CAUGHT IN THE NET - TWO

May 2001

Editor - Jim Bennett

CITN2 is here and I can tell you that sometimes a month can pass very quickly. Thank you for all the kind words which greeted our first issue. Once again we have a collection of quality poems all given freely by their writers. My thanks go to everyone who has submitted work for inclusion in this issue and my apologies to those I could not include. I am swamped with an embarrassment of riches and I want to get as broad a selection as possible. I also 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 will publish the same poet in several editions.

Please note that no particular spelling convention has been followed and the spellings used reflect the 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

CEREMONY

by John Birkbeck

 

She said that men

who make her laugh

also make her hot

but she would marry

only a man who could

stop her hunger

so I sat anonymous

amid the bride's family--

the worst man

at her wedding

See more poems by John at; http://poets2000.com/poemfields and http://www.thepoeticlink.com

 

 

LIGHT SCULPTOR

By John Birkbeck

 

At the summit of his world

he made a grasp at the rational

surrendering to the reality of

simultaneity of aestheticised

and ratonal lines of sight

yet able to avert contrapunt

cluttering his old contricities

painstakingly gleaned from

the Musee d'Art Moderne

and thence a reverse "epiphany"

of subject-objects cannily arrayed

into fussily inavoidables

within place and hour

a hail to and a farewell from

(so to speak) to stride between

place and place a l'une a l'autre

(so to speak again)

a beholding-- a mere solicitude

that he had lived to trample

the grapeyards of euphoria.

See more poems by John at; http://poets2000.com/poemfields and http://www.thepoeticlink.com

Shaving Bitter Longing's Legs

by Janet I. Buck

 

"Grab the broom of anger and drive off the beast of fear."

 

    Zora Neale Hurston

 

My anger is sleeping around

and I'm pregnant, wanting

to abort these ghosts,

leave the hut of liquor's mouse,

feeding plump escapist cells.

I'm wedded to these surly weeds

despite their thorns and rooted angst.

In one village, I am a child

clawing at accepting laps.

My words just aren't digestible.

I toy with begging, but I can't.

I pop your beer and pour

your glass of Chardonnay.

 

There will be two patches of earth

I shall need to label "home"

Climates of diversity

are brewing bed sores in my dreams.

One has kegs for centerpieces,

snapping plastic silverware;

the other is a sober scene

of sweet implied serenity.

One makes hamburger of grief;

the other covers it in sauce.

 

One hugs a tear as if it's born of leprosy;

the other owns its snakes and shoots.

It's humid there in late, late spring.

Razors gather rust and sit,

awaiting courage, shaving cream.

It's coming near the time to choose

between the drought

and sticky mist of honesty.

Choking on these vitamins

of "maybe this will free my soul,

stroke it like a homeless cat,"

I pack my sleeveless negligees,

wander to the warmer side.

See more of Janet's work at

http://members.aol.com/jbuck22874/whatsnew.html

MY SOFT SPOT FOR CELL PHONES

by Arthur Chappell

 

 The train was delayed but it's a nice day

 So I took a short walk  through Morecambe Bay

 That's how I ended up stuck in quicksand.

 It's lucky I had my phone in my hand.

 I'd just dialled out as my feet disappeared

 I rang  up to ask you if you had heard

 The rumours about John, from Parcel Force

 Him and his wife  are having a divorce.

 Don't cry, Sue. We don't know them all that well.

 The phone's gone all muddy. You'll have to yell

 A bit louder. I'm in up to my waist

 It feels like porridge and wallpaper paste.

 Before the party, I'll have to change clothes.

 Brand new trousers too, shame to ruin those.

 I ordered us our new radiator.

 I'll scream 'Help!' now and call y

                                                       o

                                                              u                      

 

                                                                    B

                                                                         

                                                                          a

 

                                                                          c

 

                                                                          k

 

 

                                                                          L

 

                                                                          a

 

                                                                          t

 

                                                                          e

 

                                                                          r

See more of Artur's work at - http://www.arthurchappell.clara.net/contents.htm

Going Coo-Coo

by Frank Faust

 

There are pigeons on my rooflines.

The sun is still low and highlights

a bump where each fat, grey

ball of feathers is coo-cooing away

as though its life depends on it.

Maybe it does.

 

The sun is a threat today.

Still hot from the day just gone

and full of menacing promise

of a sweltering meltdown to come.

I will sauna in my workplace.

There is no relief beyond

the feverish recycling of heated air,

the best my pedestal fan can do.

 

And work is both bane and salvation

for this day, with no place to run

from the heat and nowhere to hide

from tasks accumulated. The hope

is of becoming lost in the intricacies

of policy and procedure, submission

and correction, and change,

for its own sake.

