___________________________________________________________________________
CAUGHT IN THE NET 123 - POETRY BY
MAUREEN WELDON
Series Editor - Jim Bennett for The Poetry Kit -
www.poetrykit.org
___________________________________________________________________________
You can join the CITN mailing list at
-
http://www.poetrykit.org/pkl/index.htm
and following the links for Caught in the Net.
Submissions for this series of Featured poets is open, please
see instruction in afterword at the foot of this mail.
_________________________________________________________________
|
And friends, they are the ones, to not forget, they will remind you of what you have forgotten.
So, maybe tomorrow is the day to stand by the edge of the water…
from; He Tells Her by Maureen Weldon |
________________________________________________________________
CONTENTS
1 - BIOGRAPHY
2 – POETRY
MIDNIGHT ROBIN PEACHES THE DAY OF THE DEAD HE TELLS HER IF CARES WERE STONES EL ALAMEIN LIVERPOOL TO DUBLIN – 1943 THE OLD ASH TREE BUTTERFLY THE DANCER |
3 - PUBLISHING HISTORY
4 - AFTERWORD
___________________________________________________________________________
1 – BIOGRAPHY: Maureen Weldon
Maureen Weldon is Irish, now living in N. Wales. A former professional ballet dancer. Her poems have been published in numerous poetry magazines and journal, also on-line. They have been translated into Ukrainian for the Journal, Vsesvit. In 2011, The Sons of Camus, International Journal, published 25 of her poems winning her an award. Recent publications include: Poetry Scotland, Poetry Cornwall, Crannog (Eire), The Passionate Transitory, Drey, The Coffee House, Ink Sweat & Tears, Snakeskin, Bolts of Silk. She has published six poetry collections. Most recent collection, Breakfast At Kilumney, published by, Poetry Monthly Press. She enjoys giving readings. Also reciting and performing her poetry accompanied by live music.
______________________________________________________________
2 - POETRY
MIDNIGHT ROBIN
While the sky shimmers like shot silk,
chimneypots a toothy smile,
I count the pots, 1 2 3 4 5.
On my kitchen table, sheets and sheets
of screwed up poems,
I will flatten them tomorrow
for shopping lists.
While perfumed smells of hyacinths
bring memories of my mother:
‘they make lovely Christmas presents’
she would say, as she potted and tended.
The evening moves along
as evenings do.
The moon a half golden bracelet.
The sky cluttered with stars.
All is still, no cars, no trains.
And in this stillness
the midnight robin sings.
PEACHES
On the silver tray six peaches
their soft skins pink and pale cream.
In a minute I will peel a peach
suck its sweet juice.
I wonder what Renoir thought
as he painted soft peach-like faces?
I have five peaches now…
THE DAY OF THE DEAD
I burn Mexico.
I have lit the old candle
which I got six years ago
in Cuernavaca.
So much love
in the eye of a flame.
It is as though –
those I hold most dear
and can never hold again
are here.
It is as though, the petals
of a thousand yellow flowers
are scattered
between earth and heaven.
HE TELLS HER
She lives her life
in boxes,
or signed
on the bottom line.
The in-laws,
the rotten husband,
and jam making.
And the child –
that joy – the child.
Then grandmother,
rather wild, chilled-out,
good at making pastry.
And friends, they are the ones,
to not forget,
they will remind you of
what you have forgotten.
So, maybe tomorrow
is the day to stand
by the edge of the water…
as the tide turns,
where the past sucks secrets
through a shell.
IF CARES WERE STONES
I would drop them under a waterfall
to pound and twist.
Ride a horse to the peak of a hill –
until black clouds burst ferocious rain,
stones rolling, down, down, down.
I would drag them across a seaweed beach
pods popping between my toes –
tip them into the sea.
Yet, I would keep, just one,
the moonstone on a silver chain;
your name on my tongue.
EL ALAMEIN
They came one by one,
El Alamein – the khaki inferno
Of smoke, oil and yellow tongues.
For every one that lived
Two comrades died.
Now a million ghosts move silently
Buried in the ever moving sand,
Or talk in old men’s dreams.
LIVERPOOL TO DUBLIN : 1943
She knelt on her bunk – looking
just looking at the white frothy waves.
The ship’s wash, she heard them say,
as the ship zigzagged – to cross the Irish Sea.
Go to sleep, her mother said,
with a kiss, and slipped away.
