FROM LIVERPOOL - EUROPEAN CAPITAL OF CULTURE 2008
CAUGHT IN THE NET - FEATURED WORKSHOP - PK POETRY LIST
- Series Editor - Jim Bennett
Introduction by Jim Bennett
Hello. Welcome to CITN 35. Our publishers series was sent out by email and due to copyright restrictions it has been decided not to post further copies on our website. However you will be able to enjoy our new series which will be poetry produced from on line or live workshops, groups or communities of poets. If you belong to a workshop or other type of group and would like to put your group forward for our feature please write to me at email@example.com
- The first group is Poetry Kit's own online workshop, PK POETRY LIST. The PK List was started in 1998 and runs alongside THE POETRY KIT website which has become one of the worlds leading poetry information sites. The PK List has also been successful in generating a community of poets who produce excellent poetry and which enables them to develop their skills and hone their poetry in a supportive and friendly atmosphere. The PK List was started by Ted Slade, who died in 2004, since then I have managed the list with John Howard and Sherry Pasquarello.
You can join the CITN mailing list at - http://www.poetrykit.org/pkl/index.htm and following the links for Caught in the Net.
PK POETRY LIST
An online poetry discussion and critique workshop
with members from around the world. Members post
their poetry to a central email address via email which
is then forwarded to everyone on the list who are free to
respond. The list is very active and the comments
authoritive. The atmosphere is friendly and supportive.
PK List website can be seen at;
1 - COMMENTARY BY JIM BENNETT
2 - POETRY
WAIATA DAWN DAVIES
ARTHUR W SEELEY
CAROL REED SIRCOULOMB
TAMMARA OR SLILIAT
3 - AFTERWORD
1 - COMMENTARY:
In 1998 PK Poetry List was one of the first online communities and although it went through several incarnations as we changed list-servers before finally settling with JISC, the UK Academic server, it has on the whole been a story of development and growth. Along the way there have been some highlights and some terrible losses. There have also been the poetry projects which for me stand out as beacons of what can be achieved on the internet. You can see some of the completed projects at http://www.poetrykit.org/pkp/index.htm .
For me the most important aspect of the PK List is the way in which you can post a poem and soon get feedback from informed and helpful poets from around the world. We have members in most part of the world and although for convenience all list posts are in English, we welcome new members of all levels of experience and ability are we are willing to embrace change. It is often said that one of the outstanding qualities of the PK List is the friendly and supportive atmosphere, where everyone is made welcome. We do have some rules but they are just common sense protocols to avoid unnecessary conflict and providing our good will is not abused our door is open to everyone.
The selection of poets and poetry here is just a representative sample of the poets and standard of poetry that regularly appear on the List which is a very active and vibrant online community.
For me two exciting projects come to a head in 2007. The first is the first international meeting of PK members, and this will take place in Liverpool in July. The second is the production of a CD of members recordings. Both of these are firsts for us. If you would like further information about either of these please email - firstname.lastname@example.org
- Jim Bennett
ON THE LOCAL TRAIN TO KUMERO
Settled at last in a window seat
I watch as Karuisawa slides away.
The window view becomes
paddy field and foothills of gingko,
foliage that clothes the furthest reaches
of Mount Asama’s great bulk.
Today its craters puff out stray whiffs
of smoke, continued suggestion that
greater power sleeps within
its black volcanic rock.
On the seats alongside us
some Japanese ladies cannot contain
their mirth any longer; flap their fans
at the sight of a gaijin with a beard
and wearing a Panama hat
on the local train to Kumero;
a town that does not exist
in official guides, or on tourist maps.
The ladies would flap their fans harder
if they knew I’d slept last night
in comfort, on futon and tatami.
The ladies mirthful fans would
reach a frenzy if they also knew
I’d made this trip before, a few days ago,
when I ate miso soup and two plates
of yaki soba at a favoured restaurant
and bought my Panama hat
at a men’s outfitters in Kumero.
