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.