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CAUGHT IN THE NET 123 -  POETRY  BY
MAUREEN WELDON

Series Editor - Jim Bennett for The Poetry Kit - www.poetrykit.org
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Submissions for this series of Featured poets is open, please see instruction in afterword at the foot of this mail.
 

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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

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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

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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. 

 


 

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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.

 

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3 - Publishing History

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                                                                          

 

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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/    

 

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