James Bell is a long term member of PK list forum, a featured poet on the List website, published in Transparent Words and other e-zines. A chapbook forthcoming in 2008 provisonally called "Poems From The Picture House". Lots of publication in small press in Uk and USA
as cool as the sound of jazz
it’s late - gig over - I should be on my way home
I suppose I can convince myself that I am
but the roads are mysterious and the night air
is as cool as the sound of jazz
drifting from a basement club in Basin Street
the car takes me down roads to see where they go
some place I know but different
shadows like a sheet
change familiar shapes into strangers
ghosts of friends
here the sound is the rhythm of tyres
clipping on the edge of concrete road slabs
another time it will be the slap slap slap of windshield wiper
and another the distant sound Dave Brubeck
on the CD player
volume turned down low
and maybe some words will come and I can speak them like a song
to the slap slap slap slap slap slap slap of the tyres
or maybe not
but it must be time to find some familiar place
time to find my way home
out of the seductive never ending streets
away from the music
away from the cool air
away from the comfort of night
back to the room where the sound is imprisoned by walls
swallowed by carpets and curtains
back to the place where tomorrow
demands to be organised
back to the place where darkness is trapped
and night holds its secrets behind a closed door
where dreams wait
but just for now the road is empty
yellow street lamp lit
traffic lights all on green
the car window open brings in the scent of early autumn
and for now just for now
life is as cool as the sound of jazz
Jim Bennett was born in Liverpool in the UK and continues to live nearby. Jim is the owner and editor of The Poetry Kit website and magazines and he is widely published.
Poetic States XL – Colorado
Litter and Lice
Kill and scalp all, big and little; nits make lice.
-- Colonel John Chivington, leader of the volunteers
who attacked the Cheyenne’s Sand Creek camp
the old women, neške'e,
toothless, barren, are dead
their gray hair lies in the campfires
like last year’s leaves lie beneath birch
the old women are dead
the young women, he'eo'o
brides, mothers, are dead
their scarred bodies lie in the teepees
like soiled rags in a trader’s wagon
the young women are dead
the children, ka'êškoneho,
babies, grandbabies, are dead
their broken bodies trampled under hoofs
like America’s flag in the Colorado mud
the children are dead
the old men, ma'hahkêseho,
elders, grandfathers, are dead
their blood floats in the creek
like sand in the stream’s floods
the old men are dead
the nits, the lice, hestaemo, are dead,
the red willow downed,
the rabbit skinned
justice, humanity, is dead,
Black Kettle’s peace, nanomonestôtse, is dead
Gary Blankenship is a retired federal manager who dabbles in poetry and publishing. He is CEO of Santiam Publishing and published the online journal, MindFire Renewed and its companion, FireWeed, both at www.mindfirerenew.com. Gary has been widely published on the web and in a variety of paper publications in the States and abroad. His day is divided between the cat, poetry forums, and chores. He published a volume of poetry based on Wang Wei's River Wang poems, A River Transformed, available at http://people.lulu.com/users/index.php?fHomepage=108254. He has two chapbooks out of print – Autumn Reflections and The Garbage Collection – and for Poetry Super Highway produced a chapbook based on the words of George Orwell and George W Bush, By George. Gary moderates at Wild Poetry forum and for Blueline’s Poem a Day forum. His blog is at http://garydawg.blogspot.com/
The Day Frankie Nearly Died
It's six in the evening, the streetlights coming on,
though the Cathedral clock struck three minutes ago,
and I've already been to The City Vaults,
had a Tetley's, bought 20 Silk Cut,
then glanced in at The Blackie Boy,
where Tommy behind the bar said he hadn't seen you,
and there's Frankie near The Imperial,
pissed as usual, lighting a roll-up and trying to sing,
but he doesn't see me so that was OK
while the Marxism Today guy crosses over again -
the old one with the pony-tail and tartan D.M.'s
who I'd try to ignore outside The Beehive
until he mentioned oppression and I'd got onto Stalin,
though he hadn't heard of Akhmatova or Mandlestam,
and he'd interrupted, said poetry was *unproductive*,
but, still in full flow, I'd switched to the Prague Spring,
flowers in the gun-barrels of tanks, then Jan Palach -
while Frankie sings on, *to brighten up even your darkest night* -
and I was reading Baudelaire when Palach curled up in flames,
*Les Fleurs Du Ma*l for the first time, and a woman's hair
as rich as tobacco that I'd loved to have smoked, inhaled -
and now hearing again that hard-left tone as Frankie relights his tab,
holds his bottle like a microphone and continues to croon,
*You just call out my name .* while the finger-wagging starts
and Frankie shouts over to me as the shoving begins
when this police car pulls up and they get out,
pull on their caps, then stand each side of Frankie -
and I'm sure they're going to lift him - but this Socialist guy
gets hold of the Safeway Cognac, steps to one side,
turns his back, stuffs a hanky in the top,
tips it, lights it - though no-one else notices -
then throws it at the car, and it doesn't explode
until Frankie falls over - or is he pushed -
then everything flares, purple blossoming light
and I see you over the road, running to them,
wrapping your coat round Frankie's hair,
shouting something so loud at the night
and our faces, like the Vltava, frozen over.
