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Inside the glasshouse, a metal strut.

Upon the strut, a jar open.

Inside the jar, honey, sun, a wasp,

its wings glued to a fold,


                 from;  Non-curriculum  by Jon Plunkett






A little me time 
Core beliefs 
Free advertising for a Neuro Linguistic Programmer
Here I am 
Lost in translation 
Passing places
The victim
Psychologists field study
To the n of reason



1 BIOGRAPHY:  Jon Plunkett


'Northern Irish born Jon Plunkett currently lives and writes in Scotland. His work has featured in a number of online and in print poetry magazines and literary journals. In addition to writing Jon is currently leading the development of a poetry trail in the Highlands of Scotland that will see lines of poetry carved in stone and placed along a two mile trail. More of Jon's poems can be read at www.jonplunkettpoetry.weebly.com'.







A little me time


From time to time he would stop,

curve to the lay-by, turn the key,

stop. The tie would not make it


out of the car. The pullover

would be pulled over as he walked,

shirt undone button at a time


in time with his steps. Then hands

shuggled from sleeves, shoes

and socks gone, one pause per foot.


Belt and trousers unhitched, pants

kicked free, left were they lay.

Then the wristwatch hurled


into irrelevance. On hed saunter,

feet on leaves, dappled sun on skin,

which, removed by a two-handed


tug of the scalp and flung aside,

would hang, translucent cocoon,

on the branch that caught it.


The rest would fall away easily, a trail

of muscle, sinew, tendons spread

along the track. The sore shoulder


muscles, balled up and drop-

kicked into scrub and shrubs.

Hed be surprised each time how far


the small intestine could stretch.

The lungs would bounce and roll aside,

the heart flipping to its beat.


When left, the bones would fall themselves

into neat little piles, then hed drift

for a minute or maybe just a moment -


a fraction of a second, until hed find himself

driving, one hand on the wheel,

the other at the tight knot of his tie.





Inside the glasshouse, a metal strut.

Upon the strut, a jar open.

Inside the jar, honey, sun, a wasp,

its wings glued to a fold, legs


motion slowly in the gloop, abdomen

throbs a sting at nothing.

A child watches, his mouth

a small o, eyes unblinking.


He stares,






Core beliefs


Sometimes I find myself thinking

that inside each of us me,

you, others, exists a tiny coliseum.

Maybe it is tucked away behind the ribs,

or set on a piece of waste ground

between the liver and the lung. Maybe

the walls of the large intestine

form the dusty floor where two

tiny figures are locked in battle.

Swords clang, and every breath

we have ever taken gives them strength.

Small puffs of dust fly from the skirmish

and the ground is all sweat-spattered.

One - the one in black - advances

and we feel exposed, as though

he will win and run amok, cutting

small windows that will reveal us.

We clutch ourselves so the clangs

will not come out our mouth,

stifle a cough into the crook

of an arm, hoping no one

will see the flurry of dust.

And when we sweat we know

that the battle must be heating up.

While we wave it away with a comment

like anyone else hot in here?

we wonder if it is just us

who feel a clot-sized coliseum

somewhere near our heart.



Free advertising for a Neuro

Linguistic Programmer


At first I stayed on the surface

spreading weight so I wouldnt

sink into the sponge of your mind.

At the chasm between spheres

I braced myself across the walls,

hand and foot on each, edging

my way down among electrodes,

so deep into your sub-conscious

you barely even felt me.

There between left and right

I staked my claim. Just enough

on which to pin suggestion.

The climb back up was tricky

but I found a way, breezed through

your ear like a whisper, knowing

that, at a certain trigger,

you would sing my praises

left, right and centre.



Here I am


You may have met people

who claim acceptance

of their own mortality,

their fettling away to nothing

cell by spent cell.

You may be one of them.


I am not, so I sought a vessel

to carry me beyond my years.

I found it in words,

spread myself across this sheet,

thinking Id cosy up

in the dark between the covers.


Id wait here for hands like yours

to thumb back the edge,

to drench me with light.

Then I (in one of those

told-you-so moments)

would stare up and say


See, here I am, I live!

But I never anticipated

the timeless dark,

the emptiness of silence

and now must plead

that you dont close me


back into the blank of it. Please,

break the spine, weigh me open,

rip me from the bind and pin me

to a wall. Or smother me

behind glass, my ragged margins

tucked inside a frame.


If thats too much to ask,

at least fold the corner of this page,

so you can find me again,

and I can see you there

in a brief flood

of light and life.



Lost in translation


When I said you should

grab the bull by the horns,

I thought you would understand.

I never though you would

take it literally, as though

there is no such thing

as metaphor in Brazil.

What made it worse

was that you thought I said

you should grab the bull

by the balls. 



Passing places


The road is punctuated with commas,

places to pause, let a car pass,

a mountain wear a little more,

rocks be tide-smoothed,

the coast be rubbed out, redrawn,

tectonic plates shift

the continents drift.

Then we slip into gear

and carry on.



The victim


Silent as the cross hair

on the nape of your sons neck.


Silent as the squeezing finger,

the shatter of glass he wont hear.


Silent as the trouble

he never spoke of,


the blood soaking

through the weave.


Silent as the voiceless questions

that move your mouth,


as you rock to and fro

in a chair that faintly creaks.



Psychologists field study


The McDonalds queue comprised

of un-composed young mothers,


offspring running wild high

on the promise of a happy meal.


One with leopard-print skin-

tight leggings, roars at her cub.


Psychologists nod knowingly

penning theory-anchored thoughts


of internal working models

of developmental conflict


of the possible earned secure

attachment type but only after


the inevitable psychosocial moratorium.

The young mothers own succinct hypothesis:


Hes just a little shit. Oh and by the way

fuck you lot with your pens and your words.



To the n of reason

It starts with a curling tongue -

a genetically determined ability.

Then it's vowels flowing together,

like more subtle adaptations.

Just past the middle,

air is squeezed through teeth

predisposed to last beyond flesh.

The penultimate shape formed

is not unlike a yawn.

Then tongue tip touches roof,

as in creation or chance

or three times in unknown.



3 - 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 -