FROM LIVERPOOL - EUROPEAN CAPITAL OF CULTURE 2008
CAUGHT IN THE NET - Twenty
July 2004
Editor - Jim Bennett
Hello. Welcome to CITN 20. As always I am grateful for all the help and support I have received from the poets who have contributed and who continue to contribute. I still welcome submissions to CITN and look forward to reading them, but it can take up to six weeks for me to get back to you and let you know so please have patience.
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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 -
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| CONTENTS | |||
| Ken Baldwin (UK) | IPSY-WIPSEY | ||
| Iain Britton (New Zealand) | FOR THE VERY LAST TIME | ||
| IN THE HEAT OF THE NIGHT | |||
| DEATH BY CHOCOLATE | |||
| Larry Blazek (Ind. USA) | THE FILLING STATION | ||
| ALONE AGAIN | |||
| 95THE BIRD SWALLOWED BY THE SNAKE | |||
| Terry Boykie (DC USA) | PELL MELL IN FAIRMONT | ||
| DEAD TO THE WORLD | |||
| John Tiong Chunghoo (Malaysia) | SONG OF THE RIVER | ||
| Louie Crew (USA} | DOMINUS IN DELICTO FLAGRANTE | ||
| THE GOOD OLE DAYS | |||
| John Grey (USA) | POEM FOR AN EX | ||
| WE FOG PEOPLE | |||
| LOVE BUS | |||
| Jonathan Robert Muirhead (Edinburgh) | MIRROR MAN | ||
| David W Rushing | SHE SAID | ||
| Desmond Swords (Lancs, UK) | AUGHTON | ||
| GEORGE | |||
| Christine Marie Umscheid (USA) | 99 RED BALLOONS | ||
| Jeffrey Lee Williams | OVERINDULGE | ||
| THE HABIT OF BEING GAY | |||
|
DRAGON'S BEWAIL |
Ipsy-wipsy
by Ken Baldwin
There was a spider on the lino
and I thought along with Darwin
it might evolve into a threat to mankind .
So I trod on it.
I wrote to the Queen about a knighthood
but I haven't heard from her.
Ranjiit said it might have been my grandad
come back for being bad .
No , it was just a spider .
If it had been my grandad
he would have kept out of my way.
(one of my late at night pub performance poems )
For the very last time
by Iain Britton
Behind drawn curtains
a man in a corduroy jacket
sits still
lifts his face to the ceiling
opens his eyes.
*
He is imagining his wife
climbing the spiral staircase
to his room
for the very last time.
The heat of the night
by Iain Britton
It's hot.
I lie on top of the bed
hoping you will pull me through
the snow
so that I can slide
face down
into your lap.
Death by chocolate
by Iain Britton
In this street a child
licks around his mother
tasting her flesh
for dark skies
rain
sweet green crops
coated in chocolate.
Why think of Somalia
on a beautiful morning
like this?
So much easier
sitting on my bum
gridlocked
on the southern motorway
staring at workers.
THE FILLING STATION
By Larry Blazek
I awoke in a well-equipped filling station
a grey cat and a black dog are the only attendants
I ride my cycle through the deserted town
I turn around and take the highway to the park
there is suddenly plenty of traffic
when I want to turn A man sitting by an RV
tells my wife isn't in the park
if I want to find her, I will have to leave
I return to town; no one is there
I wonder who feeds the cat and the dog?
ALONE AGAIN
By Larry Blazek
Once more
I lonely sit
without you
miss you so
love you much it's true
THE BIRD SWALLOWED BY THE SNAKE
By Larry Blazek
I am the bird swallowed by the snake
I am the gopher with the talons of the hawk in his back
the soil, the air, and the streams choke with poison
my brothers lie twisted in agony in the snow
stripped of their honour and betrayed
I have tasted the fruits of paradise
to know what I may never have
I am the bird swallowed by the snake
my brothers are dead in the snow
Pell Mell in Fairmont
by Terry Boykie
Gasping for air in Marion County,
it’s bituminous coal with a hint of anthracite
ceiling-bolters and hydraulic drills,
dust-suppression systems and a money-laundering loss.
