Tuesday Poem: As you know, Bob

As you know, Bob

As you know, Bob, our numbers are dwindling. Genetic factors are to blame: our Y chromosomes, fragile to begin with, have proved uniquely vulnerable to the combination of pollution, rich food and grain alcohol. Only in the pristine environment of space can we truly flourish — but that is the preserve of a lucky few. The rest of us dwindle in protected enclosures, pacified by large-screen televisions, released only to be the subject of scientific research, the unexpected element in reality TV shows, and the providers of the litres of sperm which, carefully husbanded, will ensure the survival of the race.

As you know, Bob, the Testosterone Reduction Act of 2012 solved many of our problems. Fast cars with bored-out mufflers lie rusting in the fields, while young men knit, crochet and garden. Packs of drunk young women no longer prowl nightclubs at 3am. War is the province of old men’s uneasy dreams. Children are dandled on knees, lawns are left unmowed for many successive Sundays, and our tallest peaks are no longer strewn with the frozen bodies of over-ambitious climbers. Only a lack of progress in the more recondite branches of mathematics can be termed a disadvantage.

As you know, Bob, religion proved to be the answer. Give me a boy at seven years, and in due course I will give you a sizeable bill and a New Monastic. Devoted to penury and hardship, they till the fields, herd cattle, and leaven the bread of daily life. In wooden prisons, in draughty halls, they offer shining faces and silent witness. They bank treasure in heaven to set against reproductive defeat. Nothing is to be gained by opposing them. Let us, Bob, walk hand in hand to the river.

Tim says:“As you know, Bob” was recently published in Issue 2 of literary magazine Enamel, edited by Emma Barnes. There is lots of good stuff in this issue; I’m going to post some more info about it in a couple of weeks’ time, but in the meantime, you can buy copies on TradeMe!

This prose poem arose from a conversation about the “New Monastic” movement during a car journey to Whanganui. It will, I hope, take its place in my next collection, “Men Briefly Explained”.

Check out all the Tuesday Poems on the Tuesday Poem blog.

Books In The Trees

Books in the Trees

As soon as I understood what a book was, I resolved to become a bookkeeper. To the dismay of my parents, I was forever climbing trees in hopes of catching an unwary volume. Of course, I never did; they were far above me, flapping unmolested from branch to branch.

My proudest achievement was to bear back to earth a whole egg, but my pride turned to dismay when my mother scolded me and insisted that I put it back in the nest immediately. “That might be another Calvino or Bulgakov!” she told me. I had no idea what she was talking about, but I made the long climb anyway. (I have a strong suspicion the egg hatched into one of the flock of self-help books that used to stoop upon us as we walked, tangling their claws in our hair.)

It was not until I began my training that I realised how much more was required than the ability to climb trees. There were cliffs, mountains, and sea-stacks to be scaled, of course, but also the myriad arts of classification and cataloguing, acquisition and disposition. The reward for endless hours of drudgery was the swoop of a thriller from a clear blue sky, the heavy “whump” of a fantasy series flying north for the summer, the chirping of young pamphlets in the spring.

I have grown old in the service of these magnificent creatures, but I prepare for my retirement in growing dismay. The age of the book is ending. The wide forests are no more, cut down for wood and land and greed, and the great flocks of books that filled the skies of my youth have dwindled to lone volumes fleeing the hunters. Now all kinds of buzzing, brightly coloured things clamour for our attention, and books are almost forgotten.

In an attempt – perhaps it will prove vain – to preserve what we can, we have trapped many endangered books and placed them in sanctuaries we call “libraries”. It breaks my heart to see them trammelled so; yet perhaps I shall live to see the day when booklets bred in these libraries are released back into the wild. May the last sound I hear be the rustle of their leaves.

“Books In The Trees” was first published in Turbine (2002). It is the final story in my short story collection Transported.

Transported cover

You can buy Transported online from Fishpond or New Zealand Books Abroad. You can also read review excerpts and find out more about Transported

Tuesday Poem: The Fasting Season, by Tishani Doshi (video)

[youtube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J4-KZtnrIOM&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0&w=480&h=385]

Tim says:This poem comes from the collection Countries of the Body, which won Tishani Doshi the 2006 Forward Poetry Prize. Her first novel, The Pleasure Seekers, drawing on her own experience as a person of Indian and Welsh heritage, was published in 2010. And, as if all that wasn’t marvellous enough, she also blogs about cricket.