CAUGHT IN THE NET - Thirteen

December 2002

Editor - Jim Bennett

Hello again. This is Caught in the Net number Thirteen and a Christmas and New Year special edition.  This edition contains one of the last poems written by Louise Wagener, a poet of tremendous insight and ability who died in 2002 and it is presented here as a tribute and in her memory. This emag is only possible if people contribute to it so if you enjoy the eclectic nature of this emag and you want it to continue you will need to submit to it.

Thanks again to everyone who has contributed.

POLICY - My thanks go to everyone who has submitted work for inclusion in this issue and my apologies to those I could not include. I follow a policy of publishing several pieces by the same author in order to enable the reader to see the range of the poets writing, but if space does not allow I may publish the same poet in several editions.

Please note that no particular spelling convention has been followed and the spellings used reflect the national usage of each contributor.  We are always looking for new poets and poems for CAUGHT IN THE NET and our other, web based, magazine TRANSPARENT WORDS both of which are hosted on the site of PK POETRY LIST   The PK Poetry List is a poetry workshop and discussion list.  Anyone interested in joining the list or in finding out more can do so at the main PK site which is at -

http://www.geocities.com/Athens/Aegean/9952/index.htm  

There are already over 900 subscribers to CITN but please feel free to pass it on to your friends.  

Copyright Notice - All the work produced in this ezine is the copyright of the individual authors and cannot be reproduced without permission. All writers have exerted their moral rights to be identified as the author of their work.

Submissions - always welcome - please send to - caught_in_the_net@hotmail.com

CONTENTS    
     
Jim Bennett - (Liverpool, UK)   FLUTTERING
Brian Dawson - (Wirral,UK)   TERRI, THE FOREST RANGER, LOOSES IT
Nicholas Hancock - (Liverpool, UK)   DON JAIME AND HIS PEONES
Ricki Hughes   SANTACLAWS FOR THE DYING
Mick Moss - (Liverpool, UK)   MESSYPHYSICS
    RED LINES
Louise Wagener - (Ormskirk, UK)   ROSE
     
READ AT BORDERS    
     
Jim Bennett - (Wallasey, UK)   ABOUT A KISS
Roger Cliffe-Thompson - (Wirral, UK)   THE REAL NUMBERS GAME
Brian Dawson (Wirral, UK)   LLANDUDNO IN SEPTEMBER
Tim Stone - (Liverpool, UK)   JUBILEE  
    DAWN  
    LOST INNOCENCE  
    LEAVING IAN  
       
fluttering
by Jim Bennett

 I saw a wing fluttering
in the road
thought I could help
but it was just a wing
glued to the ground
by guts and blood
feathers
moving in the breeze
 
I had to move to the pavement
As other cars came
Wheels drove over it
Squashed it
flat to the ground
But after they had passed
The wing rose again
And started fluttering
In imitation of life.
 

TERRI, THE FOREST RANGER, LOOSES IT

by Brian Dawson

 

Words in flame

Engulfed,

ignited heart

Estranged,

 

Paper curling

     ash creating

         love Lorne

             blackening

heat.

 

 

Forest-shimmer

            in a Blurry,

                               burning,

                       beaten,

                          haze.

 

As she laid cinders in a

Thousand Empty Hearths.

 

“She was one of us?”

 

Yes, not as hoped,

the unnamed unknown

from Out of Town

with flickering gaze.

 

“She went up there

to burn a letter

and be real down!”

 

But how far down?

Handcuffed now

and tremored voice

admitting human frailty

 

And what of the real cost?

        And how measured?

 

In trees,

and houses,

and firebreaks,

and charred remains?

 

   

Or loss,

and memories

and heartbreaks

and tears of flames

 

 
 
Don Jaime and His Peones
by Nicholas Hancock
 
The rancher Jaime* pays his hands;
they do the work and he sits back.
It’s land and capital they lack
and steers and eucalyptus stands.
 
We sit under the paradise tree
counting the hours
and petals of bright blue
while the chestnut troop canter in
swishing tails.
Juan prevails
on a colt that’s just broken in
to show us all who’s who.
Now fall sky-flowers,
hot dust blossoming right under me.
 