This poem first published in: Pinnochio's Long Neb, Smith Doorstop, 2000
Bob Cooper has won 5 pamphlet competitions in 6 years. His full collection, All We Know Is All We See, is available from Arrowhead Press:
http://www.arrowheadpress.co.uk/ Although this poem is written about Newcastle upon Tyne he now lives on Tees-side.
Waiata Dawn Davies
Not the nineteenth century’s acres
ofpre camera realism and
Not the meticulous despair
ofpoor Adrian Wisznewski
showingan uncaring world
Not the primordial vomit
Of FrankAvery Wilson and
But this one
cheerfulas a greeting card
simpleas a child’s question.
The artist had fun with
shapesand shades and text
thenlet us share the joke.
Waiata Dawn Davies is a retired teacher living at the mouth of the Waitaki River in Otago, New Zealand. She has published two collections of poetry and had several short stories broadcast on Radio New Zealand and the BBC.
This is the map, the palm of your hand.
Here is your house, the school and the fields
were you played. Below the third finger
of your left hand, I see the church
where you never married.
At the base of your thumb, dirt
is ingrained. This is the mine, the place
where your father worked. It is buried
deep beneath your skin. This is why your
blood is more black than red and the sacs
of your lungs are filled with coal dust.
Your breath is the smoke of winter
and your eyes have the sparkle of life.
You bring light like the sun and shine
brighter than the full moon on a frosty night.
Your halo is the colour of rainbows.
Long ago your heart burned with love.
The embers are still there, glowing.
Sally James; I am a widow with four children, lots of grandchildren and two dogs. I live in Lancashire and have been writing poetry for a long time. Some of my
poetry has been published in small press and eline magazines and read on local radio. I have an MA in Creative writing.
Mother leans at the kitchen sink
sleeves rolled up to her elbows
she washes, does her Sunday baking
she is singing
the safe aroma
of cabbage and mushy peas
wafts through the house
Father sneaks up
to wrap her in his love
he sings with her
albeit the Sabbath
the rest of the household
polish, dust and clean
to the sound of bubbling pots
and love birds
now mother forgets
what she should have remembered on Sunday
and today she remembers
what she is best forgetting
yesterday she asked
"am I going senile?"
today she asks
"am I going senile, did I ask you that yesterday?"
tomorrow she will forget
what she asked today
she will forget
Jazz - Born and bred in the North West of England, started writing poetry as a child having written a poem for my Aunty Rita about a snowman. She thought it was wonderful and I thought I was a real poet! Sadly there is no copy of it anywhere so I can't tell whether I've improved or not since the age of 7. I'm now a portfoilio worker having hundreds of part time jobs, life is hectic and that's just how I like it - but it does mean having to squeeze words and poems out of the nooks and crannies of life - now there's another poem.
