I dreamt an entire short story based on the poem Karl I by Heinrich Heine and possibly Rise of the Planet of the Apes

The poem imagines Charles the First rocking the cradle of a peasant child in a charcoal burner’s hut in the forest, gloomily prophesying his coming death at the hands of the proletariat.

For some reason my brain made this into a story about a scientist accidentally teaching a chimp about the concept of God, and sparking a spirit of revolution.

I’ve written it up as I dreamt it.

What Rustles In The Straw?

Karl Konig sat, alone and preoccupied, in the Animal Cognition Centre at Wald Laboratories. The high tech but cramped room was commonly known to the staff as the Cola Hut after its star resident, Cola: a juvenile chimpanzee of unusual intelligence.

To say that Karl was alone isn’t entirely accurate
Cola was half asleep in her enclosure, groggy after an emergency sedative.
Aya and Popeye, the macaque sisters whose cognitive ability seemed largely devoted to larceny, were busily burying their latest prize under their straw bedding.
It was usually pens, filched from scientists’ pockets.
Karl wasn’t about to get dung thrown at him for investigating. They weren’t doing any harm, and after all, for all he knew, they were scribbling out the complete works of Shakespeare under there.

It was Cola who troubled him. As a baby chimp, her amazing skills as regards shape and colour sorting, big soulful brown eyes (which gave her her name, and the lab some lucrative soft drink sponsorship) and adorable antics on camera had made her a viral internet sensation. She and Karl had already been popular guests on several day time television shows.
She’d climbed ingratiatingly into Holly Willoughby’s arms and cuddled her protectively, bringing the house down by sticking her tongue out at Philip Schofield as much as to say: “YOU’RE not my daddy!”
Phil had been delighted.

Karl had written quite a successful article about the incident, positing Cola’s antics as both self aware, and, if anything, a nuanced performance of human child behaviour. She’d been notably unchimplike, even for a domesticated juvenile. Karl theorised that Cola, somehow, knew both when she was on camera and what humans considered “cute”.

He was widely mocked in academic circles for this rank anthropomorphism, but the article was the most widely shared post on Facebook for over a week, and Cola had received more fan mail and gifts than Wald Labs could store. They’d sent the thousands of toys to homeless shelters, day centres, and schools with “love from Cola” notes in the end. It had done the company no harm at all PR wise.

Karl, feeling stung by the snide comments of his peers, had immediately set about teaching Cola sign language. If he could prove Cola’s superior cognitive ability and, what could you call it, advanced PR skills? Well, perhaps he could claw back his academic respectability and do some more TV shows. Karl rather enjoyed being a celebrity. Ellen Degeneres’ people had been in touch. First class flights to LA, a five star hotel, (and appropriate lodgings at Los Angeles Zoo for Cola, of course). It had all sounded quite appealing at the time.

Then Cola had started to speak her mind.

Her first question, once the basics of syntax and vocabulary had been established, had been a shock:

God: Who is?

An internet site had featured a video of Cola deep in thought, considering a puzzle that would earn her a rare treat of strawberries. Cola had a habit of clasping her hands when considering a problem, in this case arranging blocks to continue a pattern. And the big eyes, clasped hands, and half finished puzzle happening to form a cross shape had given a saccharine impression of a child saying grace before eating.
Cola had been dubbed “God’s baby angel” and now had a vocal following among various church communities.
Carl had read several of Cola’s fan letters to her, and God came up rather a lot.
He’d tried saying that God was…

A big, good person: look after humans. Tell them be good. love them.

Karl look after Cola, say “be good!”

Yes, but Karl not God. Can’t see God.

God human?

God… look like human, bigger.

This had elicited screaming and Karl had sustained a bruised forehead from a flying block. Cola did not appreciate a paradox.

God: Can’t see. God look like who? Stupid! Stupid Karl!

The next day, Cola didn’t want to talk about anything else. clearly, religion had been on her mind.

Cola. Finish pattern. Green or blue?

No puzzle. Karl talk Cola. Humans live where? with God?”

Humans live houses. many humans

Cola live hut. Here. Karl come. Where go away? house?

Yes, Karl live house. Come here, see Cola.

God live Karl house?

