Walker, Ted

England, (1934-2004)

Pig pig

In 1386, the tribunal of Falaise sentenced a sow to be mangled and maimed in the head and forelegs, and then to be hanged, for having torn the face and arms of a child and thus caused its death … As if to make the travesty of justice complete, the sow was dressed in man’s clothes and executed on the public square near the city hall at an expense to the state of ten sous and ten deniers, besides a pair of gloves to the hangman.
— E. P. Evans: The Criminal Prosecution & Capital Punishment of Animals

I
Hefty, she was, that beast.
Sunned herself in the crust
of cruds she had lain in.
She was blacker than sin.
She dabbled her great crotch
in swill. If you would scratch
her with a bit of stick
you’d picked out of the muck,
she would grin like a slut.
She slobbered on the gate
her wench’s gratitude
for apples. She was lewd
for putrid meat; crunched rough
splinters from a slate trough;
had a go at iron. She
was a whore, couldn’t be
satisfied. We served her
with an old, borrowed boar.
He had to be dragged back
like hot dung on a truck.
II
Pigs are things. In Falaise
we esteem our horses.
Being proud, noble men
we prefer to be known
for our stables, not for
sour sties we would rather
hide from the off-comer.
In that stinking summer
I left a lass to feed
my swine. I had to ride
to the fair with a string
of thoroughbreds. Yearling
colts I’m famous for – ask
any man if I’d risk
a good reputation
palming off a dud ‘un.
Prices fetched high that year.
Due to some foreign war
even your knock-kneed gelding
weighed his worth in gold.
III
I sold, had a skinful
of the best brewer’s ale,
then headed out of town
astride my stallion.
One of the lads it was
found me in the bushes.
He’d come from mucking-out
and, by God, he smelt it.
But he hadn’t the reek
of horse-dung. On his cheek
was a filthy sow-smear,
wet with a big soft tear.
I got up and whipped him
for saying I should come
back quick. He found my purse
and whistled in my horse.
Again I larruped him,
the lout. Then he said some-
thing about his sister,
dead. I dawdled faster.
IV
The brat was on a board,
her bits. The sow had gnawed
her face from her ringlets.
I’d seen sows break piglets –
runts of their abundance –
and swallow them. What chance
could a soft-boned child have
with jaws a man can’t move
once they clamp? Someone had
bound the stump arms with bed-
linen ripped into strips.
The feet, gaunt as stirrups,
were bare, the batwing skin
left untorn. I drank down
a stoup of cider while
they simmered camomile
to make the corpse smell sweet.
She’d not an ounce of fat
on her. I saw quite plain
something had to be done.
V
Not that it was my fault,
mind. Peasants worth their salt
know better than allow
kids inside with a sow.
When she’d done bawling I
fetched the mother to my
house. She stank in her rags,
that hag treading my rugs.
She meant bother. She could
not stop the stable-lad
from gabbing in the pub,
she said. I let her sob
when I offered money,
felt tender for her. She
had, after all, been a nice
bit of jus primae noctis.
I’d see to it, I said.
She clawed her tangled head.
I couldn’t see how, yet
I said I’d see to it.
VI
In her sty sprawled my sow-
murderess. I heard low
grunts as she permitted
suck. In the sun she bled
gently from a bludgeon gash.
She’d been given one
hard across her poor old neck
with a blunted mattock.
Her litter swarmed on her
like lice on a scalp. Where
blood was she let them lick.
A pair of nipples stuck
out spare, like pinnacles.
Stout iron manacles
bit deep in her trotters.
Troubled by flies she was.
She lay helpless as scum
in a dungeon. They’d come
and chained their prisoner.
I felt angry for her.
VII
Ugly-mouthed and quiet
the men-folk stood about,
grim with clubs. I saw they
wished an eye for an eye.
Moment upon moment
they stood about, silent.
Their dumbness spoke of death,
of a tooth for a tooth.
With meekness they behaved.
Not a one would have dared
to murmur a word or
walk to the pigsty door.
The sow moaned from her pain
like a cancered woman.
I told them to go home.
I’d see them right, I told them.
Sunlight slammed on the dung