 

The coo-cooing pigeons have moved off.

It is time to start, to seek a cooler place

in my mind and lose myself there.

As though my life depends on it.

And, maybe, it does.

See more at - Tales of Faust - http://www.hotkey.net.au/~flp/F_index.htm

Grass

by Larry L. Fontenot

 

A man is known

by the lawn he mows,

so I slip into loose jeans

and grass stained walking shoes,

murderer's clothes left over

summer to summer.

I march out, and the grass succumbs

to arrogant whirling blades.

 

As I walk among the fallen,

I gather strength in the notion

that each stalk will rise,

that each blade is unbowed

though clipped.

It is the duty of grass to survive,

to taunt landowners,

like a growling dog

safe behind fence.

 

I take the smell of St. Augustine

with me through the back door

into the kitchen where you sit

reading the Saturday paper.

There is a curious mix of aromas

when we meet.

You wrinkle your nose,

say I smell bad,

and I say, "Evil?" and you smile

and we each strip a piece of clothing

from the other's body

until we are down to nothing

but the smell itself,

down to skin where no grass grows,

down to where what fits survives,

where I place my tongue

deep into your ripe

summer heat.

More of Larry's work can be seen at http://poetrysuperhighway.com/PoetLinks.html

Eros

by Shannah Hogsett

 

under clear night skies

she would light candles

and wait for his return

all the while recalling his scent

feeling his hands on her

like living tattoos

the touch would over come her

 

at times it would rain

and she would surrender

so slowly

to the memories he left her

visions she would drown in

 

on summer mornings

when walking through the garden

she would stop and kiss the statue

and hear only her heart beating

Email Shannah at - shannah22@hotmail.com

 

Dawn

by Shannah Hogsett

 

Daytime has come

streaming through the window

over your face

along the length of your body

Your breathing is steady

I watch your lips

soft and open

Your lashes stir

I wonder what you are dreaming

maybe things you are not

showing to me

and I imagine that I should leave

Your smell clings to my body

I can still feel your hand striking my thigh

I envision the rhythmic crescendo

that descends upon me in the night

Email Shannah at - shannah22@hotmail.com

Goodbye Number 318

by Frances LeMoine

 

Boddhisatva's on the radio,

it's like you're in the room,

in the corner,

with your green monitor eyes,

and crooking a mighty finger.

 

Your eyes, mines.

 

Buzz of a fly's wings,

stiller, then still,

like the winding of a watch.

 

Leaving the words to me,

always,

a silence doesn't move you.

Words are your doors in,

my windows out.

 

I wait for you to land

on this unwedded strip,

15 blue watts dim and dimming still.

 

Every kind of moon has come unnoticed,

is gone,

then mourned.

 

Days like mileage signs

on the longest drive.

Persisting,

snatching joy's imprints,

in bright glimpses,

in low frequencies

 

This is nothing like a romance

 

Words burst,

hang,

 

drift away like a child's summers

or death row nights

 

If I turn on the light,

I'll see the lonely strip,

no finger crooked

 

and if I

STOP

to think,

I'll know what's been severed.

 

And it always smells like winter.

Email Frances at - frances_lemoine@yahoo.com

Sky 4:45pm

by Frances LeMoine

 

Day turns to urine yellow

paints my eyes

seizes focus

Peach and brown of retired teeth

smudged against some

leftover snow

Night's fat brush

smears the cobalt clouds

priestly purple

tar emerges

Email Frances at - frances_lemoine@yahoo.com

I Heard The Coyotes Cry

by Carol Ann Lindsay

 

The thick, soft, tawny coat,

had a muzzle pointed like a wolf's,

aimed northward on the street

next to the canyon. It seemed

a car hit man's best friend

until I saw the black-tipped tail.

Then I felt no grief because long,

loud, whines in the dark

come when cats disappear

and coyotes celebrate lunch.

It's been two weeks since Felix,

my little girl's cat vanished,

so I'm glad one of them is dead.

Maybe tomorrow I'll remember

my house stands on coyote land

and savor sounds of the night again.

Link - www.creative-commerce.com

One Gift

by Carol Ann Lindsay

 

A flower grew from seed,

soft and pungent smelling,

and it's free

for the mother hiding

truth about a shining

dandelion being weed.

Link - www.creative-commerce.com

Lumberjack

by Carol Ann Lindsay

 

 

Murdered trees take bows

so man can have newspapers

full of ugly death.

Link - www.creative-commerce.com

Poetry

by Mick Moss

 

Before the general population could read, back then maybe there was a need

for poetry

so that history could be told, by some smart arse bard of old

But now we've got TV what's the friggin point?

