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CAUGHT IN THE NET 185 -  POETRY  BY JAMES BELL

Series Editor - Jim Bennett for The Poetry Kit - www.poetrykit.org
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Submissions for this series of Featured poets is open, please see instruction in afterword at the foot of this mail.
 

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CONTENTS

1 - BIOGRAPHY
2 – POETRY 

3 - PUBLISHING HISTORY

4 - AFTERWORD
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1 – BIOGRAPHY – James Bell

James Bell is originally from Scotland and now lives in France where he contributes non-fiction and photography to an English language journal. Before leaving the UK he spent ten years as co-presenter of the long running poetry series Uncut Poets in Exeter. He has published two poetry collections the just vanished place (2008) and fishing for beginners (2010). He continues to publish poetry widely both in print and online and in many anthologies and in eBooks during a long publishing history with Poetry Kit. He further compliments his writing by publishing short stories. 'His third poetry collection, Here at the End of the World, is forthcoming from Lapwing.'

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2 - POETRY 

the ennui video game

he is easy in his virtual you just can’t see it

as easy as patterns made by the sun

there is no conversational tone amongst the words

it’s a case of what you see is what you get

as easy as patterns made by the sun

a found entity that may never mature

it’s a case of what you see is what you get

and what you get is very little in daylight

a found entity that may never mature

for as the cliché says it’s another coin in the slot

and what is left is very little in daylight

if the sun doesn’t shine it makes no difference

for as the cliché says it’s another coin in the slot

clocked up by the years as they amble on

if the sun doesn’t shine it makes no difference

a crust is bread enough as is a roof overhead

clocked up by years as they amble on

there is no conversational tone amongst the words

a crust is bread enough as is a roof overhead

he is easy in his virtual you just can't see it

you become sharper with a pencil in your hand

a pencil is more reliable in a storm

it never runs out, just becomes smaller

in your fingers until you can write

no more, no thoughts left among these

shavings and used up lead when six-

sided wood is difficult to find

to hone and sharpen almost like a stake

you stake your life upon sometimes

like a twig to clutch in rough sea

though you are no sailor, the moment

always comes in a meeting of minds

in some big hotel, a conference of bird-

like chatter from species known well –

a pencil held hard but rarely broken where

the race memory returns like a horror film

you did not want to see in the first place

and then could not believe as real as

the tactile movement of pencil over paper

the appearance of a sketch to fill

your synapses with a creative intent

so old now you can nearly see the cave

Yo Sushi, Paddington

no literary association as such –

it is a bar and this has resonance

Philip Marlowe as Humphrey Bogart

walks into a bar and orders miso soup

John Wayne swaggers into a saloon

in early Technicolor and the furniture

is broken to smithereens – nothing changes

it doesn’t look like you now use these

as chopsticks to pick out tofu

from the bottom of the bowl along

with the sodden green vegetables –

you order another miso soup because

well because it’s on the house this time

is so energising and helps screen out

the sound of constant transit – for

to stop too long is to stand out –

the conveyer belt of suchi in bowls

with clear dome covers helps fashion

the sense that you have not really stopped

have only paused to eat – take a mid-priced

dish off the belt and begin to fascinate

once again on how Japanese rice

sticks together for lifting with sticks

even when loosened from the seaweed wrapper -

remember how JG Ballard liked weevils

as protein from rice during his internment –

this could be one of his science fiction stories

and the businessmen in long black coats

with laptop bags could be speaking alien –

your ticket is not letters of transit

it is the 17.33 to Exeter St Davids –

this is not Rick’s Bar it is Yo Sushi

you never meet anybody you know

and could be back in three months

reading yet another Elmore Leonard

and still not meet anybody you know

except writers you read to travel by

Kinryusan Temple in Asakusa

After Hiroshige

begin with a word for snow

happenstance says the turn of a page

      will reveal somewhere familiar

              forgotten until returned to now

takes the word away

       and settles for snow as it falls

              beyond the paper lantern held

                     up with rope from below

although large it cannot dominate

       in the asymmetric shift to the left

to bring in the red and green of the entrance gate

both croppings are the frame we look through

        as if this is a film still and will

               unfreeze then move to show me more

and this is really a temple we visited

snow is only frozen water

there are no footprints though people walk

         either side beside snow filled trees

                 and buildings across a vast expanse

of white that recedes in a reversed V

          to display an early use of perspective

people as pins of colour under parasols

