I’m happy to travel
this way; it takes ones mind
off the terrible food
and the possibility
of a painful death by
deep-vein thrombosis in
the hotel room next Wednesday.
from ;The Airport by Fernando Smith
___________________________________________________________________________
CAUGHT IN THE NET 47 - POETRY BY
FERNANDO SMITH
Series Editor - Jim Bennett
___________________________________________________________________________
Introduction by Jim Bennett
Hello. Welcome to a new series of CITN. We will be looking at the work of individual poets in each edition and I hope it will help our readers to discover some new and exciting writing. This series is open to all to submit and I am now keen to read new work for this series.
CITN 47. This edition features the poetry of FERNANDO SMITH
You can join the CITN mailing list at
-
http://www.poetrykit.org/pkl/index.htm
and following the links for Caught in the Net.
_________________________________________________________________
|
|
I’m happy to travel this way; it takes ones mind off the terrible food and the possibility of a painful death by deep-vein thrombosis in the hotel room next Wednesday.
from ;The Airport by Fernando Smith |
________________________________________________________________
CONTENTS
1 - BIOGRAPHY
2 – POETRY
The State of Things
God
Oy, Genghis
At the edge of the world
On My Star
The Bridge
Tragedy
The Airport
The Adventure
The Balcony
The Terrorist
3 - AFTERWORD
___________________________________________________________________________
1 – BIOGRAPHY: FERNANDO SMITH - a description
Born 1965 in Bury, Manchester.
Middle child, tethered to traditional northern alcoholic family.
Raised in a corner shop, which he utilised to his benefit by bribing girls with stolen confectionary, in order to penetrate the old mysteries.
Bought a guitar at age 10. Wrote a love song that same day.
Played first gig at a Silver Jubilee street party. Went down a storm.
Left school tried out a factory that summer; didn’t like it.
Accepted some money from the British Mountaineering Council to go
climbing abroad in return for a story.
Developed a taste for writing while travelling and decided not to work in a factory again.
Went to Art College, painted, composed, and sculpted.
Had eyes scrubbed-up like new.
Never stopped with the poetry.
Performed his songs to drunks, ladies and drunken ladies.
(Some people see continents exploding; he got to see punks and teds dancing while he sang)
Told “There’s no money in poetry.”
Believed it.
Got a job, but couldn’t stop with the poetry.
Fell in love. Three fine-looking children. Fell out of love.
Stopped.
Worked in a variety of jobs with people in various degrees of pain.
Continued the poetry, which he began to perform to non-drunks as well as a better class of drunk than previously.
Told by his friend to stop pissing about and make an effort to “put himself out there.”
Made an effort.
Began to have work published here and there.
Still doing the poetry.
______________________________________________________________
2 - POETRY
The little bird stood
transfixed by the sun
St. Francis bent over
scooping the creature
in his kind palms
The wind was high
urging the poplars to curve
like a reaching feather
Ten minutes later
the bird, perched in a cage,
cursed the sun
in a fishbone voice
mistaken for delight.
God sits alone
in his room, staring
into a dark mirror
with no reflection
remembering all
the women he
has loved
and let fall through
his mighty fingers.
His long silver
hair is slicked back
with a crusting
Brylcreme
his beard needs a trim
and the snakeskin boot
on his right foot
has a hole in the sole.
He waits and waits
the telephone doesn’t ring
anymore
all his friends are gone
or dead
the family grown.
It has been an
unremarkable life
_________________________________
Oy, Genghis
The tanks are in the street
bloated with broken young men
hoping for an open heart
a garland of poppies
they are tired of the war
and could do with
a soft bottom to fondle
maybe drink wine
from a delicate glass
So, with the ancient hatred of the colonised
we lob a couple more grenades
at the bastards
curse their children’s children
burn their generals alive
bury them all in a nameless pit
Pity the aggressors
forever tied to the same story
The last light of
dusk flicked its
retina
picked out the
shadow
hawked a crystal
across your room
arcing
like a satellite
a pool of glass
dropping
through the window
onto the street
below
“A homecoming
of sorts”
the advertisement crowed
a resting of the
soul
in the soil of
my genes
There was nothing
much else
to say
with eyes
so heavy from
receiving
Let me be with all
of this
recovering the good
life
be merciful in your
night
give this little
man
his golden
moment
______________________________
On my star the day
fell quietly, like
Christmas trimmings
drifting down from
the corner, one
January morning.
The house is quiet.
I hear you
breathing through
your sleep.
Are you dreaming
my love?
Your ankles
dashing kicks
against me, resisting
this little death.
_______________________________________
The Bridge
Close
so his shoulder touched
his shoulder
as they regarded the moon, waiting
for the sign
that would inform their first kiss.
The other man,
him, he, a man,
wore a light beard
and the first man wondered
what technique was required
to breach the tough fuzz
with his tongue.
He needn’t have concerned himself;
with a firmness he had never known before
and kissed his mouth in
a most masculine way, his tongue
useful, cast like
a wrench from his toolkit,
yet soft as holding
his father’s hand in the park.
And he, himself,
was kissed
received a kiss;
allowed his own self
a slight feint
as he accepted the choreography
of the moment, delivered
deliberately,
heady, under a
West African moon.
__________________________________
Your mother died
crushed by a fallen
crate of Dutch flowers
one Thursday
in Hull.
I’m told she made a
sweet smelling corpse,
splayed beneath the cranes
by the waterfront.
An unusual garland
all packaged for the
grave.
You cried at her funeral
and wished you had spent
more time with her
when she was alive.
I couldn’t help but notice
that you sent a wreath
of tulips.
_________________________________
The airport is hushed now
as we stand in stocking feet
free from our hand luggage
waiting for the terrorists
to broadcast some old concern
grumbling in our ears
as we prepare to drop
into the ocean, screaming
blind panic in chorus a
congregation in brace-
-position, oxygen
dangling like light above
our bowed heads.
I’m happy to travel
this way; it takes ones mind
off the terrible food
and the possibility
of a painful death by
deep-vein thrombosis in
the hotel room next Wednesday.
___________________________________
On the corner by a lime tree
near a building under
construction
we failed to meet
Nothing happened by design
not a soul was waiting
for the rain that
did not fall
Time stares back
at the empty location
An old man walks by
a car breaks slowly
a bird recovers from
its gentle fall
A tin box radio somewhere
settles the ordinary
evening
into the dusk
__________________________________
The Balcony
Your belly coated in honey
my desire improved by the sun
having now revealed the gunpowder
words of passion
And still you were absent
As golden as you cared to be
arousing compliments again
like secrets pouring from a man
broken on the wheel
And still you were absent
I waited for you too long
succumbing to cowardice
lifting the scabs of history
to free myself
And still you were absent
Like a mariner disassembling
his compass
I came to you without eyes
or anticipation
not caring if it was an arrival
or return
And still you were absent
I found you
on the blood red balconies of Cadiz
blooming in spring
succulent as a melting pear
and you advancing
with lilies in your hair
crowning a smile
that was not worn for me
_________________________________________
The Terrorist
He moped around the shopping mall for a bit;
admired a jacket in the window of a famous chain-store,
remembered he needed a stamp
for the birthday card in his rucksack, then
entered an Italian restaurant-
where he ordered garlic bread with cheese, a vegetariana pizza and double espresso.
After finishing the meal he made his way back to the rented terrace on Jubilee Street,
phoned his mum
and settled down to watch the football
while we trembled
in a state of high alert.
______________________________________________
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/