CAUGHT IN THE NET - Nine
February 2002
Editor - Jim Bennett
Hello again. This is Caught in the Net number NINE.
Thanks again to everyone who has contributed, I hope you enjoy this edition of CITN which has a number of poets who are contributing for the first time. Because I have included several longer pieces It has been necessary to cut down on the total number of poems published to keep download time reasonable.
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 950 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
| Zofia Halina Archibald - (Liverpool, UK) | LERMONTOV'S BOAT | |
| Jim Bennett - (Liverpool, UK) | INSULATED | |
| Nicholas Hancock - (Liverpool, UK) | DON JAIME AND HIS PEONES | |
| Charmaine MacDonald - (London, UK) | SCRIPTS OF LIFE 11 | |
| Garry Morris - (Warrington, UK) | MORNING AIR | |
| Sherry Pasquarello - (Pittsburgh, USA) | ANGEL AT THE BAR | |
| Joe Sichi | WORDS I lOVE | |
| Steve Walter - (U.K) | SKOMER |
Lermontov's boat
By Zofia Halina Archibald
The archaeologists descend in dappled scales
like famished magpies on the pot-soaked turves,
a gasping Babel crew, adrift, and squawking;
beyond the pale October gauze,Crimea - tempting
out of reach. If we could regulate a vessel,
we would go to Kerch; haven of old skulls,
painted yellow dust, past naval triumphs;
a fleet laid low: anticipating Tartars watch.
Fellow delegates, today we set aside our
learned thoughts, to don the cloak of drama:
a masked ball, where we will hear the story
of one Mikhail,the pistol-toting rake, Lermontov!
What's his connection with Taman? we ask, surprised;
Anapa, there's a city now, with drives,
Chekhovian boulevards and views,
picturesque villas, restaurants and gabled roofs.
One night in eighteen thirty seven, the writer
stopped inside a fisher hut; his water
colour sketch depicts the crag, a beached boat
and a distant sun; the sleepless hours salt
his pacing thoughts. Transformed the rutted junctions in
to textured walks, reshaped lineaments
of time and space, pursued with giant eyes
the telling trace of esoteric stocks
until the tongue of land retold in obscure yarns
of Astrakhan, Saray, had fizzed by turns
with sabre teeth and melting sentiment,
relentless energies, and silent fate.
Strangers from Michigan and Moscow know
how patterns past enfold potential growth.
We held our paper boats, light etched and signed,
while two score balalaikas echoed as we dined.
An
international conference of Classical archaeologists took place
near the town of Taman, in the aman peninsula, south Russia, from
9th to 16th October, 2000. The annual Lermontov literary festival
was held on 12th October in Taman. Mikhail Lermontov's romantic
novel, 'Taman', was published in 1840.
- Insulated
- by Jim Bennett
Early morning- I can see their pain, hear it
- but I cannot feel it
- I am insulated by forty years
- of images, a glass screen
- too much cynicism
- and other pressing needs
- Sometimes I feel
- I want to feel more
- and sometimes I think
- of throwing a brick through the screen
- climbing through
- into the miniature world of little people
- dying to amuse me
- A guns-firing, bombs-dropping
- flame-throwing world
- a keep-dying-for-a-living
- army dugout trench-warfare world
- where a soiled soldier
- in a foxhole conversion
- screams for Jesus
- but fails to find Him
- maybe He's on another channel
- I kick-start the day
- motorbike style
- getting my leg over
- and ignoring the body count
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.
Scripts of Life 11
by Charmaine MacDonald
Roll cameras!
Take 1
Locations and Film Titles
Cyprus - Moonshine Howl
Turkey - Deflowering a Virgin in a Cotton Castle
China - Oriental Interlude
Critical Reflection and Introspection
The life of an actress is fast-paced, demanding and interesting.
There’s always a new challenge; You’re never so damn sure of
yourself, because each role will require you to explore a new
facet of yourself; a facet that you’re not even sure exists.
There’s always an element of surprise in the realm of the
unknown. That’s the opium of a good artist - an addiction to
questions like: ‘What if’ and “Dare I go there’. And yea, of course you
dare. Not, not giving a fuck, but giving the appearance of...
Being inventive is a must; being an introvert will enable you to
exhume fresh perspective and ideas, which is essential.
Nobody wants to watch a boring movie, nobody wants to be a part
of a dull production, especially not ‘moi’.
And now ... On with the show!
Leading Men
Shai Stag Man who dances your nerves away,
Sexy seducer,
King of Coaxing.
What a Man, What a Man, What a Mighty Good Man!
Yes he is!
A drink, a drink...a smoke and a Rollercoaster Ride
Of Bump and Grind... Let’s Unwind...
Of muscular proportions worthy of Michelangelo and me!
Barry The Joker in an alcoholic pack of (oil) rigged cards.
Comedy of persistent errors. Huggy Bear with flair.
Your Queen of Hearts and your Ace of Diamonds.
