Piglet race.

LOOKIT THESE PIGLETS FLY!

NOTE: I was contemplating publishing this in the school newsletter, but I decided this was the better platform.

The poem stems from something I’ve been thinking about for a while, because I’ve wanted to find a way to thank my students and wish them well.

I started writing the poem last week in the midst of marking and all that jazz, but I’ve decided that the poem is done and it’s time to put it up.

Last but not least, “piglet” and other porcine-related words are figurative and not literal, and is in no way meant to demean or denigrate – I thought I had better make this clear, just in case, and I apologise if I inadvertently offend anyone.

Piglet Race
By Laremy Lee

For all my piglet children.

I see you all bounding toward me
with the innocence of bacon,
the look in your eyes squealing:
in another life, I could’ve been char siew.

Your heads held up in earnest,
your snouts pointed to the sky,
you radiate pink with promise and youth
as you race toward the future, on a path

you’ve often been prodded along.
Remember, though, before I let you go:
life must be as easy as a piglet race
but not as simple as one.

Fly like the wind. Leap
as high as you can, over
hurdles set out like nets.
Look cute while doing so.

But wait for fellow piglets if
they pause. Help them if they falter.
We are as much competitors
as we are comrades-in-trotters.

Fortunately (or unfortunately),
like Fleance, you will soon flee
leaving me behind as Time flies
to pick my pocket once again,

as it did me when I was a piglet like you;
as it will you when you are a boar like me.
Another set of piglets will round the bend,
bounding toward me with all their might,

even going so far as to – who knows? –
one day, also bound toward you,
till your heart beams and your smile says,
“That’ll do, pig. That’ll do.”

Christopher Robin.

Christopher Robin and Pooh.

Was just reminded of the poem below when I received an e-mail blast from The Arts House regarding a reading of Czeslaw Milosz’s poetry.

Christopher Robin
By Czeslaw Milosz

I must think suddenly of matters too difficult for a bear of little brain. I have never asked myself what lies beyond the place where we live, I and Rabbit, Piglet and Eeyore, with our friend Christopher Robin. That is, we continued to live here, and nothing changed, and I just ate my little something. Only Christopher Robin left for a moment.

Owl says that immediately beyond our garden Time begins, and that it is an awfully deep well. If you fall in it, you go down and down, very quickly, and no one knows what happens to you next. I was a bit worried about Christopher Robin falling in, but he came back and then I asked him about the well. “Old bear,” he answered. “I was in it and I was falling and I was changing as I fell. My legs became long, I was a big person, I grew old, hunched, and I walked with a cane, and then I died. It was probably just a dream, it was quite unreal. The only real thing was you, old bear, and our shared fun. Now I won’t go anywhere, even if I’m called in for an afternoon snack.”

Lucky Strikes.

Marlon Brando lighting up.

So I mentioned that day that one of my poems has been published in the latest issue of Ceriph.

Here it is:

          Lucky Strikes
          By Laremy Lee 

          For all the boys from 10A04.

          Fumbles one out from the box, strikes
          it at a dulled edge: conversation
          does not ensue. He tries again – twice,
          thrice, before its head snaps off, departing
          into the distance of a long, lonely night.
          Leaves him standing there, limp
          cigarette dangling loosely from his lips,
          moisture slowly soaking filter tip.

          Lighting up shouldn’t be a dismal match
          grovelling wildly at the feet of blunted flints,
          looking to catch the song of a spark
          in a vain draw on an inflamed hope –
          that determination will grow into fire.

Go get your copy of Ceriph if you haven’t already done so.