Spitting in tune beneath the slip off slope,
black lung heirs with the chance for overtime
shiver with the pain of pressurized CO2.
Beneath the ceiling of Monongah Number 8
hides chipmunk crushers and planetary trams
and the overburden of half a billion years.
Traipsing to and from the methane coal seams -
Ill-wrought men haul powder with nephews by their side,
breaking laws that never seem to matter
as long as mom and their pocketbooks take their share.
And by shearing rock like corn on the cob,
And living the nights in a mobile support,
they sweat their earnings with a toothless grin.
And the ache that hardens deep within
tells them they will never win;
yet, the power of the Jefferies keeps pulling them in.
Shifting the fault in Marion County,
centered in the dungeon of Monongah Number 8.
Rumor has the hole closed up by next week.
So with paychecks reduced to company scrip
The union rep says no more peace
And rolling rock turns to Sigillaria grease
The graveyard shift struggles for air,
and Mannington’s not braced for deep despair,
and the state’s not ready with emergency care
So five score and more race from hell to lose by a hair.
Dead to the World
by Terry Boykie
I am on drugs to hide
dying distal axons.
My toes doze and
reality has mellowed
so I pretend to accept it.
Armies of doughboys protect me
as I sit on the edge of the bed
eyes shut
until I fall off.
I sing happy tunes to the departed
in a waterfall I feel
solely on the shoulders.
Ah, I forsake the burden
of breakfast until Judge Judy.
The paper arrives.
It used to be white.
I see Cathy and Irving got engaged.
No one else in the world seems to care
Perhaps, I will go the wedding.
I sit at the keyboard
as the letters and figures
oscillate like a well-used Slinky.
Legal morphine on my leg
masks the neuropathy
that keeps me in SS limbo.
Whew, such a big word
even for me
I will rest now
My toes are waking.
Song Of The River
BY JOHN TIONG CHUNGHOO
------------------------
after the rain the swollen river
so much to pamper the ears and sights.
the fishes splash, the river rushes,
the cold breeze blows against
the willows bringing
an endearing rustling sound.
a breakaway water lily
sits on a slide to a new habitat
an empty corked plastic bottle floating down
effortless a ballet dancer,
a patch of watercress swarm along
bidding each other goodbye with
some caught by tree branches.
nearby a group of boys in jovial mood
try their luck with their hooks,
sharing jokes about
which will be the lucky hook
to get the first fish
and who will eat the unlucky fish
the wind ruffles their lovely hair
Dominus in Delicto Flagrante
by Louie Crew
God, I can't pray just now,
though you're the ruler
of the universe.
Some people
have been saying
that you
might not even be a real man,
might be instead an androgynous mutation.
Forgive me for my difficulties
in paying attention.
I do find it distracting
if I don't know for sure
what's under that robe
you're wearing
and whether those whiskers are fake.
It was difficult enough
when those black children
started coloring you black.
Before long
even sissies will be saying
that you lisp
or go about in drag.
God, I think I'm about to lose
my religion,
and you'll
just have to thunder again
if you're going to get me back.
The Good Ole Days
by Louie Crew
From as far back as I can remember,
until I reached 12,
every Thanksgiving and Christmas,
after he'd delivered groceries
to the people on his part
of the Sunday School's list,
Dad took me with him
to see his "unofficial friend."
We drove down an alley
far behind the foundry,
to Shorty's,
bearing four bulging bags
from the local Jitney Jungle.
Mrs. Shorty, two heads taller,
had the shadow of a dark moustache.
Smiling as for a family portrait,
the Shorties stood stiffly
under soiled Christmas cards
strung four ways across the room.
"They get them from trash cans
a year ahead of time,
Dad explained to me later,
"and put them up just
to make us feel welcome."
"That shore is a pretty child,"
Shorty would say
as he reached to pat my head.
Dad beamed, and dug
into the paper sacks, proudly.
The Shorties had built
their home of cardboard
tacked to scraps of wood and tin.
The earth floored them.
"Whenever it rains," Dad continued later,
I know I'll see Shorty and his wife
plundering behind my Hardware store
to get the fresh, big boxes.