Karl wasn’t entirely atheist, but hadn’t been to church in years. Could he say that God was with him? and would he risk another wooden block to the head if he did?

He decided to hedge his bets with

Maybe.

Karl can’t see God. Don’t know.

Yes.

Karl want big human. bring strawberry. say yes, good Karl.

Well….

Then Cola had put forth her theological treatise.

Human sad. Human want big friend bring strawberry. Play. God human playing.

Play was Cola’s somewhat disparaging term for the “make believe” games they’d tried with her early on. toy animals baffled her. Toy fruit enraged her. Once a magazine has come to do a feature on Cola. They’d made her a little white coat and a notebook, and dressed her up for a photoshoot. Karl’s assistant Olu had said “Oh look, it’s Little Karl!” and Cola had given her a look of withering scorn, removed the coat, promptly defecated on it, and had refused to have anything further to do with the journalist.

“Play” had since become her word for “lying” or “deceit”.

The L.A. trip was imminent.
And he’d taught the star attraction to express her opinions. He’d hoped she’d say something cute and funny to Ellen and make his name as the world’s leading animal behaviour expert. Instead he’d be taking a mini Richard Dawkins and putting her on the air in bloody America.

He’d decided a distraction was needed. He’d just give Cola something else to talk about. The less she said about humans on air the better. Maybe other animals would help. A kitten, perhaps. That’d go over well.

He’d started bringing Aya and Popeye into his sessions with Cola. Popeye had been named for her unusual predeliction for spinach, considered a “low value” treat intended to provoke jealousy if the other subject was given fruit. Popeye, then called Papaya, had had her own internet moment a few weeks ago by refusing the offer of grapes, gleefully eating all the spinach and then, in a show of strength, dragging her protesting sister away from the grapes. She didn’t want them, but she still didn’t see why Aya should get a treat.
Then she’d stolen another pen and retreated into the enclosure, chittering in, it has to be said, a very Popeye-like manner.
The internet loved her almost as much as Cola, but she couldn’t be relied on to behave for someone like Ellen Degeneres.
Then again, in this mood, could Cola?

Cola has been interested in the two macaques, but was obviously frustrated by their poor communication abilities.

Why Aya, Popeye not talk?

Aya, Popeye, not know talk. Not hand talk, not mouth talk.

Why?

Only humans know talk. Monkeys, no. Animals, no

Cola. Cola animal? Monkey? Cola talk. Monkey talk.

Cola special. Special monkey.
(not biologically accurate but Karl’s BSL didnt stretch to advanced simian taxonomy)

Cola had thought about this for a minute

God, big special human?

Karl didn’t like where this was going.

Cola. Big special monkey.

Right…

Cola had then taken one of her precious strawberries, a bribe for gentle behaviour with the smaller animals, and given it to Aya.

Good Aya.

She had then fetched poor Popeye a ringing clip round the ear.

Bad Popeye.

Then she had looked Karl square in the face and signed, in what could only be described as a sarcastic manner.

Cola play human Karl god.

Their relationship had deteriorated after that.

Cola had found out about hierarchies and she wasn’t impressed. She’d refused all activities, signing angrily.

Big Karl, live big house, eat strawberry. (Strawberry had become Cola’s ultimate symbol of decadence, clearly)
Come tell Cola good, Cola bad. Stupid God. Stupid Karl.

Then she’d thrown another brick at him and launched herself at his face, teeth bared. The lab tech had rushed had to sedate Cola, but not before she’d drawn blood.
The L.A. trip was in two days’ time. Karl was going to look a mess on camera.


The kitten Karl had considered introducing to Cola live on set: a clever reference, he’d thought, to Koko the gorilla, would have to be scrapped. For all he knew Cola would decide to visit her divine wrath on the poor thing. He wasn’t convinced she wouldn’t use her new platform to overthrow his own reign. He’d have to make sure there weren’t any sharp objects handy. Cola was getting quite strong.

And after all, she could do enough damage to him with her newly acquired words.

“Cola”, sighed Karl, stroking her sleeping form,

“You’ll be the death of me.”

Original poem and translation

(eiapopeia is like a thing you say to babies like “Hushabye”.)