daft as a brush dog rough me
have taken out the ings
in as much as need
and very much doubt I’d ever of met a gerund (knowingly)
without the workshop here
the pk list
the c and c offered
also I enjoy the intercourse with many partners
not a single expectation
of a ring
how to explode a negg
leave it in the pan and let the water boil a way
odd lines for a poem
wither the train of thought
can you hear it?
the best poetry comes in the white heat of distraction
like when shards of egg shell have stuck in the ceiling
on all four walls
clung to washed ing draped over the clothes horse
mid the yellow haze of yolk
Philip Johnson - Diagnosed with Crohn's Disease 1982. Fortunately, though I have had 2 Resection Operations - April 82 and again April 2006 - I have mostly enjoyed long periods of good healthy remission. Presently employed as a Senior Care assistant come Care Team Leader; member of the Board of Directors at the Princess Royal Trust Cheshire Carers Centre since 1995; Northwich Town Council member since co-option January 1994. For me the spark of inspiration can come from anywhere at any hour - from people watching to the things I hear or read or even in the middle of the night (events must mull in my subconscious before outpouring). By far my best work is written spontaneously.
Achievements to date:
Hard copy published by: Poetry Now, Anchor Poets, North West Disabled Writers Group, Das Alchemy, The Ugly Tree; Poetry Scotland, Mid Cheshire Writers Group, Cheshire Carers Centre Newsletter, National Assc for Colitis & Crohn's Disease newsletters, local, regional and a national newspaper.
Electronic Formats: Write Away, Caught In The Net, The Red Pencil, and The Writer's Hood, Transparent Words; Caught In The Net
Guest Editor of Transparent Words "Special Edition" December 2006 and, presently, compiling sound files towards production of a compact disk on behalf of The Poetry Kit List giving opportunity for as many of our member’s voices as possible to be heard.
the pansy has a yelow flower
bright in the sun
below that short leaves
verigated veins and a thin
there isn't much of it
just growing like a weed
in the corner of the yard
but right now it is
the most beutiful thing
I have ever seen
Louise has only felt confident to show her poetry to people in the past few months. She says that since joining the PK List she has been given the encouragement to write and improve that she has never had before.
A Connecticut Yankee in Provence
You waited patiently enough
as I wandered like a nomad through the world
with thought of you unborn,
until the bright blue day, I happened
upon you in my garden, irrupted as you call it,
burst open my carefully sewn seams
spilling untidiness into your neat furrows.
I came uninvited
into your sharp nature of grey rock,
wild box and lavender.
You seduced me with the scent
of thyme and pine trees.
Your bottled mushrooms and the smell
of tomato plants in your garden
The sun is at your back,
the mistral hurls itself day after day
sanding the olive trees
to glittering blue-grey flags,
and I, coming from a tamer place
but maybe with wilder thoughts,
breathe it all in.
In your small village
we are one of the great mysteries,
a gift sitting next to each midday plate
ready to unwrap, solemnly gaze upon,
And we sit equally bemused
pondering spat out pits.
You ask me to stay for the vendenge
instead of scurrying away early.
You tell me that the grapes
have, as you put it,
a lovely “aspect”.
So I stay.
Now I separate carefully the word
back breaking into tightly packed bunches
of grapes on the vine.
I bend over your field of potatoes,
I pick your olives, hour after hour
my fingers slowly numbing.
Your mother passes by,
looks at me, reminds me
what I turned my back on,
la belle vie, shakes her head,
she also has a gift at her midday plate.
I look at your hands,
the callouses are good
for scratching my back,
your face burnt timeless, and
know that you would die
if I ever took you from your table
and your laboured earth.
Catherine Kanaan is an American who lives between England and France. She divides her her time between poetry, music, gardening and
Maurice, not to mention three children and two grandkids.
dialectic of implications
Extracts from a cranial conversation at Borders Bookshop, Cheshire, UK, while under the stimulus of drugs.
Ihab Hassan: the time has come to theorize postmodernism.
Artaud: a body without organs.
Ziolkowski: (it) has more to in common with contemporary music and art than with the poetry of the past.
Lyotard: A writer is in the position of a philosopher.
