FROM LIVERPOOL - EUROPEAN CAPITAL OF CULTURE 2008

CAUGHT IN THE NET - Nineteen

MARCH 2004

Editor - Jim Bennett

Hello again.  Welcome to CITN 19.  CITN has been restricted to "special editions" over the past few months due to work commitments and the death of Ted Slade who owned and ran Poetry Kit which is the umbrella organisation under which CITN shelters.  Since Ted's death I have taken over the editing of Poetry Kit at poetrykit.org.

Poetry Kit Magazine is an ezine which appears on the poetry Kit site which can be found at - http://www.poetrykit.org/   I am seeking submissions of poetry, reviews, essays, articles and illustrations for that magazine.  When submitting please ensure that the magazine title to which you are submitting is clearly marked in the subject line of any emails.  

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 which is 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 1500 subscribers to CITN so to keep this number growing please 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 - jimbennett11@btopenworld.com   Please mark as "submission CITN"

CONTENTS    
     
Alex Davis   DESPOILERS
Olga Kenyon   KINGS OF THE ROAD
    THE RAINDROP SLIPS INTO THE SHINING SEA
Sheree Mack (Newcastle, UK)   MANNINGHAM LANE
    THE FIRST TIME EVER I SAW YOUR FACE.
Patricia K. McCarthy (Ontario, Canada)   MRS. PICASSO
Robert McGrogan -(Wallasey, UK)   AUTOBIOGRAPHY
Annie Moir (Newcastle, UK) THE SOUNDS OF MY 70's
Jean Owen   LIGHT
    BODY CLOCK
     
READ AT BORDERS    
Jim Bennett - (Liverpool, UK)   WHERE POETRY IS  
Maureen Weldon (Chester, UK)  

OF AUTUMN

 
Despoilers 
by Alex Davis
 
The spires rise, majestic
Along the frozen horizon
Granite marked with time
And erosion’s embrace
 
Through stone-laid streets
We ride towards the castle,
Icon of a dynasty lost,
Of religion torn down
 
Houses, devoid of life
Decorations still hang above
The cobwebbed doorways
Hollow celebrations eternal
 
The greyed fortress,
Gates open yet unwelcoming
To the deserted courtyard
A ghost of the forlorn empire
 
The corridors, shaded
Lead to imperious chambers
Marked with dust, disuse
The solitude of the years
 
Descending, the dungeon
A shuffling can be heard
What awaits in the ebon
Repelled by lanterns light
 
Cells, filled with people
Fear held in desperate eyes
No response, expressionless
Unanswering of my words
 
And a distant rumbling rises
As the captive turn away
The dark begins to open
The slender flame dies
 
There is a laughter
Maniacal, and hands upon me
Driving me into my cage
A malevolent home
 
The keepers of this place
Bringers of such desolation
Despoilers of this kingdom
Such maddening sight…
KINGS OF THE ROAD – 3  wheeler taxis in INDIA
 byOlga Kenyon
 
From rickshaw to 3 wheeler
From back breaking to bone rattling
Bare survival to proud employment
zoom, swerve, brake, overtake, smile.
 
The wheezy, two-stroke engine’s made in lndia
The flimsy covering’s local plastic
I prefer these rickety 3 wheelers
shake me scared, but cheaper than taxis.
 
I state a price, we haggle, soon agree
We just avoid bus bumpers, bright saris,
That lorry’s mudguard, that young boy’s handcart.
Whistle, jerk, speed, interweave, smile.
 
Whenever he’s free, l choose plump Krishna
With perspiring hands, he first blesses me
Then recounts his woes, his ex-cancer;
We share few words, but feel like friends.
 
With no doors, I could be catapulted
 Into the mixed throng of polluting cars
Instead, try to enjoy the wind ruffling my hair.
Step on it Krishna, overtake that Mercedes.
 
‘THE RAINDROP SLIPS INTO THE SHINING SEA’
by Olga Kenyon
 
The vast sea  absorbs the ‘raindrop’
While the drop ‘absorbs’ the ocean
First the swells of the Pacific
Then Atlantic’s wind-slashed mountains;
Grey smoke against black basalt walls
Ends as shy waves on island sands.

Manningham Lane         

by Sheree Mack

She walks slowly
as the harsh street light
glares

Fake tanned legs
in pee-toe heels
cackle along the lane.

Black mini
stretched over arse,
accentuates the swinging hips,

promising to fulfil
the kerb crawlers’
fantasies.

Window winds down
gum cracks
deal stuck.

Feelings;
that would be extra.
 


The first time, ever, I saw your face …
after Roberta Flack By       

by Sheree Mack

And then there was that time,
when I waited at the corner– west side,
after we’d decided to …
after our desire had fumbled
from mouth, to hand, to clit.

You said your mum would be out
bingo – just give you a minute to arrange …
things.

I waited in the darkness –
flushed and panicky,
until you led me in.

We huddled on the sagging couch,
with tales to tell,
flicking and kissing.
Then up the stairs to your curtained …
room.

Creaky bed
freezing strip.

You inside – hard, urgent, rubbing

Grasping and face pressed in,
too close …
for comfort.

I wondered if you were …
in,
if you had finished.

Was it good for you, you said.
Good – I said.
 

Mrs. PICASSO      
by Patricia K. McCarthy


I am his first whore for gold rings
and jade he offers,
to my white skin and his dark.

Whatever he says or does
I nod in agreement
and disrobe all humility.
I bare naked myself.

To his eyes of avarice,
they think of nothing else
but fucking a whore, or lady or mother.