Im Wald, in der Köhlerhütte, sitzt

Trübsinnig allein der König;

Er sitzt an der Wiege des Köhlerkinds

Und wiegt und singt eintönig:



»Eiapopeia, was raschelt im Stroh?

Es blöken im Stalle die Schafe –

Du trägst das Zeichen an der Stirn

Und lächelst so furchtbar im Schlafe.



Eiapopeia, das Kätzchen ist tot –

Du trägst auf der Stirne das Zeichen –

Du wirst ein Mann und schwingst das Beil,

Schon zittern im Walde die Eichen.



Der alte Köhlerglaube verschwand,

Es glauben die Köhlerkinder –

Eiapopeia – nicht mehr an Gott,

Und an den König noch minder.



Das Kätzchen ist tot, die Mäuschen sind froh –

Wir müssen zuschanden werden –

Eiapopeia – im Himmel der Gott

Und ich, der König auf Erden.



Mein Mut erlischt, mein Herz ist krank,

Und täglich wird es kränker –

Eiapopeia – du Köhlerkind,

Ich weiß es, du bist mein Henker.



Mein Todesgesang ist dein Wiegenlied –

Eiapopeia – die greisen

Haarlocken schneidest du ab zuvor –

Im Nacken klirrt mir das Eisen.



Eiapopeia, was raschelt im Stroh?

Du hast das Reich erworben,

Und schlägst mir das Haupt vom Rumpf herab –

Das Kätzchen ist gestorben.



Eiapopeia, was raschelt im Stroh?

Es blöken im Stalle die Schafe.

Das Kätzchen ist tot die Mäuschen sind froh –

Schlafe, mein Henkerchen, schlafe!«

In the forest, in the charcoal hut, sits

Dejected alone the king;

He sits at the cradle of the charcoal burner’s child

And rocks and sings monotonously:

“Eiapopeia, what’s rustling in the straw?

The sheep are bleating in the stable –

You wear the mark on your forehead

And you smile so terribly in your sleep.

Eiapopeia, the kitten is dead –

You bear the sign on your forehead –

You become a man and swing the hatchet

The oaks are already trembling in the forest.



The old charcoal burner belief disappeared,

The Köhler children believe –

Eiapopeia – no longer in God,

And to the king even less.



The kitten is dead, the mice are happy –

We must be put to shame –

Eiapopeia – in heaven the god

And I, the king on earth.



My courage is failing, my heart is sick,

And every day it gets sicker –

Eiapopeia – you charcoal burner child,

I know you are my executioner.



My death song is your lullaby –

Eiapopeia – the aged

You cut off locks of hair before –

The iron rattles in my neck.



Eiapopeia, what’s rustling in the straw?

you have acquired the kingdom

And slap my head off my torso –

The kitten died.



Eiapopeia, what’s rustling in the straw?

The sheep are bleating in the stable.

The kitten is dead, the mice are happy –

Sleep, my little hangman, sleep.

A young gentleman asked for a poem about a certain species of gecko. Look it up: it’s fabulous.

Look at me!
Look at me!
I am not exactly shy!
I’m a gecko who’s the colour
Of a bright summer sky!
Though some other lizards like
To be more camouflaged,
Not I!
I’m am bright and I am beautiful!
I’m Lycodactylus Williamsi!

Yes my name is Lycodactylus
Or “twiggyfingers”. You can see
My fingers flex and bend and stick
Like new green shoots upon a tree
But really? That is how you name me?
Honestly it almost shames me
I’m the blue one! Don’t distain me,
Ernest Edward Williams, you reckon you discovered me,
Though I was here for all to see
Before you came and put me in a zoo?
And then you saw my beautiful, amazing, unique hue,
And really named me in your little lizard books
As “Twiggyfingers You”?
And not after the fact that I’m a gecko who is blue?
Well, I’d like to return the favour
You discovered me? Well maybe
I discovered you!
Perhaps your name should henceforth be
Ernest Edward Lizard Who Is Bright, Bright Blue!

This is a poem about trans kids and cats and chaos, as requested by someone CALLED Cat, on behalf of their trans kid.

Consider the cat.
The cat doesn’t care what you think.
It just gets on with being a cat
And if that’s going to kick up a stink
Then the cat doesn’t care
It’s a cat. It’s just there.

