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CAUGHT IN THE NET 91 - POETRY BY
WALTER RUHLMANN
Series Editor - Jim Bennett
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Introduction by Jim Bennett
Hello. Welcome to the next in the series of CITN featured poets. We will be looking at the work of a different poet 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.
You can join the CITN mailing list at
-
http://www.poetrykit.org/pkl/index.htm
and following the links for Caught in the Net.
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|
her child was born in the winter I saw it dying in my arms just like after its mother died her body stiff by the prickly, white, cold and acid frost far from the impressing blackness of the deep jade of her eyes
from; Zelda by Walter Ruhlmann |
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CONTENTS
1 - BIOGRAPHY
2 – POETRY
Pope Joan
Zelda
Bath
Kingdom of a Doomed King
Loretta
Günter
With Love from Euphor
Awakening
Clasped
An Awkward Tribute to Charles B.
Many Slit-Opened Heads Later – To Julien B.
3 - PUBLISHING HISTORY
4 - AFTERWORD
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1 – BIOGRAPHY: Walter Ruhlmann
Walter Ruhlmann was born in 1974 in France. He currently lives in Mamoudzou, Mayotte where he works as an English teacher. He has been publishing mgversion2>datura (ex-Mauvaise graine) for fifteen years.
Walter is the author of several poetry chapbooks and e books in French and English and has published poems in various printed and electronic publications world wide. He co-edited and translated poems for the bilingual free verse and form section for the anniversary issue of Magnapoets in January 2011. His blog
http://lorchideenoctambule.hautetfort.com/
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2 - POETRY
Pope Joan
The yellow wall is sweating
sister.
All these nights spent in the arms of cold
come back to me
you have no rights to see me crying
neither you nor another
protected by the kings’
law.
The yellow wall is sweating
sister.
I can see Zelda again
protected by my arms
but my arms don’t want that any more
my whole body only accepts
the manly ways of the angels,
of my brothers of joy.
The yellow wall is sweating
sister.
The light dies
under your impish white breast
Sappho sheltered me
Isis caressed me
Man has condemned me.
The yellow wall is sweating
sister.
While the beer evaporates
on your warm body
the cigarette between my fingers
keeps on
burning slowly.
The yellow wall is sweating
sister.
I dreamt of the red-haired girl
I dreamt of the Berliner girl
I dreamt of the one who sings synthetic
I touched the stones of the field
taken and taken back
I am the neutron man
dreaming of travelling as fast
as a photon.
The yellow wall is sweating
sister.
It’s hard to guess what’s next
and what our bodies could give
these sweetened
night.
The yellow wall is sweating
sister.
In my golden jail – as gold
as the geese stuck on the yellow wall,
which I keep on talking
to you sister, you pope Joan.
The yellow wall is sweating
sister.
I still listen to the Germanic girl
eccentric
hysterical
the yellow wall is healed
fairy.
The yellow wall is sweating
sister.
If only you knew how hard it is
to know you’re far from my glance
away from my eyes.
The yellow wall is sweating
sister.
You were Zelda once
in a story draft
one night
but our impossible love
quickly asked
me to kill you.
The yellow wall is sweating
sister.
Tomorrow the yellow wall will bleed
and its red, hot venom
will be drunk by the dogs of the king
of the land of my dreams
and the songs of unease.
The yellow wall, sister,
is my heart breaker.
___________________
Zelda
In the dark attic
a girl named Zelda
daughter of nymphomaniac Sappho
discovered the black love
shining with the tasty glare
of the deep jade of her eyes
Cassandre without clothes nor dressing gown
cherished her in the dark
shining with the tasty glare
of the deep jade of her eyes
Zelda, Cassandre and the demons
the brown men with heavy fingers
broke the doors so black
shining with the sumptuous glare
of the nice jade of her game
and the mystery still uncertain
Zelda was carried away at dusk
locked at the bottom of a noisy black coach
withdrawing the fire
of the deep jade of her eyes.
But before Zelda left
and that the ogres devoured her
her saphic game burned her
up to the orgasm deeper
than the deep jade of her eyes
and I recognized her - beautiful one -
when she thought she would divert me
she had made herself a princess
by requesting unhappy Eros
to know the torrid black
and evilness of Cassandre
cooled by the round face
the jade of the deep stones
Zelda did not want to tell me
that her desire and her smile
had bond only with the tulip
as black as the blackest
deep jade of her two eyes
her child was born in the winter
I saw it dying in my arms
just like after its mother died
her body stiff by the prickly,
white, cold and acid frost
far from the impressing blackness
of the deep jade of her eyes
I do not think of Zelda any more
Cassandre left last year
to join her dear parents
in the cold of Siberia
I do not think any more but of the winter
of these nights dark and hidden
in the eyes of deep jade
of Zelda my beloved sister.
________________________
Bath
She wanted to lie down next to me.
She did.
I said she ought to know there were no chances;
she took hers.
I remember this silent night
in my flat
up there
up the Plantation Shop
Bath
Nineteen
Ninety-six
Fanny
was her name
she once met the Native
and shared his wrath
against the wall
of uncertainties
that went up
between us.
Andy and Paul
were cutting plants,
tidying the shop,
clearing things,
counting money.
When she went downstairs
she helped herself with a cup of coffee
the smell of it filled up the kitchen.
I let her go
I had to
she had to go
and there were no
other ways.
The Native would come back shortly after.
He had been out all night.
Staring at the sky,
talking to the moon,
to the stars,
his fingers touching the darkest patch of the ethereal net
up there.
He entered the room
I was still lying on my bed.
He lied next to me.
The wine vapours still lingered in his hair,
on his clothes, on his pale skin.
I touched his back.
He said I ought to know there were no chances;
I got up
and went to work.