Don Jaime is so roundly fat
he climbs a trunk to mount his horse.
He owns the horse and trunk of course -
ten thousand hectares after that.
 
Carrying halters we approach the corral;
horses splay out
with whinnying and bites
like a shark’s teeth round the fence.
Halters are strapped,
the gate unsnapped,
and the harnessing rites commence.
When cinches pull, eyes whites
warn us: we clout
backward-levered ears with a snarl.
 
Don Jaime’s city wok deep-fries
potato chips, best cuts of beef.
If owning men makes him a thief,
he steals their breath and blinds their eyes.
 
We, trotting into afternoon sun,
roll cigarettes.
The capybaras bark
in the shade of the kill-eye trees,
entering the stream.
Our ponchos gleam;
the thorned roses of spurs ring; we seize
the day, light up the dark
before the sun sets
and evening has made the herd run.
 
From stirrup to the trunk at last,
don Jaime seeks the blessed ground,
and for the house he’s stiffly bound;
here vermouth frees him from the past.
 
We soon sit on logs round fire;
mate is passed.
An old man rides up
to the paradise tree, his spurs strapped
to bare feet.
‘Take a seat,’
says Camargo; mate is tapped
in the gourd; our guest will sup
and rest at last,
in his spurs, bones the next day will tire.
 
Wasps lay their eggs in certain drones
whose living flesh becomes their food;
don Jaime’s parasitic brood
will suck peones’ blood and bones.
 
(* Jaime is pronounced HIGHmay)
Santaclaws for the Dying
by Ricky Hughes


Death watches him from the audience as he waits in line
My fathers clasping hands pray his legs will support him
Avoiding the old man's gaze his emotional lips kiss the ring
Death alone understands the dead language
Photographs are taken before he is blessed away
Indifferent death follows him out into the Roman streets
 

 

Messyphysics
by Mick Moss
today I was sent a poem
subject -  the big bang
it was written by a guy
with whom I occasionally hang
I explained to him my theory
that it was all a big mistake
and it wasn't in fact the universe
that god was trying to make
but the thing went off prematurely
well that was the gist of my notion
and that god was probably killed
in this calamitous explosion

 

Red Lines
by Mick Moss
 
Who cast the first stone
when you were grown
and carrying crosses
they wouldn't acknowledge
because the truth
is too awful

Who would cross the lines
that map hard times
when you were scared
scarred, and barred
from the childhood
they owed you

I'll hold you close
safe, away from those
who use abuse and confuse
what love is.
Rose; who died two months ago
by Louise Wagener
forgive me Rose
I needed to feel something alive
inside me
it wasn't making love
that's something
only we can do
I only drop
my pants for you
or for the best of men
but then for them
I ‘m every dream
they’ve ever had
their every fantasy come true
I explore the lucky bastards
body like a mother
intermit with places
they’ve forgotten
play scrotem squeeze
till ball ache
makes them squeal
 
massage away all care
kiss and scratch
until they feel they will explode
and beg to come
 
in return they grab
and squeeze a tit
push fingers into pussy
and I moan a bit
and think of you

(Louise died in 2002)

 

READ AT BORDERS
about a kiss
by Jim Bennett
 
she speaks in the language of a kiss
silently and lingering
her mouth moves
shapes itself into a poem
about a kiss
 
her words caress
like a tongue
exploring
and at some point
before it ends
you start to feel
like you want
a cigarette

 

 

 

Llandudno in September

by Brian Dawson

 
Sharp and bright, the light with autumnal
angle, shines along the Orme-hugging sea
and dazzles down from empty window
casements in candicoloured hotels,
filled by multitudes of late season migrants.
 
Whilst behind their white and pink facades
sit coaches from Liverpool and Walsall
with elderly travellers, lined up on benches,
waiting for the day tripper returns.
 
We wandered lonely in a High Street crowd
that floats past shopping malls and stores
and saw a host of golden agéd heads,
where old outnumber young by ten to one.
 
And at Ten To One the white flat caps
march to the memory of brass bands,
now echoing in empty bandstands,
for chicken dinners at Clare's Upstairs.
 
Plastered on selected walls and boards
are Posters, telling of summer fun,
now age-faded in the autumn sun.
 