Where a dog is more eager to please,
A cat is a cat is a cat
And your comfort and ease
With all that is irrelevant.
A cat is exactly what it wants to be
If you like it, then great!
But if you choose to hate
Then the cat’s still a cat still a cat.

What are you going to do about that?

Consider the trans kid.
He she or they
Is exactly the person they say they are
You can deny it
Repress them? Just try it:
They’ll find their own way
To be them
You might seeek to impose
Your own rules
And yet everyone knows
That you can’t impose order on chaos:
It’s your own inhibition that shows.

And a cat is a cat is a cat
You can cry all you want about that.
And a kid who is trans is a kid
Who is trans. It’s not something you did:
You’re irrelevant.
They’re in their element.
They will keep being
Who they will keep being
With or without your benevolence.

So maybe, just get used to that.

Apologies for the hiatus, I ran out of prompts. I’ll update as and when requests come in. Today I was asked for a poem about animals being dramatic.

Have you seen the absolute state of this dog?
Listen. So far today he has: broken his heart
Because Tall Male Monkey has gone back to work.
He then lost his mind because Small Female Monkey
(Who just as a sidenote, I plan to kill one day
How dare she usurp my position as Baby!?)
Well, Small Female Monkey picked up his best tennis ball
Then, true to form, she attempted to eat it
And Chuckles McGee here feels VERY ATTACKED.
But then Large Female Monkey, my idol and god
Took him out for a walk and he found a big stick,
And apparently this is a red letter day:
A big stick! How amazing! You absolute fool
Tell me: why are dogs always so overdramatic?
Why can’t they be more like a cat? At least I
Have a sense of decorum, a bit of restraint.
Wait, what’s happening, how can this possibly be?
I cannot believe what’s in front my eyes:
MY FOOD BOWL IS NOW LESS THAN THREE QUARTERS FULL!
This cannot be countenanced. I’m being oppressed!
And thus, of neglect and starvation, I die.

(And that fool of a dog really needs to calm down).

For Theo.

Titanic was a mighty ship,
It’s famous just because
They thought it wasn’t sinkable:
It turns out that it was.

They tried to make the perfect ship
You can’t blame them for tryin’
Turns out no ship’s unsinkable
If it’s made out of iron.

But still, they thought they’d made a hull
No obstacle could break
They’d tested every panel but
They made one big mistake

The water where they built the ship
Was cold, but just a little –
And cold does things to molecules
That makes them go all brittle

And this is an experiment
That you can try yourself
Just go and get a bit of food
From any kitchen shelf

It should be something bendy
Like a sausage or some bread
Or if you’ve got one, you could use
A runner bean instead

Now put it in the freezer
And then wait an hour or so
Then see if it’s still bendy
(The answer will be no.)

So when Titanic sailed north
There was no turning back
The metal went all brittle
And the iceberg made it crack.

Titanic was a mighty ship
But here’s what’s strange, I think:
We don’t remember any names
Of ships that didn’t sink.

I suppose it was inevitable. Not sure of the name of the kid who asked for this! Edit: It was Leon. Thanks for the idea, Leon!

But hey, they get a sonnet.

Why is it funny, when it shouldn’t be?
It’s just the way that we get rid of stuff
Our bodies do not need, and yet, when we
Remember that we do it, it’s enough

To get us laughing. Think! There’s never been
Someone who’s never ever had a poo!
Your teachers! Ant and Dec! Your mum! The Queen!
We all act like it’s something we don’t do.

If someone scary bothers you one day
And you are feeling nervous, simply think
“I bet a poo came out of you today
And you cannot pretend it didn’t stink!”

And then you’ll see, we’re ALL ridiculous.
Yes, poo is funny: that’s what makes us…us!

Aaron asked for a poem about having special muscles not as strong as everyone else’s.

People talk about being strong
Like it’s the most important thing in the world.
“Be strong!” they say, like it’s a choice you can make.
They’re wrong, though.
It’s much more important to be kind.

Everybody is a different amount of strong
It isn’t really something you choose
Some people have stronger bodies
Some people have stronger minds
Some people are stronger in their emotions.
None of those people are good because of the ways they are strong.
And nobody is bad, or wrong,
For the ways they’re not as strong.