I hate poetry

Let me explain

Shakespeare's messy sonnets done up like Easter bonnets

with too much flowery nonsense all the time

with all his catatonic pentameter it really doesn't matter

because he only spun it out to make it rhyme

moving on to Byron, what a self indulgent moron

Shelley, Keats and Coleridge? I have better in my colon

not to mention Wordsworth, well. what are his words worth?

not much when you get right down to it

wandering lonely as a cloud, talks to daffodils out loud

what a dozy ineffectual stupid twit

And Robbie Burns the tax collector, with his smelly tam o shanter

writing gibberish that no one understands

while he glibly tries to cop with every virgin in every croft

in every corner of his bonny highland land

Which brings us onto Brooke and Owen and their bloody boring poems

about the obvious futility of war

if I should die in some foreign field let it finally be revealed

I`m glad! I won't have to read that bullshit anymore

And what of Hughes and Plath? let's face it, they're both naff

with their self pitying airs to love affairs gone wrong

Sorry, did I forget to mention, that cuddly teddy Betjeman

with his choo choos bringing early morning mail

his incessant rambling on, in that monotone sing song

is really quite beyond the pail.

Let's go across the great divide because it cannot be denied

the States have their fair share of poets of aplomb

like that fat bald beatnik Ginsberg going on and on and on and on and Om

and let's not forgetti Ferlinghetti, you need a bleedin dictionary

to understand that man, what is he on?

While back in dear old Blighty we had the ever mighty

Scousers, turning on to what was known as Mersey Beat

Like Henri and McGough, do me a favour mate, sod off

you get better poets begging in the street

Meanwhile over at MI5 that deceitful little hive

of intrigue and of frightening cold war scares

writing her insipid little couplets we find that annoying Mrs Muppet

we know and love as the 'humorous' Pam Ayers

But there is a spark in the dark, up near Trafford Park

is a cheeky Manc called Johnny Cooper Clarke

with an emaciated face and hair all over the place

he married an alien from outer space

(and she's welcome to him)

Then back down in the South, another geezer with a mouth

spouts witty ditties about hedgehogs and sheds

he's John Hegley no less, but when you put him to the test

there's nothing new here being said.

Oops! I nearly missed that Welsh one who was always pissed

Thomas the tanked up Dylan. May I please be forgiven

if I quote him one last word to end this verse

Llareggub. (say it in reverse)

 

See more from Mick Moss at - http://www.geocities.com/emcsquareduk/index.html

My Baby

by Tammara Hayimi-Slilat

My baby is sleeping now. How

irresponsible of him to dump

all his worries on me. O

too heavy a burden.

What, I say, what

if he suddenly stops breathing?

His breath, butterfly like,

frail and fragile, where

shall I hide my eyes

with his tiny corpse on my hands?

If only I could believe in our Father

in Heaven, I would have dumped it onto Him.

It might have been easier then,

to cry, I mean.

But I can't run away. I can only pray

that when the time comes

I'll be strong enough to say:

My child, you own your life.

You don't owe it to anyone,

not to mummy, not to country, not to God.

I'll stay here, on guard,

but only you can draw yourself

a full scale chart of the stars.

Visit Tammara.s web site at: http://go.to/poetryismylife

 

Mother

by Tammara hayimi-Slilat

 

In the bloody battle fought between

us, in the desparate attempt to

murder your image in my soul,

your need to control

my mental evolution, I've almost

gone insane.

 

After a thousand battles, almost

at the end of the third decade of my life,

almost at the end of the war,

I looked into the mirror drunk with victory

and behold: I see you smiling at me there.

Visit Tammara.s web site at: http://go.to/poetryismylife

A Slant on the News

by Jim Swift

 

A slant

 

            on the

 

                        news,

 

                                  you say,

 

how apt,

 

               it

 

                      should

 

                                  appear

 

like  

 

        a flight

 

                          of

 

                                    geese

 

each

 

           one,

 

                        a

 

                               reporter,

 

flying

 

             on the

 

                       disturbed

 

                                         air

 

of one

 

           who has

 

                          gone

 

                                    before.

See more of Jim's work at - http://members.home.com/perceptions-exhibit

Temporary Lodging

by Calaya J  Williams

 

Cars sings caustic plastic sounds

keen through forested plots.

We drive panoramic twists,

crooks, in fast inventions-

park, camp; mark intentions.

 

You carve bark for fair baskets.

I wonder why you don't care

for bleeding tree perspectives

or if you've hear plastic sounds

keen through our slow, short story.

Read more of Calaya's work at http://www.mosquitonet.com/~calaya/

 

Afterword

 

email Caught in the Net at - caught_in_the_net@hotmail.com  tell us what you think.

email Jim Bennett - jim@bennett11.freeserve.co.uk

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 subscribe to 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 May 2001 look out for it in the in-tray

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