Dancing with a platinum card, which he plays with such
Applaudable aplomb! You’ve gotta love him...!
Henry Cocktail in a palace. Songs in our hearts. Dinner
Atop. Goose liver pate and The Bible Code.
A prediction made. Hilarious jokes cracked
With a bottle of bubbly. A farewell.
Thunder, lightening! and the prediction rings true!!
God Lives!!! Admit it, Royal Rascal!
Remember, the Show isn’t over until the fat lady sings...
...Get The Picture?
Life moulds us into the people
We become,
Not entirely, but it plays a part
As do we all.
There’s genes and dreams
There’s destinies and fate
We are the sculptors
And the carved masterpieces
We are the painters
And the portraits
We are the writers
And the books
We are the poets
And the poems
We are the photographers
And the photos
We are the musicians
And the instruments
We are the singers
And the songs
We are the composers
And the composition
Get the picture?
I sculpt you
You paint me
She writes about us
And they act in a movie
Made from the script
Written from the book.
She sings the song in the movie
Which he films
And you recite this poem
And he paints a picture of it all
Which is captured on film...
We all play our parts.
It’s all:
active and interactive
input and output
change and interchange
connections and interconnections
communication and intercommunication
weaving and interweaving
unlocking and interlocking
fusing and interfusing
And then there’s
of course, intercourse
And reproduction
And sweat and juices...
But let’s not be side-tracked.
This is not that kind of poem.
It’s all:
bullets and barrels
locks and keys
trains and tunnels
bananas and cherries?
No; that doesn’t go!
No?
No!
INTERMISSION INTERMISSION INTERMISSION
INTERMISSION INTERMISSION
Morning Air
By Gary Morris
The morning air comes to me
Easing my mind like the breeze off a mountain stream
Bamboo chimes softly nourish my body
While birds lament on the passing night
Delicate shadows of the tree tapping against my window
Strip me naked
Across the river in Edge Lane
A man walks
Hurricane breaking inside
Messy hair, beard, torn clothes,
Gasping for air.
He carries a bin bag
Scanning the pavement for trinkets
He swoops like an eagle on an empty beer can
Crushes it and tosses with the rest of cans in his tin foil imagination.
Over in Calderstone's Park
A woman fixed in white throws a stick for a dog
Letting the breeze comb her Rossetti flame hair
The dress wrapping tightly around the nakedness of her body
Lungs decomposing
A belle of poison, to feast the eyes
She craves fresh air
As she wanders loose through the long grass
Outside a café in Bold Street
A man eats his breakfast
Breathing in the morning air
A Dutch woman, says she from the Haigh,
Asks to share his table
Eyes like diamonds
Car fumes and the smell of her perfume leave him giddy
Either way
He just leaves a smile,
And thinks about her for the rest of his life.
Beyond the bridge in the shadow of Paddy's Wigwam
A teenager turns in a shop doorway
Catching his reflection in the glass.
Icy damp stone his mattress
Dead air dreams his blankets
He wheezes and coughs his bronchial melody
To greet the day.
Knowing the road sweeper
Will be along soon and
Ask him how old he is.
Back in the world of bamboo
I turn in my bed
Head sinking into the pillow
Closing my eyes I drift back to you
Nourished by your memory
Too many thoughts for one mind
Getting lost in my duvet
Safe, alone, aching
Knowing the day in the city has begun.
angel at the bar
by Sherry Pasquarello
i paint my nails
black
and drink white russians
i dance just
to feel another's touch
making myself smile to
see
what it feels like
learning to fly with a broken
wing
and god, i'm getting over you
Words I Love
by Joe Sichi
I thought it inexplicable
(as I care for maniacal but not for maniac)
that there were words I did not love
- perfidy among them -
and those I did
- derelict drifts in.
How wrong, and worse
how consequential.
The oil tanker abandoned
- its crew, its owner, the very rats
all gone -
left to rot
(for rot I love, but rust I do not)
on a remote coast
too far from anywhere to be
worth scrapping,
(scrap I yearn for, though demolition leaves me cold)
an eyesore, a blot,
a corrupt behemoth of negligence
until an artist comes along
and signifies its beauty.
A dereliction of duty,
a perfidious laziness in me
demolishing ideas by leaving words to rust;
a maniac
who could not see
beauty in perfidy
until the artist
coaxed it free.
- Skomer
by Steve Walter
And the guttering red rock
sliced like decks of cards
slanted into the sea.
And she is there in the mist
in the sea breeze she
is in the gathering dark
she rides the mounting forces
which rise beneath the blackening waves
and she is in the quilted sky
she is there in the billowing
sheeted veils of the afternoon
and in the rakish cry of the gulls
screaming over the graves of shearwater
skeletons, she is at the exits of hollowed burrows
among bits of dead bird, dead rabbit, scattered
beside the remains of Iron Age homesteads
and she is marking the way
in Celtic stone against the unforgiving grey.