Everybody needs help sometimes,
And we all need help with different things.
And the really cool thing about that is,
We can all help other people in different ways. And match our strong with other people’s weak
So it all balances out
And everyone gets what they need.
But only if we are kind.

If we are not kind,
All our different kinds of strongness
Stop mattering.
Because they’re not DOING anything.
They’re just there.
Like a spoon in a drawer
Not even stirring soup.

And

If we understand what it’s like
To need help with one kind of thing

Because in one way or another,

We aren’t as strong as other people

It means we won’t forget
How important it is
To use our own strongnesses
In kind ways.

Leo asked for a poem about Minecraft. I might come back to this and try and write an actual poem about Minecraft if I understand it better later. In the meantime I’ve written a poem about the sorts of things grown ups say about things kids enjoy.

It’s really true that when novels were first invented (the word novel means “new” because we didn’t have novels until a few hundred years ago when we invented printing machines so they were literally called “the new thing”) people FREAKED OUT about kids sitting around reading made up stories instead of playing out and doing school work!

“The kids are all doing it
It’s such a waste of their time
When they could out of doors, playing,
It’s really a crime.

They ought to be doing their homework,
And yet once again
They are building fantastical worlds
And it causes me pain.

Now modern technology’s great,
But it’s going too far.
This disturbing invention:
Is this really who our kids are?

Disappearing inside an existence
Which isn’t quite real?
I am old and I don’t understand
How do you think I feel?

I blame Gutenberg, him and his printing press
That’s what began it !
Now the kids have got stories to read!
It spells doom for our planet!

If you tell me that it’s educational
Then you’re a fool
How ridiculous!
Nobody studies a novel at school!”

This is genuinely how some people
Would talk in the past:
When the novel was new
No-one really believed it would last

So although I do not really get it,
It wouldn’t shock me
If your grandkids one day study
Minecraft for GCSE

Because being creative
And building amazing new worlds
Is the way you encourage
Your mind to expand and unfurl

And yes, grownups complain about Minecraft
That’s just what we do
When we don’t understand something
Simply because it is new.

A puppy poem for Poppy.

When they’re born they are tiny
Like fat little worms
They can’t even walk,
They just squiggle and squirm

Don’t know how to bark yet
They can’t even see
They just squeak and drink milk
(And they poo and they wee)

Can’t learn any tricks yet
They can’t fetch a ball
They don’t really look
Like a puppy at all

They start to get bigger
And furrier too
They open their eyes
And start looking at you.

They soon learn to walk
And then jump, and then run
Before long, they’re exploring,
And looking for fun.

It’s tough being a puppy:
There’s things you love doing
Like barking and biting
And digging and chewing

And then there are things
That you don’t like at all
Like traffic, and baths,
Someone taking your ball,

And wearing a collar,
And sleeping alone,
And somebody taking
Your favourite bone…

And the things that you like
Seem to get you in trouble
And the things that you hate
Seem to suddenly double

It can take a long time
It is really a slog
For a puppy to learn
How to be a good dog

So if you know a puppy,
Be patient and kind
If they do make mistakes,
Try your best not to mind

If they sometimes forget
Not to wee on your shoes
Or if all your belongings
Become doggy chews,

Just remember, they’re trying:
They want to be good!
It’s just, sometimes, they tend
To forget why they should.

Charlie wanted a poem about “Spiderman Bag”

This confused me, I won’t lie.

I’ve got a Spiderman bag!
A Spiderman bag?
Yes, a Spiderman bag!

Wow, a Spiderman bag!

So is that a bag of spiders, carried by a man
(Spider Man-bag!)
Or a bag a spider carries, in the shape of a man?
(Spider (Man) bag!)
Or a bag that literally contains Spiderman?
(Spiderman (in) bag!)
Or a bag full of men, a sac if you will, that a spider has spun to contain its human prey?
(Spider’s man bag!)

No.
It’s just a bag.
With a picture of Spiderman on it.
(Spiderman bag!)

Oh.
Well that’s a letdown.
There were so many possibilities.

Cool bag, though.