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CAUGHT IN THE NET 104 - POETRY BY
KAREN KNIGHT
Series Editor - Jim Bennett for The Poetry Kit -
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|
He would play it
his favourite
George Gershwin
rhapsody
and at night he
would hum
a lullaby, until
it folded up
its leaves to
pray.
from; Loss by Karen Knight |
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CONTENTS
1 - BIOGRAPHY
2 – POETRY
Bird Man of Alcatraz
Loss
Valentine’s Day
Knitting for the Red Cross
My Piano
This Autumn Night
Matchmaker
Tomcats
A Factory Love Affair
After Tim Storrier’s Sketch - The Tin
Winged Hopping Dickie
Only Three Seasons
3 - AFTERWORD
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1 – BIOGRAPHY: Karen Knight
Karen Knight lives in
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2 - POETRY
Bird Man of
(for Robert Stroud)
To have lived in Stroud's prison
wired aviary
and be fitted for a foot sling
light as a lift-off
to roost on his finger
as he rocks your compound fracture
to be one of his etchings
in the Roller Canary Journal
to be part of his avian psychology.
But best would be the wild taste
of the seedling greens he grew into
wishbones of light, and a spoonful
of river-bed silica sifted through
sixteen inch mesh and washed down
with his finest cod liver oil.
What a remedy.
Loss
All I did was sneeze
and my parents’ prayer
plant
went into shock.
Its foliage splayed out
like the wings of a sick
bird
that’s lost its memory of
flight.
This Maranta leuconeura
was once a showpiece
in the visitors’ room
of my grandmother’s home.
It thrived in a terracotta
jardinière
that she painted in a gold
glaze.
I remember tracing
over the red variations of
veins
and dark green patterns
that ran through its broad
leaves.
Before the ambulance took
my Nan
she asked my dad
to keep her precious plant
away from sudden noise and
draught.
For years, it
lived vigorously
in perfect greenery
next to Dad’s baby grand.
He would play it his
favourite
George Gershwin rhapsody
and at night he would hum
a lullaby, until it folded
up
its leaves to pray.
Since my parents died
its leaf tips are brown
and curled
as if burnt by too much
heat
too much draught.
Despite harp music
and daily mistings
it trembles
on a shelf above my stereo
in a tangle of noise
that refuses to leave my
house.
Valentine’s Day
We are each a comfortable
puzzle
of bone & muscle, you and
I
locking in the edges
before they fray,
our tongues tied around
parcels of poems.
There’s an arc of cloud
above our heads
and I feel religious when
I look up
at a pink and orange sky.
Like the under-belly of a
salmon, you say
and I suddenly feel blind.
Knitting for the Red Cross
During WW1, all knitted items went through a quality check. If the piece was
deemed poorly made or did not meet the required specifications, it was returned.
I don't know
how to turn
the heel
of this knitted
sock. It grows
to the length
of the room
and doubles back
onto my feet
and over my body
cocooning
me in khaki
and olive drab
tradition.
I should unstitch
myself and go
to the room
of clicking needles
and dark military
patterns where women
sing
through the drone
of a Zeppelin
cloud.
My Piano
is a great ark of a thing
that carries a cargo of harmonics
under its black lacquered lid.
It stands upright
against a floor-to-ceiling window
in a rented cottage by the beach
its warped back out of tune
to the chill of salt air.
When I touch its hammers
held by rusty strings
resounding waves sweep over me
round and sensual sounds
that come from living wood.
I breathe in dust
smooth a veil of beeswax
over its old frame
lift the lid
and stroke the yellowed keys.
We play impromptus
preludes and fugues.
Music drifts
towards an ivory moon
bobbing
on the edge of the horizon.
This Autumn Night
Don’t walk the long way
home tonight, my darling.
Our child has been bathed
his bike put to bed.
The trees are parting
the moon is coming through.
There are flight paths of fire-flies
streaming the sky.
The porch light is spreading
its orange butter on me.
Matchmaker
Celeste has to have
two of everything –
two children
two cats
two birds
two goldfish
two cups of coffee
in the morning
two logs of wood
on the fire
two cakes of soap
on the sink
two picture frames
on the mantel
two books
on the bedside table.
Her father and I
never got on.
Tomcats
In this pastoral setting
we cultivate
pet cemeteries of compost
under full moons.
The soil is sweet.
During visiting hours
we plant potatoes
they propagate with
Humbug,
Heathcliff and Dog
with all the toms
who have passed on.
There is plenty of space
for blood and bone
for sweet potatoes
for propagation
for closeness
and they’re all inside us.
In this rustic scene
there lies an epitaph.
We eat.
We are close to them.
They are inside us.
A Factory Love Affair
He had blue-printed the
weekend skillfully
this shy, young,
pie-factory worker –
French letters,
multi-coloured,
purchased in a bold sweat
the caravan park paid
in advance
and a copy of
Lady Chatterley's Lover
to be read aloud while
plaiting her hair.
She had rehearsed the
perfect alibi
while churning out party
pies -
left her husband a
crock-pot
of his favourite stew
finished work early
to buy a pink negligee
and bottles of wine
to strengthen the nerve
Their co-workers said it
would never come off.
A last-minute change in
the shifts
and miniature balloons,
multi-coloured,
took a French leave from
the pie-factory window
and exploded in the heat.
After Tim Storrier’s Sketch - The Tin
Winged Hopping Dickie
Struggling to find a name
for the old tin bird
Storrier was carried away
when he came to the
mechanical wing.
Name it, crank it
and the bird will sing.
Thumb smudged and torn
from a memo pad
the crossed out bird
turned its little screw neck
felt its tail flick out
like a fan blade.
Give it a note
and the bird will sing.
The radio was playing
the dickie bird hop
when the artist made
a musical note.
Flying out from
a wound up beak,
it windmilled a song
around the studio.
Only Three Seasons
Winter
brewing spiced mead on the
stove
building a fire with
mallee roots.
Spring
changing the sheets to
canary yellow
serving up snow peas on an
orange plate.
Summer
lifting a giant moth to
the light
burning incense all
through the house.
Autumn
falling on my too hard
poems
a season I want to forget.
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3 - Afterword
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