Clara the Rhinoceros
Inspired by the Indian rhinoceros toured by Douwemont Van der Meer throughout Europe in the 18th century and the painting La Mostra del Rinoceronte by Pietro detto Longhi, 1751 (Ca’Rezzonico, Venice).
Orphaned pet, two-months old,
squeaking and squealing at the Nabob’s table,
a tiny black horn sprouting
on top of your nose, a unicorn in armour:
Saucer-slurper, short-sighted snuffler,
licker of titbits from ladies’ fingers
sucking with your delicate prehensile lips.
So adorable – your eyelashes and ear-fringes.
But once an adolescent, you lost your charm.
You’d outgrown yourself, dragging
your own warty skin like a tramp
wearing all her coats at once.
Bath-time was lily-pond Armageddon.
Your swivelling bulk too big for drawing-rooms,
porcelain-smasher, clock-toppler:
a cacophony of percussive smithereens,
zithery shivers and xylophone crescendos
of glass and marble drum-rolls,
and your pant-squeak, honk-bleat, roar-shriek,
ears and tail erect in shock.
Fortune-maker, wild card, the joker in the pack.
So your Grand Tour of Europe began:
gentle giant, three-toed ungulate,
Clara the Rhinoceros and her Potent Horn.
A sensation!
Bouffant wigs à la rhinocéros all the rage.
Beer-quaffing and pip-spitting your delight.
Oh, the joy of oranges at Versailles!
Now here, in the capital of exotics, Venezia,
Carnival revellers crave the new:
bulge-eyed ostriches, neck-gyrating giraffes,
and you, the ultimate Rococo grotesque.
Jaded pleasure-seekers, Venetians know
that below the grandeur of the Palazzo Ducale
lie dungeons of sighs. They too
want to shiver at the whiff of the damned.
But you, inscrutable as an idol, wreathed
in tobacco smoke, ignore the crowds:
Bautas, muzzles raised like wolves,
and the black Morettas, mirrors to your dark.
You turn your back on them, refuse to budge,
only a skin-twitch to whip-flicks.
Your verdict a turban-like turd of splendour
and stench, laced with orange-sweet urine.
2nd Prize in the Poetry Wales Award, 2022.