              walk towards the flat red

              of the temple’s shapes

                   walk as if the ground is white paper

far from cicada song in summer

       when parasols are for shelter from the sun

when people seem still to walk towards

       instead of from the temple

though the scene has a silence associated with winter

             angles fixed and nothing moves

end with a word for snow

a state of being

today we were introduced to

the small black Breton bee –

it was of course informal

where there was the usual buzz

that to us was indistinguishable

from any other bee we have met

one of those casual visits you get

with an open door in summer policy

when it’s hot – it’s danger was to be

mistaken for a wasp but a visitor

said it was not and we hope still is

a small black Breton bee whose sort

we have seen before in the remaining

walls of a ruined abbaye settled

in a gap where an oak rafter once sat

and then there it was milled black

with bees – though there could be

no conversation about the previous meeting

as the visit was merely exploratory –

fleeting – but it could not fly out

our closed window – the concept irritated

the bee and we maybe not its favourites

even when the window was opened –

it persisted in trying to fly through glass

until a draught from a newspaper

took it round the frame to fresh air

again as a free small black Breton bee

telling it slant

The Truth must dazzle gradually

Or everyman be blind –

                                      Emily Dickinson

so there is Michelangelo up the ladder

on the platform

laid on his back

wishing he looked at a piece of sculpture instead

inevitable that

some paint falls on the stone floor

                                                       below

drips from between the planks

in a mere second

hits the ground

to describe another kind of art

that will not be seen for centuries yet

where another artist

is more deliberate rather than his attention

being elsewhere

and each day a novice cleans the floor

knowing heaven and angels only appear from

                                                                         above

Imagine in Paris

1.

even all those years ago on original vinyl

it brought a lump to the throat

you let go only in private

the lump returns as you see and hear it played

on a mobile piano on a cold Paris street

by fingers dressed in fingerless gloves

even with the slight honky-tonk time you feel

the surge of the words as the tune

lingers outside Bataclan – tinkles

through a crowded and silent street

except for the strange percussion

of camera shutters that don’t quite fit

nobody tries to sing – know the lyrics –

its composer would have approved

down to how blood stuck to the piano wheels

2.

so much is hidden in maps

like those from five hundred years before us

and Paris a shadow of its present self

a gift each time we visit

and tread again this city’s memories

its engagement with love and death

takes life like the next word – how

it arrives in the next moment – how

nothing is ever quite what you expect

not easy to acknowledge – to chart

blood on piano wheels as if it was yesterday

every cartographer knows you cannot map futures

since seeing you last

I have been to Africa

watched as a young lion strolled by our

                    open sided Land Cruiser

intent along with others of the pride

on taking down an impala for food –

hungry – their plans were a five point

                     pincer movement -

know their prey can outrun them

know it would never come near man

the sly glimpse up to where we sat

was part conspiratorial part disgust at using us

as cover while it moved into position

light was beginning to fail

so we did not see if there was a kill –

I’ll tell you some of the other things

                                 I’ve done sometime

since seeing you last

kata*

a small movement

in red silk is an option

that would cross into sinuousness

or just old fashioned sin

even if this is a brush with death

the ultimate imaginary friend

who has seen it all

has performed in most dramas

usually marks the end

for there has to be one

even if gainsay or hearsay

have a place in folk tales

when you are nothing to begin with

give favours for money

a mask is an improvement

so runs the story

where one forward step shows so much

in its speed or coyness –

though now you are frozen

your tableau a statement of intention

where silk is no longer an option

a slipstream in stasis

an idea where the first step has been taken

to an adventure in progress

that cannot now end

*Kata are used in many Japanese arts such as theatre forms like kabuki and schools of tea ceremony but are most commonly known in the martial arts. (Wikipedia)

they do not move

and for all we know or care

they stand there still

frozen to the applause of their audience

evidence

that time can slow down for infinity

then move into reverse

their agreement was to go through

with this turning point

the wait ended

their reluctance to move

suggests

they have already gone

though not have realised

carried out the debate in retrospect

in a play

where Godot had already arrived and left

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4 - Afterword

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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 - info@poetrykit.org

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/