________________________
Kingdom of a Doomed King
Things are not the same
I feel
A waste of time running
along
and the wind of Austria
blowing on my face again.
Lying down on the pavement
where my feet strode too many times
and all the wicked boulevards
where I found the sweetest solace.
Feeding on a few fruit and seeds
like a bird - a fragile prey
to the vultures
circling around up there
and God would let them do
because He could do without me.
I did a few mistakes
but how can one let a poor soul
rotting on the side walk
of this greying city.
Eighteen fifty-four.
Have I come out of age?
The heart lies in the sewage
and I used to be one of them
- bright and beautiful,
rich and popular -
now the time has come for me to play
dead.
_______________________
Loretta
Loretta
was a friend of mine
she waved in the dark
she crawled in the light
bright lollipop
always on the run.
She found solace
in every breath
she took
whenever night fell
she knew it was her time
she never skipped a date
with the vampire.
The dogs came to her
and found her in a ditch
half buried underneath
chestnut tree leaves
rotting.
Loretta
was a friend of mine
at night when I wander
in the woods
about where she used to live
I look at the sky
hoping she'll come back
but all I can see
is a bright star
waving in the dark.
____________________
Günter
He danced around a bonfire
with his hands waving to the sky.
Half naked, his shorts showing through.
Flames were licking his body, his feet moved
rapidly, in an urgent motion
defying all gravity.
When I met him
he was the counterpoint of all those
waiting in line, behind –
he could see faeries in the back of my garden
and fireflies were his most intimate fellows.
Now
years later
Time achieving its duty,
compelling him to spread milky lotions
on his face and ex muscled limbs
dropping
down
on him,
to moisture his skin and hair –
both greying.
Faeries have vanished,
fireflies switched off.
_______________________
With Love from Euphor
On the tiled floor, I saw strange forms appearing.
The head of Spartacus
or that, more exciting, more modern also, of Actarus.
Princes
whether they come from Thrace or Euphor
always haunted my frozen mornings,
my capsized nights.
Later
- much later -
it is by their laughter that I was started the most.
The princes always had an open throat
and amazed eyes
in bed.
I saw their wings growing
at the same rate as their sexes
who were spread out around me
everywhere
in me
on me
in my eyes and the clouds.
I flew away too
far from this nest
to join
in dream
in the bathroom
unreal colourings,
small encrusted gravels,
in the shape of happy princes,
in the shape of dark princes.
____________________________
Awakening
The sun trembled of its hot rays
sensitive to the cold, he remained there, doing nothing
he looked at the world in flames
the earth burning
the hell in front of his eyes and the flowers' as impure as the skies
when they ejaculate the psalms of the divine
avenger.
It is like a flashback:
a brother at his sides
seem to wait patiently
before the scream lay them down.
Marie, you still suffer from these infamies,
Joe shakes you such a long time, so often,
flowers of the fields
the songs put the spell on you
go back to Consecrated Land,
go back into the blue cave,
the children will show you the way.
In the blue cave
I am lying down on a bed of straw,
I am looking at the vault,
the solidified drawings,
the traces of my depressed ancestors.
The house burns.
The brain explodes.
I don't want to stay here any more
__________________________
Clasped
I live in a hot-water bottle
surrounded by waves
surrounded by leaves
surrounded by thieves.
It is like time has stopped
between the Golden Ages
and the Dark Times.
The variegation
cannot erase the suffocation
the breath
the soul
can only see the vapid land
despite
ochres
yellows
oranges
greens
& blues.
The heat
the dampness of the place.
The beating
of the chants.
Drums are on every night.
Dogs bark.
Cats mew
& converge towards where
food or peace are.
I live in a bottle
firmly sealed
full of salt
and dust
rotting inside
& outside.
I live on a boat floating to nowhere
water everywhere
wherever where is.
_________________________
An Awkward Tribute to Charles B.
“When the low and heavy sky weighs like a lid...” - He sang.
I remember
these nights
up in my room
reading
Baudelaire's
Spleen
listening
mooning
brooding
singing
humming
watching
dreaming
of islands lost in the middle of the ocean – He sang
too.
But now...
The air conditioning is on.
40°C outside.
20°C inside.
My body – I can seldom
recognize – at ease,
as peaceful as
a corpse,
covered by a single white linen
bed cloth
which weighs so much,
even more than a lid
rather like a pan,
a cauldron
or the whole buffet.
The air conditioning
blowing,
buzzing
like buzz
the grasshoppers
the spiders
the beetles
the flies
the black wasps
the centipedes
creeping
nightmares.
I hear them all
buzzing
in my ears
like gigantic bells
or hell's angels.
____________________________
Many Slit-Opened Heads Later - to Julien.B.
I want to write something for you
something special
but it seems that won't do.
You were something far beyond us.
Some unreachable star.
Already.
Ten years back - seventeen -
Late nineties.
All of us craved for you.
He did more than I,
he was probably right.
But he died
not from it -
from something closer to what he had always been
- ludicrous -
but not quite
the same.
I want to write something
because I surfed past you a lot lately
and saw how grown-up you are
half smiling
bare naked
in front of cameras
reading your poems
& prose
to audience
everywhere
you go.
I wanted to write something special
but it seems I didn't. Do
you care if I hate you
now?
He'd written something for you.
Something special.
Something good.
Let's not the tea go cold -
it was called.
He is cold now
and so are you
lost in the Swiss snow.
3 - Publishing History
Pope Joan From The Songs of Unease
Zelda From The Songs of Unease
Bath Previously published in Aesthetica Magazine July 2008 and Ancient Heart magazine March 2011
With Love from Euphor Previously published on Poetry Super Highway, Poet of the Week feature September 2008.
Awakening Previously published in Ancient Heart magazine January 2011
Clasped Previously published in Ygdrasil March 2011
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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/