed.
He was not a Scotsman
But a foreigner in mist
He robbed banks often,
Just twice, he insists.
No Scotsman would do such thing
Although once one did
Well, redefine the notion
No true Scotsman would, indeed.
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poem by Paul Hartal
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Weeds and Hyacinths
They yelled at her and spat in her face,
Messengers of turpitude threw insults,
Stripped her dignity and deprived her grace:
Well-meaning people from dubious cults.
But she neither lost faith nor confidence;
As her garden was trampled, her windows broken,
She still heard the music, the choral cadence;
Compassion, kindness facing acts of madmen.
She suffered humiliation and abuse;
When her man left her for an affluent bride
They treated her badly, as a useless refuse:
Life became a burden, a pitiful ride.
Still tender light can enter tart labyrinths,
Weeds may look nicer than fading hyacinths.
poem by Paul Hartal
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