Foucault: Give them a temporary appearance - make mine an Earl Grey, long with milk
Gossman: Not immediately perceptible.
Portoghesi: Theses have deep roots in the present human condition.
Eagleton; An authentically political art.
Wolfe: Has there ever been another place on earth where so many people of
wealth and power have paid for and put up with so much – weak with lemon
Van Eyck; (man) has neither increased nor decreased during that time.
Portoghesi: The ironic use of quotation and the figurative use of the archaeological artefact are discoveries of the twenties – where’s my espresso, I said with two shots.
Stern: One of the oldest metaphors.
I live in Hoylake UK. This is a small coastal town on the Wirral Peninsular, which lies between the rivers Mersey and Dee. England is on one side of the Dee and Wales on the other.
Having enjoyed the process of studying for an MA I, perhaps foolishly, embarked on research for a PhD. For both degrees my subject has been Contemporary Innovative Poetry.
GRANT D. MCLEMAN
His life's a falling glass,
no ocean survey could map
its course through dockside
bars throughout the years.
And oh! The time spent,
And oh! The time wasted
at sea between ports,
And now, on land
for the final voyage,
time to catch up.
But time is catching up and
his barometer is no longer set fair,
his falling glass has nearly reached
He sighs as he tries to take
a final drink........
Born in Glasgow, published in several outlets, print and on-line, been member of PK list since April 2006, collaborated with US photographer to produce broadcast pieces for a US cable TV programme and has been closely involved with the Whitehouse Poetry Revival in Limerick city. Some more collaborative projects and a collection are in the pipeline. More info on www.verbal-art-wordlab.blogspot.com
STUART NUNNKnee Replacement – for Tony
Like a tree pollarded too many times, your fleshis more encumbrance than well-oiled machine,so different from the original handy mechanism.The prosthesis mimics anatomy, demonstrateshow life ought to be, titanium animatedby bodily fluids till you’d never know the difference.But the infection started death’s work in your bones.The surgeon says he can put things right,make muscles flex in time to the brain’s music.And you must believe the bone’s necrosiscan be postponed by engineering,no limbs hacked off to save the rest.Hinges straightened by the metal articulations,you’ll stand at least two inches taller,and trigger airport security alarms.Stuart Nunn - I am a retired college lecturer living in South Gloucestershire, part of what is still sometimes called Avon. I mark A Level exam papers and work with the local athletics club as a starter. Tony was my best man in 1970 and, if his knee will stand it, we're going to the Rugby World Cup in France in September._______________________________________________________
SHERRY PASQUARELLOher mom named her peaches
she thinks that's funny
so, she stuffs rubbers into a mason jar
hidden in the fruit cellar
on a shelf behind the canned peaches.
the tampons are sitting in a cupboard
with the liquid pine cleaner
peaches finds that funny too.
the freezer is filled with diet food
that's past the expiration date
by at least a year or so.
she says they taste like the feelings
she has when
she's shoving another trojan in the jar
and laughs the hardest at that.
peaches has all the makings of a poet.Sherry Pasquarello - i'm a Pittsburgh poet - published in, the individualist newsletter, black roses, online at, the amateur poetry journal, alchemy lit. mag, the writer's hood and caught in the net. a proud and happy member of the international PK poetry kit list workshop and has been included in the anthology project, dec. 2004 and in national poetry day projects,recently in, four volts. uk. and the picolata review.
Marshall would be pleased his global village
is here; it walks daily past what was the
Centre For Culture And Technology where he
ran his hand over his hair during long nights
lit by incandescence, early technicolour tint
massaging exteriors of windows, mediums
waiting to tingle to embryonic wires humming
in urgings of a future struggling to invent itself.
Often a beer in hand, cigarette in the other,
Marshall was a poster boy for his generation.
Today he would be puffing outside the Centre,
shivering in winds whipping along Queen’s Park
Crescent up Avenue Road, through steel Liebskind
spears holding hostage skies over the Museum’s roof,
no doubt indifferent to architectural posturings,
celestial memories running through distant ruins.