Most dry days Shorty preached
on the Court House lawn.
The summer I was 18, I went back,
tried to find him there.
Others concatenated the despair,
preached "jedgement";
But Mrs. Shorty and Shorty had died.
Sweating with the crowd in the Alabama sun
I remembered
the soiled Christmas cards,
my tight belt, and waiting for
the overseasoned turkey to bite back.
by John Grey
POEM FOR AN EX
Forget the title.
The poem is Frankenstein's monster.
After wreaking no satisfaction
from the destruction of a few innocents,
it turns its attentions
toward its creator.
Refusing to be sidetracked by
metaphor or classical reference,
it tracks down the one who did
all the loving, all the losing,
all the bitter remembering,
and leaps upon that ridiculous soul,
attempts to rip his heart out.
But the poet has more fight in him
than his lines indicate.
Both he and the poem,
bloodied and weary,
finally collapse on their battle-field,
settle for a hard-earned draw.
And then someone comes along
to patch the wounds, soothe the pain.
They do it long enough
to be the title of the next poem.
WE FOG PEOPLE
by John Grey
The fog is unnaturally thick this morning.
Woven together from abandoned threads
of night and twists of mangled sea air,
it flattens the first curve of sunlight.
The pines seem caged, animals bleat
and chirp from deep inside their echo.
That mist blurs where cliff meets sky,
where tree metamorphoses into brush and grass
as if borders are afraid to be.
Gale grips my hand as we stand at the window,
pressing each other deep into our own reflection,
for a sign of something in us finally lifting.
Fog finally burns off by ten
but all still feels like shards of gray,
insubstantial, a little bit devoured.
LOVE BUS
by John Grey
The bus idles at the stop,
begging for people to ride in it.
Empty seats rev silently.
The coin machine is so desperate
to hear clatter inside,
it'll take pennies, tokens,
anything the slightest bit metal.
That wide open bus door is like the
unloved one at school
who was willing to give it away.
The steps are carnival barkers.
Come and ride anywhere you want to go.
The bus is gone now,
disappeared around the comer.
It had a schedule to keep,
riders or no.
Whoever missed it
is the kind of fool
that even failure won't wait for.
Mirror Man
by Jonathan Robert Muirhead
The brow was lined with sundry furrowed lines
The mouth, creased with worry, but the face
Was definitely completely mine
I looked in the mirror this morning and
Saw the man I think I am becoming
From where I came
I do not know, nor neither where I’m
Going, just like last night, when I used
The seduction line “right
Let’s get this over with” and my mother
Started crying and kicked me out the bed
That was a dream
But seemed real enough, with its raging horses
And empty windswept houses I looked in the mirror
Last night and saw
The man I used to be, gazing down
At his loved one the morning after and
Saying with smouldering sexiness
“Sorry about that, babe” an older man came
In, slapped me, said “Your friends may speak
Like that, to one
Another, but that’s definitely no way to speak
To your mother!” And once again, no more
A man was I
But a faceful of innocence topped off with
A mouth which smiled at life, and my!
That face was mine!
Both yesterday and before and now I am
Caught in the middle, neither man nor boy
But a face, reflected
SHE SAID
by David W. Rushing
She Said
"I'm just not very happy right now."
"What is it?" I asked.
"I just don't have time for anything except work and
school and that's it."
"I understand."
"And I hardly ever see my boyfriend anymore except for
half an hour at a time and, of course, he wants to
have sex. Tells me, 'Let's put the time to good use.'
But half an hour just isn't enough for me, I need more
than that."
"Of course you do," I said, as my imagination ran away
from me like wild horses over the hills.
AUGHTON
by Desmond Swords.
The yellow orange sunset jumble glows
through silver prism mist clinging to straw
stumped grey winter fields depleted by cold,
and as golden summer crops have been shorn
by harvest blades autumn yielding's mow
the dog bolts through a gap in the hawthorn
bounding toward the priory built of sandstone
a place once governed by monastic law.
---------------
Did they believe souls sped along alone
to fulfill a plan of the rising dawn
as Uriel told Enoch long ago;
that countless lives in time surge toward
space near where matter compels spirits' flow
and exchange there urges to be born,
instant, anew and so eternal glow
by leaping one to other in the storm?