between us. The men hung
bare heads. Their cowardice
fattened on my promise.
VIII
When they buried the kid,
I processed at the head
of the cortege. If I’d
not been at that graveside,
things might have turned bad. My
tribute was a lily-
wreath, the biggest of all.
The mother seem grateful.
It was I let the box
nice and slow to the sixfoot
hole, was I let drop
a clod onto the cheap
wood lid. Then it was I
that led them solemnly
by the chain of their grief
to my welcoming roof.
I that threw wide the door.
I that spoke of the Law.
I that called upon God
to exact blood for blood.
IX
I found a precedent:
a bullock had been sent
mangled to the scaffold
for murdering a child.
Unravelling the Latin,
I knew it could be done:
the family would attest
and I’d see to the rest.
I hired the village thug
to guard the convict pig.
He fed her bread, not swill.
The parish got the bill.
I called in Maitre Jehan,
my boozing companion,
to prosecute. Some sense-
less lush got the defence.
We booked the city hall
for the day of the trial.
Judge Rouge, swigging my wine,
appointed me hangman.
X
With all due reverence
the oafs gave evidence
on the day. In the dock
my sow slithered in muck.
Once she managed to drag
her bulk up like a lag
and lean over. Laugh!
It was farce, right enough.
But we played it serious:
only let po-faces
slacken for Rouge’s jokes.
We wanted no mistakes
at this stage of the game.
The court-room was a slum
of roughs turning ugly
looks on the likes of me.
Jehan pitched it good and strong
though, and nothing went wrong.
The sow was found guilty
of eating flesh on a Friday.
XI
Mangle and hang the sow,
old Rouge said: Do it now.
I was aproned, masked and gloved.
This was the bit I loved.
God, it was Hell’s delight.
I got that chained-up brute
again and again in
the limbs. Cracking the spine
was like splitting a flint
with a grubber. I bent
a great crowbar on her,
smashing her to rubber,
let the wet brain slop out
like spawn in a bucket.
Slut, I was thinking, slut,
by Christ don’t you love it.
What really pricked me on
was having that whoreson
rabble agog as I
did that thing in a sty.
XII
After I’d had enough,
somehow they prized me off
her cadaver. They dressed
it up, at my request,
in clothes I provided:
shirt and breeches of red
velveteen, my best grey
bonnet of soft corduroy.
They sat it on a cart
with me up beside it.
Garlanded, we were hauled
in style to the scaffold.
We had to take a winch
to that heap of a wench;
with ropes round her armpits
we raised her hundredweights.
She dripped like a vast bag
of fruit on a licking dog.
The mob cheered. I could see
they pretended she was me.
XIII
The carcass (hangman’s perks)
was mine. I cut some hunks
of offal for the kites,
butchered the rest as joints
for salting down. I ate
well all that winter. It
had been a good day’s work
when that sow became pork.
We had some fun. I got
some good gloves out of it.
It was the parish paid
the profits my cronies made.
Even the peasants did
well – one less mouth to feed.
And my fame got around.
In all France you’ll not find
a richer ranch than mine.
I can die a happy man,
knowing how justice was seen
through me to have been done.

About the Poet:

Edward Joseph “Ted” Walker, England, (1934-2004), was a poet, short story writer, journalist, broadcaster, dramatist and educator. Walker explored poetry as a young student at Steyning Grammar School, where he co-founded a poetry magazine called Priapus (1967-1990) with fellow poet John Cotton.

During his career he was the Head of Modern Language at a school in Bognor Regis (1963-1965), he then went on to become a Professor of Creative Writing at New England College (1971–92), an American liberal arts academy that had a British campus in West Sussex.

Walker completed eight books of poetry and two each books of short stories, autobiographies and children’s books, as well as a travel book on Spain. [DES-12/21]

From the Porkopolis Archive:

John Cotton (1925-2003), British poet and co-founder with Walker of the poetry magazine Priapus (1967-1990).

About the Poet:

From the Porkopolis Archive:

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