Sometimes, Marshall sat with Parker, conviviality
spreading through numerous brown bottles punctuating
conversations marked by merriment, generous gesturings,
and much throwing back of heads, luminescent
in silvered magnificence, when wisdom didn’t
have to be concealed to spare incumbent inheritors
recoilings of distrust, distasteful rejections
of anyone without an ipod or a blackberry.
Many nights Marshall paced alone his urban cell,
pondering the permanence of his future address,* while
rain bandaged tree branches in headlight-coated
swathes; through his open windows, Marshall
listened to the city directing casts through
tumultuous screenplays, drawn through the shredder
of impatient expectations, seduced by the mirage
of the village on the horizon at fingertips’ end.
*” Tomorrow is our permanent address.”
_ Marshall McLuhan
Barbara Phillips has written three chapbooks: Tympanic Mysteries: Love Is A Tympanic Mystery; Shadows In The Echoes; Confessions Of A Sybaritic Puritan. She has recently written an ebook , Blue Sails Haiku & Not. Her work has also been published in various print and electronic publications, such as Transparent Words, Caught In The Net, Ygdrasil A Journal of The Poetic Arts, Poemata, Verse Afire, Quills CanadianPoetry Magazine, Canadian Writer’s Journal, Poetry Canada Magazine, Malleable Jangle, Hammered Out, Bywords Quarterly Journal, Zimmerzine, Ars Medica, Poetry Super Highway, Writer’s Hood, beside the white chickens, and Erotic Tours Magazine. Her work has appeared in anthologies such as Oval Victory: The Best of Canadian Poetry, A Time Of Trial: Beyond The Terror of 9/11, No Love Lost, EOA And West: London Poems Part ll , Seeds6: An Anthology of Poetry, Handprints On The Future and The Future Looks Bright. She has been a featured poet and was a recipient of the Ted Plantos Memorial Seed Money Fund.
It was ten past six on the kitchen clock the first time
he hit her,
his dinner painted the wall in
tinned carrot, mushy peas and brown gravy,
the plate fragmented as her ankle-bone cracked
against his hob-nailed boot,
his heel marking with delicate tracery the arch of her foot,
she crumbled, surprised,
he liked to keep the spark in their relationship.
Still holding the saucepan of custard she watched
as it pooled gently, silently, round his feet
while the Queen of puddings, his favourite, waited
red-capped, bereft, for her topping.
It was half past eight by the clock in the hall
the night he cleverly gathered her hair in his hand,
he always was so artistic!
then opened the door and shoved her into the rain,
“Come back when you’ve got me my fags”
and turned on the radio loud,
he had an ear for music,
was talented people said.
The next time she noticed the clock it was striking nine times
and the youngest was crying,
the Christmas-tree lights twinkled merrily still
where they lay on the floor,
he hummed as he combed his hair,
“A natural tenor voice” the neighbours observed
when he sang Silent Night in the choir
On a night when the town clock was striking ten times
and the snow gently falling,
she huddled against the gable wall
the children beside her,
a family portrait
an artist might check for perspective,
rifling her purse and
counting the takings he whistled,
he needed a drink for his birthday
The phone call to tell him she’d died came at midnight,
“After all, your mother’s your mother”, he said.
Rosemary Quinn, former teacher, now living in Inishowen in Donegal on the shores of Lough Swilly and close to the (invisible) border with Northern Ireland. I write poetry and short stories and have had some poetry and several stories published in Ireland. I have also performed my work on stage and on radio, in Ireland and in North Carolina. I am a member of Derry Playhouse Writers and the PK list.
The Superfunky Sounds of The Abraham Zapruder Connection
I'm confused and quizzical
don't want to just get physical.
Or you saying I'm gorgeous,
merely thinking how you'd enjoy us....
Dancing around a hotel room, then boom!
Two emotionally hot, distracted
detached tourist love machines
lips pressed tight, moulded like plastecine
our bodies fade 'n fall in bobbing ass parades
superfunky sounds of The Abraham Zapruder Connection
tcb grooves and moods all the radio wants to play
Lay right on back let the chips fall where they may
dam robinson (sic) is a sometime sparkly rhythmic, often outrageous performance poet living on Merseyside.