GEORGE
By Desmond Swords.
- Trailing home from a day of study
- on a cold October night
- I call upon the way
- at the white house on the corner
- and learn of his arrival
- safe, on Mother’s birthday.
- I step across the threshold
- and notice to my left
- new born straw haired George
- wrapped
- and resting in the arms of Uncle.
- Two fathers standing in the kitchen
- quietly celebrate in family ritual
- the bonds and ties new life creates.
- Words are spoken, hands are shook
- pictures taken
- and all eyes gaze to look
- upon the pink faced new addition
- at the heart of his new family
- warm
- in the white house on the corner
- On the cold October night
99 RED BALLOONS
By Christine Marie Umscheid
“Panic bells,
signal red alert”
and are remnants of a city lost in sand.
Too many bodies dipped in red
lie under a desert sky.
From balloons of WWII
we have moved to modern Baghdad.
In bone drying heat,
In sand storms
clouding eyes.
“shon fette Bente” – show bold Betty
hiding from lingering blasts
that break crimson
in night clouds.
99 balloons beyond a dream
are cutting visions
before my eyes.
You see red
as night carries on;.
I tie yellow ribbons instead.
“As 99 red balloons go by”
carrying messages or names
of those who lived or died.
“99 Luftballoons”
color an expanding sky.
(NOTE - 99 Balloons was a German anti-war song)
Overindulge
by Jeffrey Lee Williams
Am I too happy in happiness, I must
Respire intensely as I wrestle to adjust
To your impulsively rising star
It would be a shame should my emotion mar
Your moment, I’m so happy I could bust
Although it may look strange to you, I trust
I hope you know this is not to disgust,
But an excess of joy in you, I flush
I'm far too happy
I don’t want to see you snickered at or cussed,
Or mauled by fanatical fiends, at lust
For the dull thud of you beneath my car
This day is shimmering bubbly and caviar
This life is perfect, almost so
I’m just too happy
The Habit of Being Gay
By: Jeffrey Lee Williams, Jr.
Imagine this, that after all these years of obeisance
At the aisle of homosexuality and a bare week's abstinence
I looked into your face, still silky with eyes so blue
Comfortable feeling of years and, seeing you anew,
I spied a stranger
To my newly opened eye, a danger
Wanting to drag me back to the abyss
From which I'd stalled myself. Would this--
Prove at last the strengthening point?
Where should I take my stand?
For her, or my loving man?
No, even with my life at stake
You are the habit that I will not break.
Dragon’s Bewail
By: Jeffrey L. Williams
When I set out on my career, my mother said to me,
“To be a dragon’s not at all the delight you’ve supposed.
There is responsibility from which you simply can’t be free
And many obligations which convention has imposed.
You might fancy works of art – specialty quaint,
You might well have a delicate constitution,
The disposition of a saint, perhaps a propensity to faint,
Or you might wish to plot a social revolution.
From every such enjoyment you will find yourself denied,
In simple, rustic pleasure you cannot participate,
You have a task to the state, your natural wish to congregate
With ordinary people must be decisively put aside.
When you are encouraged to take your ease with a small libation,
Or pack a picnic lunch with friends and take it for a walk,
You must take your status into your consideration.
Give thought to how the scandal loving citizens would talk.
With culinary preferences, employ the maximum care.
You must deny your natural taste for jam and buttered scones.
Rather boil a maiden fair. Ignore her parent’s tearful prayer.
Develop a preference for the taste of human bones.
Your all-important duties as a monster aren’t light.
Though the piling up of treasure my not be your central pleasure,
You’ve obligations to the spread of plague and blight.
Duty’s road is hard my son, and yet it must be followed.
Cities must be burned and wasted during business hours.
Caves for treasure must be hollowed; knights in armor must be swallowed
A dragon kills and then he indiscriminately devours.
Mind the manners mother taught when you are laying waste.
Keep a obsequious air when blotting out the sun.
Avoiding all unseemly haste when leaving cities in a paste,
And men will say, when you are dead, “his duty is done”