Five Poems
by Jonathan Humble
The Dream of a Blind Mole-Rat Draught Excluder
Selflessness, stoicism and stamina
against the tides of household air movement
are the qualities expected
of the blind mole-rat draught excluder.
Susceptibility to cold-induced agues
could quickly result in replacement
with the more traditional fluffy anaconda
or the ridiculously elongated sausage dog.
Cravings for an action-filled existence
would have to be supressed if one desired
a life of nestling anonymously
at the foot of any allotted domestic doorway.
Draft exclusion is a sacrificial pursuit.
Yet how many blind mole-rats secretly dream,
like the Sidney Cartons of home insulation,
of better places to lay their heads?
How many long for a life of rodenting around,
toothily flashing impressive incisors,
burrowing in five-kilometre tunnels,
gnawing in darkness at root and loam,
consorting in cooperative colonies,
carousing with their sand puppy cousins,
the short-tailed and naked mole-rats
of eastern Europe and Africa?
O blind mole-rat draught excluder,
tasked and dormant on the threshold,
‘tis a far far better thing you do …
Your heroics have not gone unnoticed.
Fridge Painting
Turns out, reality leaks.
Sweeping brushstrokes, fully loaded,
emptying by degree into the margins
of a child’s roughly coloured painting;
an infant’s creation on a rainy afternoon,
loosely attached and fading on a fridge door.
Watery sun, sunflower rays radiating,
oblique raindrops exploding on impact,
in growing puddles of broken promises
resonating in a picture book park
under a long-forgotten rainbow.
An unreliable observer shivering on a bench,
synapse constructs resolving in doppler ripples,
spreading as nonsense washing over
the sticky voids of an old man’s brain.
Beneath the top strip of blue and clouds,
challenged eigenstate images flicker,
sounds reverberating in spacetime,
dissipating memories reduced in the repetition
of a slowly diminishing waveform.
Connections broken between concepts;
the familiar gradually disappearing,
lost within the texture of the stroke.
Consciousness ringing as wet entanglement
between collapsing waves of shrieks and shadows,
recollections of Sunday mornings with the children,
afternoons with paintbrushes at the kitchen table,
dripping raincoats glistening on hooks
and kids’ muddy wellies in the hallway.
Turns out, as paintings fade,
reality leaks.
Sentience in Sticks
Descartes rocked up the other day.
Wanted a deep philosophical discussion
with my dog, Derek:
said that Derek’s theory of Sentience in Sticks
was at variance with the idea of a divine transcendent spirituality
and was completely implausible,
for what had sticks ever achieved?
Derek responded:
said that consciousness was a ubiquitous feature of the universe,
and perhaps it was an arrogant and idiosyncratic view
to consider human existence and perception as somehow worthier
due to some tenuous sponsorship deal with the Almighty.
Suggested Descartes’ dictum cogito, ergo sum be reversed:
I am, therefore I think which might better suit the occasion,
given the evidence Derek had uncovered
through his extensive
and ongoing research
on the subject.
And did Descartes have the time to test Derek’s theory
with a little practical investigation,
fair testing stick response in flight
on a breezy walk
through the woods?
Book End
Lost in local studies,
trundling by the ephemera archive,
looking to renew a bus pass
in the wrong part of the library,
she is an old forgotten book, a misplaced biography,
out of print in a dog-eared dust cover.
Wandering in oversized raincoat,
she peers through thick prescription glass,
drags a damp trolley bag behind her,
heads turning and newspapers lowering
at the afternoon intrusion
of rhythmically squeaking wheels.
Redirected by a kind assistant,
she still misses the work station
where bus passes are updated,
confused in the warmth of refuge,
drifts beyond the familiar
to the exit ramp that leads to rain.
The past slipping as she shuffles out,
time worn memories leaking,
spreading as oil dripping from a rusty sump,
untethered thoughts escaping
leaving the emptiness of shelves
that once was host to a life’s collection;
damp pages ripped from random chapters
as this story is pulped
on a wet Tuesday afternoon.
A Sofa Shared
(after Philip Larkin)
Upon a sofa, wrapped in wool,
oblivious, the subject lies,
with mouth agape and sightless eyes,
two legs akimbo, stockinged feet,
grabs forty winks amid a lull,
relaxed and after meal, replete.
A scene caught for posterity
by helpful spouse, who, passing by
and blessed with sharp artistic eye,
in happenstance, an image takes
in moment of temerity
before the subject re-awakes.
He did not think to lie so long;
such lethargy was not the plan
but second helpings of cheese flan
had done for him and doused his zest,
with sofa treated as chaise longue
and household tasks now put to rest.
And finding husband’s supine state
the wife, in open disbelief
that such inaction followed brief
(he’d walk the dog in certitude)
then stumble on her lifelong mate
in horizontal attitude,
decides to publish evidence
upon the web in social share
lay bare their life to public glare
of how in essence, Love’s enthral
like curate’s egg experience,
must weather weakness, warts and all.
In motivation lacking spite,
secure in their fidelity,
his faults laid bare, his tendency
to overeat and sleep whereof
in partnership seems like Marmite …
and proof, perhaps, of steadfast love.
BIO: Jonathan Humble lives in Cumbria. Collections of his poetry (My Camel’s Name Is Brian, Fledge and Derek and the Eternally Perfect Petunia Bed) were published by TMB Books, Maytree Press and Yorkshire Times Publishing in 2015, 2020 and 2025. He edits The Dirigible Balloon poetry website for children and delivers poetry workshops in Cumbrian schools. He appeared as the Poet in a Fridge for Radio Cumbria during the BBC Contains Strong Language Festival in Carlisle.