Skip to main content

Dehydrated Frog

 


 

Freeze dried dead, extended, stiff

leathery thing found in the grass

where once it died and had its being.

 

Behind in flight those lengthy legs

tapering into reptile’s wings –  

all flesh gone, skin drawn tight

 

little misericord dark with age –

arms like mine bring hands together

across a mummy’s empty chest –

 

fine fingers intertwine and clasp

in supplication.  Your eyes

are closed as if at prayer.  Leap on

 

in faith my frog, and leave –

leave earth and water far behind

all forgotten, no longer needed

 

may I die like you in my own grass

with no assumptions

in full flight.

 

 

January may be the start of the year: a time for looking forward to new events, new experiences – new life no less; but at the same time, that two faced god Janus peers backwards at what is lost, gone for ever, now dead.

An artist friend painted the frog I’d found. It may seem exaggerated, but it’s a realistic picture, almost photographic.

We were both struck by the definite deadness – the reduction to skin and bone, the distortion, dryness, deep furrows and constriction from the loss of internal organs which her painting conveys. But the extraordinarily extended legs and hind feet that have almost become wings combined with the lightness suggested a creature that could leap many times its own length, perhaps even take off and effortlessly fly, leaving our grounded elements far behind – no less than a picture of life.

So with the little frog carcass representing both death and the past and the vigour of the future – Janus himself – I offer this rumination at the beginning of our New Year.

Although inevitably as one studies a corpse, one’s thoughts turn to one’s own mortality, my poem isn’t morbid.  I remember how people sometimes kept a skull on their desk as a memento mori – a reminder not so much of the fear of death, as of the privilege and wonders of life. Along with an acceptance of mortality.

My artist friend is now dead, like the frog.  But somehow she survives in the many things she created, including a little water-colour of a frog. 

And we – like Janus himself maybe – live on, able to look forward as well as backwards, as we travel into new life. 

Happy New Year!

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

The Signpost

Here’s a signpost – originally distinctive, being unique and handmade, and now even more so, with the evidence of ageing.   … numbers, distances, which way? While all signposts are interesting in their duty to inform, their presentation of choices and their simple declarative presence, I find this one special. It’s not just that it has much to say in terms of where you actually are, in which direction you might choose to go, how far your destination is (down to quarter mile accuracy) and even if your chosen method of transport is suitable. It’s also special in the simple elegance of its design, with the arms’ supports and the bevelled edges of the main post rising to that unexpected point. But the specialness goes further.  My friend James Ravilious took me there just at this time of year, over twenty years ago.  It was then upright and brilliant white, with crisp black letters. He certainly thought it was special, photographing it lovingly, in May 1988 ( Chawleigh Week Cross –

My blog this month isn't a poem – nor even several...

  My blog this month isn't a poem – nor even several. No, this time it's a set of little films of poems. After sharing them with several of you, I apologise straight away if you've already seen them, but you might be interested to hear some thoughts on the matter. And if you don't want to hear me thinking about making films of poems, just ignore what follows and go straight to the YouTube link.   https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qbwJYkDeGIs&list=PLbC1BOoALpN-xyuGJCIAqJjImAi1aAfrY   I hope you enjoy the films. And please tell me what you think! You may remember a couple of the poems appearing in past blogs, with me writing about the possible presentation of poetry in this way. Time was when poetry existed solely as the spoken or sung word – it took some time for it to be written down.  Now, for the most part, it exists and flourishes in both these forms. Recently, and refreshingly, it seems to have been recovering more of its original orality. Now we liv

A plague on all these houses

It's a great poem, Lowell's For the Union Dead. I only recently came across it - at least, that's what I thought - but it's been grunting (I choose the word advisedly) away in my head ever since, especially that fourth verse. Behind their cage, yellow dinosaur steam shovels were grunting as they cropped up tone of mush and grass to gouge their underworld garage. It took a little while for me to realise why. Before (I thought) I'd read it, I wrote a poem about the new housing estates springing up round our little town. I was thinking about the various creatures that had lived on the field that was to be covered with houses - sheep primarily - and then those that were to follow. The first were, well, a sort of dinosaur. Here's my second verse: At first it was the one-armed monsters, set free within their caged arena to trundle round, and gently paw the ground, then pile up mounds of earth accompanied by Lego men. I was pleased