The ship swayed
on the deep, deep sea,
its engine singing its engine song.
Suddenly doors were slamming,
hurried feet running.
A U-boat under our
ship.
Torpedoes. Hush.
Quiet. Be calm.
Her mother returned.
It will be alright,
my darling.
In her hand one lifejacket.
No lifejackets for a little child.
A kind priest was with her mother.
I am a good swimmer,
I will look after her.
All was quiet
not even the engine sang its song,
just the bump, flump, bump of the waves.
And another sound, not a loud sound,
a sort of, blub, blub, blub…
The U-boat,
said the priest to her mother;
she saw them whisper a prayer.
It was a dark October night,
a chilly night,
no small green-shaded lamp
in their cabin,
no lights at all.
Sleep, my little one, her mother said.
The little girl woke up,
the ship’s engine was singing its song,
she saw it was morning,
a grey and silvery morning.
Her mother was lying beside her.
The kind priest – gone.
The ship gave three loud hoots.
Thank God. Thank God, her mother said.
And a huge cheer was all over the ship.
THE OLD ASH TREE
Rhydymwyd Valley, North East Wales
I walk this bend of tarmac road,
here the River Alyn
flowed past you, old sleeping Ash Tree,
feet firmly on the bank.
What do you dream
in this thin November sun?
Do you hear a thousand voices,
heavy shovels heaving earth,
the whisper of a miner’s prayer?
Do you dream of searchlights
weaving patterns on the night,
droning aircraft, screeching sirens?
The valley’s secret work of World War Two,
which they, like you, could not divulge.
But you go back so much further,
to a time of children’s laughter.
Did lovers sit under your cool wide boughs
planning their lust for life?
Today the grain of your boughs’ dull green,
all your leafs are gone.
Yet, the air is blue, and thin white clouds
float like daytime ghosts.
As shadows creep like silent ships.
Through the tips of your branches
I just discern a sickle moon.
BUTTERFLY
Chase me round the fields
with soft-winged tips.
Chase me through the trees
with full-cupped lips.
Chase me in purple clouds
where Zeus and Aphrodite hide.
Lay me bare in buttercups
then lie down softly by my side.
THE DANCER
I am tired,
my brain hangs loose,
locked in my rucksack.
This is the hour for the owl to fly,
to hoot to the winking moon -
through clouds of mist.
this is night,
the quiet time…
Because I am on my own,
while night-clubs choke
with laughter,
and the girl in white throws her shoe
at the man who wanted to fill it
with beer, but could not,
no matter how hard he tried.
Then the many houses,
blinking with lovemaking,
and babies and grannies
and granddads.
But I like being on my own
in this quiet time,
because tomorrow,
I will wrap my ankles
round the world.
MIDNIGHT ROBIN - Published by, Crannog Poetry Magazine (Eire) 2008.
Published by Bolts of Silk 2012
PEACHES - Published by Poetry Scotland.
Highly Commended, North Wales, Flintshire Poetry Competition 2007
THE DAY OF THE DEAD – Published by Poetry Scotland.
Published by Ink Sweat & Tears
HE TELLS HER - Highly Commended for The SWWJ, Elizabeth Longford Trophy
Poetry Competition 2006. Published by Roundyhouse Poetry Magazine
IF CARES WERE STONES – Published by The Passionate Transitory
EL ALAMEIN – Published by Purple Patch.
Published by The Sons of Camus, International Journal.
Published by Ink Sweat & Tears.
LIVERPOOL TO DUBLIN – 1943 - Accepted for publication by Coffee House
THE OLD ASH TREE , Rhydymwyn Valley, North East Wales – Highly Commended
North Wales, Flintshire Poetry Competition 2010
Published by Ink Sweat & Tears
BUTTERFLY - Published by New Hope International. Published by Snakeskin.
THE DANCER - Published by Poetry Monthly. Published by Roundhouse.
Published by Ink Sweat & Tears
______________________________________________
4 - Afterword
Email Poetry Kit -
info@poetrykit.org - if you would like
to tell us what you think.
We are looking for other poets to feature in
this series, and are open to submissions. Please send one poem and a short
bio to - info@poetrykit.org
Thank you for taking the time to read Caught in the Net. Our other magazine s
are Transparent Words ands Poetry Kit Magazine, which are webzines on the Poetry Kit site and this can be found at -
http://www.poetrykit.org/