CAUGHT IN THE NET 142 - POETRY BY CHRIS MANLEY
Series Editor - Jim Bennett for The Poetry Kit -
You can join the CITN mailing list at - http://www.poetrykit.org/pkl/index.htm and following the links for Caught in the Net.
Submissions for this series of Featured poets is open, please
see instruction in afterword at the foot of this mail.
Now, further up the road, the
from The lice in St. Giles of Reading by Chris Manley
1 - BIOGRAPHY
2 – POETRY
Light from on top of the hill
The lice in St. Giles of Reading
A foreword about the sacking of Bracknell
Coughing whilst asleep
A very famous problem
The young snap twigs
Instructions for a sinner
3 - PUBLISHING HISTORY
4 - AFTERWORD
1 – BIOGRAPHY: CHRIS MANLEY
Trained as a photographer, Chris is interested in documenting in his writing the
images at work in the moment. He is aware that each moment documented in his
writing should be and is full to brimming with many alternative narratives. Not
all of these make it into his writing, but perhaps he might offer the glimpse of
the many-sided image in his writings on the moment. Chris' work is inspired by
his walk to work and other places.
2 - POETRY
Buddleia knows the
ins and outs of
the bricks and mortar
And of all the unsettled
sugar smacked lipped pavements
here we find the sticking footprints
of the south
The tin cans are having a meeting at the church today,
They are marked with a recycling motif and lie
crumpled by the hands of drunkards, who like spiders
at the foot of autumn wait for the vicar to come
and be pleasant
for all the world to see.
Now, further up the road, the
crackle of bluebottles warm and stinking
around black bins, who have warm tongues
and are dirty, filled to lid with lettuce and
wet salty meat.
put your tongues back in your beak boys, I hear
the cry of the pigeon master who is,
would you believe it cold and in a winter coat in
I imagine the legs on this man, sucking green juices
that would flow down Southampton street
and into the mouth of the Oracle where
I go to look at knives and drink from the river.
A portrait of an upturned car,
Scorched by the wind
houses a nest of migrating starlings,
The press officer tells us the car was engulfed
The ages of both children are set down in print
And at a circulation of three hundred,
all gasps are sucked back in behind net curtains.
It was a savage day squelches the ex-something
at the back of the bus, whose loins
are now intertwined with stale
Some carry sandbags, I chose to watch.
Up the aisle,
Where men scrape
Algae from the brickwork
And platform boots
get lucky, one foot in front of the other,
We are sipping, waiting, distressed.
When she looks back on her
she tells us,
she was in love,
The most pleasant sound
You can ever hear
whilst pouring coffee
down the sink.
He thought he
heard a string quartet
on platform one
but it turned out to be cats,
Such a horrible racket,
the coriander dieing on
Put the bins out,
turn the lights off,
blow your nose.
This morning strangled birdsong and
The harmonious two egg drop,
Is a cumbersome middling woman with a cigarette
between her lips,
sitting on the door step,
watching over her shoulder.
Wet to touch paws,
annihilated in the snow,
with breathing knives
because they have tiny lungs.
Seated, and fed,
I dream of spandex,
a language coded by touching
mouths and a sickness so sweet
that no one will take the pill.
We learn by experience,
it, the smell of lavender,
does not turn the wheel,
the sensation, the colour of red.
We cannot conceive of round,
the mortal, the motion
and fundamental repulsion of forces
are here explained:
A summer breezes happens
under a budleja, blowing with
kind lunchtime fingers
pages of the famous Germinal.
Bees, butterflies, flies all drink
from pink flutes
and the saliva dries quickly against their cheeks.
But I am the alarm.
It shocked through
the unopen window
and yellow tape,
pointless, she says.
They took the contents
of the fruit machine.
The rabbits are here
on the promise of
a bowl of nacho's
that are placed at our table
by a tattooed arm,
Celtic I think.
A war symbol with
On the afternoon
Piled high on nail
Clippings, and the worst of the stomach,
The utter stench of
Worth no more than
A train station
Cup of tea.
Gather my horde
Armour and deadly
Will do each bidding
Fed on priceless
Now I look upon
And rid the bath
of its most
Climb up the bell tower,
You men of honour,
Your tongues are red.
3 - Afterword
Email Poetry Kit - firstname.lastname@example.org - if you would like to tell us what you think.
We are looking for other poets to feature in
this series, and are open to submissions. Please send one poem and a short
bio to - email@example.com
Thank you for taking the time to read Caught in the Net. Our other magazine s are Transparent Words ands Poetry Kit Magazine, which are webzines on the Poetry Kit site and this can be found at - http://www.poetrykit.org/