Neither one would matter,
this moment,
my flesh laid on his canvas
I shudder.
 
autobiography 
by r p mcgrogan

What am I doing here
 as my past lies before me
a trail of
unfinished
manuscripts
unwritten
poems
forgotten
friends
unkept
relationships
broken
promises
unrealised
dreams.
The Sounds of My 70’s 
by Annie Moir
                       
The Jam That’s Entertainment
On the telly hanging on the telephone
All I really want to do
Is party with the Ramones
 
 Kettle boiling on the hob            
Baby’s bottle warming
The whistle Test with Whispering Bob
Sated baby yawning
 
 
Wart Hogs  War Pigs 
Sabbath nights  Grateful days
Hoover roars the stiff tour
Sid Vicious singing My Way
 
 Safety pin punk teething ring
Gnawing fist unhappy din
Background Neil Hey Hey My My
Wedding bells the 5th of July
 
With Tom Waits in the neighbourhood
And Thin Lizzies boys back in town
Siren wailing cries abate
Gentle breaths like thistledown
 
While Zevon’s howling werewolves
And anarchy rules the UK
Bright early morning chortles
Begin my waking day.   
         
LIGHT      
by  Jean Owen                                                
 
In deadly night’s shade                             
before light shone on both sides of the Eurotunnel  
vision is denounced in a single jeremiad            
 
Pagan eyelids dim the sun                           
as it glistens on a splenetic lobster               
probing about in the darkness of its skin           
 
Light serrates the green black forest               
While on beaches crayfish                           
are sedated by gravity                             
 
& the literati play pre-war games with words
sounds received through tufts of hair      not ears               
The hanging judge burns all prose purple & otherwise
strings us up & along as though it is better             
to boil lobster alive beneath the naked light bulb  
than when our back are turned                                
 
Wise men  Wise cracks        Wide cracks in pavements    
full of shit & chat from the gutter press           
 
Yet we too have become superselves
scornful of gravity                                 
too bright for the sun saturating our skin          
extricating darkness from within                    
stepping down from the shelves we’ve been put upon  
 
BODY CLOCK        
by Jean Owen                                           
 
Wet dreams withhold faces                           
& uncanny figures forage in the wings               
soldiers & other lovers lose themselves                  
in the losing battle                                         
                                                    
My hair is sodden with sex & I talk dirty           
to the man in the corner who sobs                   
reaches out in the dark for my breasts              
& squeezes     milking my bliss                     
Moving his mouth to my clitoris                     
he kisses & kisses like this & this…                              
My womb aches with eggs yet to grow                 
Instead she bleeds weakly                           
& seeps through his frightened fingers              
as he fumbles     falling through the floor         
He ends up picking poppies in the field
& winning wars only bred in dreams
 
while Moon still mocks me monthly
So my womb takes up an old chant
& sprouting wings she flies away
She is a fire bird
a face set in marble high in Sky
a milky way
a green river mid-summer
a moorhen with a mean look in her eye
gliding around     missing her brood
 
READ AT BORDERS
 
where poetry is
by Jim Bennett
 
You want me to tell you where poetry is
OK it’s in the inconsistencies
that hide between lines
like the incoherent mumbles of the drunk
or the rambling of the sick and dying
it’s in the last moments of the sunset
and the first light of dawn
it’s noon and midnight
the echo of a train
the sound of children playing
it’s in the cry of despair at loss
and in the sky punch exaltation of success
it flies with the birds
pinned against the sky
swims with fish
floating on endless currents
 
it’s in shops
on posters and handbills
tins and packages
signs and billboards
you will hear it in a theatre in Crosby
in a cinema in Birkenhead
or in the third room at the Everyman Bistro
it’s in the ripples of the dessert
and on the mountainside
it’s in the song of a busker
in a pedestrian underpass
by St johns market
and the breeze that moves the grass
like an endless ocean
it’s in the temptation of a warm still night
the linking touch of two bodies
the smells of toilets
the stench of vomit
and the flow of blood after an accident
and its in words
single simple words that stand for themselves
and spatial words
that take us someplace else
 
it’s in the black velvet
colour of night
in the silver moon sparkle
on wet leaves
the swish  of tyres on wet tarmac
and on a motorway going
somewhere
and on a road going
nowhere
that cuts through the night
with arc light brilliance
and in the opening of a flower
the closing of a door
and in your eyes
 
and really it’s everywhere if you look for it
and nowhere if you don’t
OF AUTUMN
by Maureen Weldon
 
 
Autumn is here, lazy red and yellow;
Summer birds on rooftops to fly away;
Along the grass Sun that awesome fellow
Beats time: his music to conduct the day.
Now shadows passing on vivid flowers
While butterflies and bees dart and hum;
Can they tell the voices of Autumn hours?
And can they tell of shrill chill winds to come?
In golden light a woman sits and reads,
Cheeks red as crab-apples, hands brown as nuts,
Reads of an Ancient man, his ship, his deeds;
Today it is the line of ifs and buts.
Yet royal Autumn you like every season,
Earth's revolving throne, essence of all reason.
 
(first published Poetry Monthly)
Afterword
 
email Jim Bennett - jimbennett11@btopenworld.com - tell us what you think.
An archive of previous editions of Caught in The Net is available at
http://www.geocities.com/Athens/Aegean/9952/index.htm  
where you can also join the mailing list and the PK Poetry List
 
Thank you for taking the time to read Caught in the Net.
Next regular edition due at the end of May 2004 - look out for it in the in-tray

 

BACK