ARTHUR W SEELEY
Sisyphus at St Anne's
The sand that trails from the fist
of this chill February wind
collects in slant cones and wedges,
wreaths the foot of the memorial plinth,
drifts up the drives of hotels;
a soft wind-sifted plume
combs through the crocus
and sidles slyly into town.
I watch him sweep his pile,
try to imagine him happy,
but his cheeks are pinched with cold
and his mouth masked by a scarf.
The wind plucks at his yellow jacket,
tugs at his trousers.
He reaches for a shovel,
his wind-bleared eyes
blind to the flats of sand beyond the dunes,
to the grey sheen of the distant sea;
blind to the dull metal of the sky
and the snow-pecked Cumbrian fells;
blind to the imps that stream
from the peak of his pile
and tease away, over his boot
and back along the promenade.
Arthur W Seeley. 74, lives in the Pennines, the Yorkshire side and by far the prettier side. Retired teacher and lecturer in mathematical education. Made a living by being good at maths but loved rather poetry. Now has happily discovered the computer, the Internet and ten thousand poets.
CAROL REED SIRCOULOMB
she was very old
when I was young
Grandma Reed would hold me on her lap
and read aloud
stories of the little red hens and such
books opened my mind
for a life time
from an old woman
to a small girl
Carol Reed Sircoulomb - Wichita Kansas - I live in Kansas but I have been lucky to see the world, not from a T.V. screen but from life. I always wanted to be an artist. I became a photographer, potter and quilter, only after many years of self doubt. I guess you would call me a perceptual person. I started writing because of my Grandmother. I wanted my children to know her and other family members. She died at 96 when my oldest child was 5. In the poem I used the name we called her because I wanted her name known in the future, if only for a moment.
TAMMARA OR SLILIAT
The Golan Heights
Quo Vadis, domini?
Where do you think you're going, Mister?
Yea, He used to play water walking here,
and sometimes wine conversions for the guys,
But we, Sir, we spat blood.
Vintage of 67, vintage of 73,
we've converted blood to Golan wine
and drunk with the lava soil hope
to make grapes…
A pack of nuns scatter about,
like the cormorants that rise up screeching
from the Eucalyptus trees, their leaves
bleached by the birds' droppings.
There, where a herd of demon-chased swine
plunged into the waters of the Kinneret,
my Kinneret, the ground is still shaking
with the sound of panic-stricken hooves.
Kursi is covered by a blanket of tranquility
Its hem embroidered in German-English chatter.
Tammara Or Slilat, born 1960, lives in Poriya Ilit, Israel. I'm a poet-writer-painter (besides being a healer and channel and in the mornings an English teacher). I've published two books of poems in Hebrew, had some of my poems published in Literary magazines in Israel, graduated the 2 year course of how to lead creative writing workshops, got the Jordan Valley award in 2004 for my art and poems.
I'm a member of the PK list since GKW (God Knows when), participated in a number of challenges and projects.
later that night she thought
bland and safe
unfamiliar colours a
study in taupe and a
too hard bed my own
pillow I should have brought
my own pillow
quiet here clean and
impersonal with nothing to
recall people or places except the lack of
something to recall people or places distance can be
good better yes better
stay awhile enjoy
the pristine newness and fresh
sheets hermetically sealed
biscuits and neatly filled pot of
coffee sachets and tea one
just add water
take time to read
the novel that’s been
waiting for time to
read or the
in the draw
Elaine Walker is based in North Wales. She writes academic and non-fiction material on a freelance basis, but is also a fiction writer and occasional poet. She is currently writing a book on the cultural history of the horse for a series called ‘Animal’ and the second draft of her novel is just on its way back to an interested agent. She teaches Creative Writing for the University of Bangor, the Open College of the Arts and local community groups.
4 - Afterword
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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 which appear on the Poetry Kit site and this can be found at - http://www.poetrykit.org/