A Poem by Matthew Paul

The Rupert Man

Alfred Bestall, 1969

Three loon-panted freaks ‘from an art journal called Oz’
visit Fred one August Sunday, to hail Rupert’s adventures
in lands far from Nutwood. Their spokesman, Australian,
asks if they can smoke, reminding Fred of those Anzacs
he ferried in Picardy fifty years before. The smell’s heady.

The Wesleyan boy-bear loves everyone; with the same
fervour Fred’s missionary parents took to Burma, whence
they sent him stories of tigers the size of two grown men,
and a dragon-jacketed conjurer who made elephants vanish
at the flick of a wand, leaving trunk-rumbling calls behind.

Fred reveals a sketch for the next annual’s cover: breezily
climbing a snowed-upon hill, Rupert waves to his readers;
Bill Badger leans on a Scots pine; and Algy Pug brings up
the rear, gasping for air; all three chums scarved and chirpy—
like the Oz lads, competing to eulogise the far-out scene.

Afterwards, Fred meanders up Cranes Park, marvelling at
a monkey puzzle’s fretwork shadow, crosses the bridge
which spans the railway cutting, and takes his usual place
in the Methodist church. His ears admit scripture, prayer
and homily. His mind considers the kindness of the bear.

Matthew Paul’s collection, The Evening Entertainment, was published by Eyewear in 2017. His two collections of haiku – The Regulars and The Lammas Lands – and co-written/edited (with John Barlow) anthology, Wing Beats: British Birds in Haiku, were published by Snapshot Press. He regularly reviews pamphlets for Sphinx and blogs at matthewpaulpoetry.blog.