Blue rinse twin sets, accompanied
by comfort slacks carrying folded macs
over sun warmed age-faded arms,
go promenading past retailers
promoting electrified shopping carts,
and for the sensible - suitable underwear.
 
Young family threesomes pushing buggies or
pulling children past each Ice Cream Parlour
with tempting images of cold and colour.
 
And inside are lonely couples of middle years
sitting with eyes locked on each other
slowly licking their melting cones in some
half remembered, sexual overtones.
 
Seagull scavengers fight to entertain
over fish, battered by plastic plates.
The winner caws and swallows whole
as it eyes the plate with anticipation.

 Nearby, seated and sweet toothed,
or toothless, are the senior serviced
by the army of white aproned Victoriana.
Powdered, Perfumed and Cardigan'd,
each taking tea and two cream scones.
 
Around the town, vague memories of
Alice Liddell's search for answers
whispers its way down Copper Mines
and phantom burrows, whilst modern day
Alice Liddells ride Cable Cars from
Happy Valley to the saddened peak
or squirm on North Shore Pier amuse-
ments seeking thrills before winter comes.
 
Blunt and dimmed, the autumnal angled light
now seeks night along the Orme-tugging shore
whilst dazzling traffic lights wink a seasonal code
to curtained windows of candicoloured hotels.
The Real Numbers Game.
by Roger Cliffe-Thompson

 

 

Kylie’s gone straight in at number one!

 

Twenty  …

 

 

Tim Henman takes the first set six- four.

 

Twenty - eight…

 

 

Scientists say the finding of a six million year old skull will be of great benefit to humanity

 

Twenty eight million…

 

 

The majority of investors will lose their money in the Enron scandal.

 

Twenty eight million People …

 

 

 

 

The government says that everyone in the country  needs  to safeguard their pensions.

 

Twenty eight million people are dying of Aids in Africa.

 

 
  •  
    • Jubilee
    by Tim Stone
     
    Wave those flags, and hold that banner
    Tug the balloons like there's no tomorrow
    For you are one in among the throng,
    So blow those whistles and bang that gong
     
    Trapped deep inside the thickening action
    Enjoy the play. A National celebration.
    Engulfed by the swelling emotional tide
    Climb aboard for a media ride
     
    Above a proclaims to the world
    A kalidescope of colour, twirled and swirled
    Of spectacle of cultures enwrapped in presents
    Splashing in the kingdom's river, her majesty presents
     
    And as the present forgets, the memories stay
    Republican's and Royalists had a bloody good day.
     
     

    Dawn
    by Tim Stone
     
    Black specks shower the breaking darkness
    As my neck strains toward the lightening sky
    Which rips open a world. Like seeing through a
    Torn sheet on dawn's washing line, or that of
    A giant lifting the roof off a horizon's house.
    The cleaner's been and feather dusted
    Bring in the radient light, buffing it clear
    Or a boxing painter spar with the beauty of nature
    Unable to capture a breaking rainbow
    Before it sprinkles to barren earth
     

     

    Lost innocence
    by Tim Stone

     

    I lost my life back there, somewhere.
    If only I could remember when!
    I know it was after Lennon died on a pavement in New York.
    Therefore, I lost it somewhere between the kerb and the road
    It was at time when I was happy,
    Or was I?
    The memory has a funny way
    Of playing tricks about better days
    When grass grew deep green
    And the sun shone beyond yellow
    But I do know I lived when Lennon was alive.

     
     
    Leaving Ian
    by Tim Stone

     

    His shoulders slope
    And the tread is an exaggerated trudge
    He lights a cigarette for comfort
    To feed a draining heart.
    The T-shirt hangs slack
    The trouser belt loose
    As the crutch sags
    The body lopes, leaning forward.
    A toiling lonely figure
    As I drive off
     
     
    Afterword
     
    email Jim Bennett - jimbennett11@btinternet.com - tell us what you think.
    An archived version of Caught in The Net is available at
    http://www.geocities.com/Athens/Aegean/9952/index.htm  
    where you can join the mailing list and the PK Poetry List
     
    Thank you for taking the time to read Caught in the Net.
    Next edition due at the end of February 2003 - look out for it in the in-tray

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