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CAUGHT IN THE NET 171 -  POETRY  BY MAXINE ROSE MUNRO

Series Editor - Jim Bennett for The Poetry Kit - www.poetrykit.org
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You can join the CITN mailing list at - http://www.poetrykit.org/pkl/index.htm and following the links for Caught in the Net.

Submissions for this series of Featured poets is open, please see instruction in afterword at the foot of this mail.
 

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CONTENTS

1 - BIOGRAPHY
2 – POETRY 

3 - PUBLISHING HISTORY

4 - AFTERWORD
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1 – BIOGRAPHY:  Maxine Rose Munro

Maxine Rose Munro is a Shetlander adrift on the outskirts of Glasgow. She has been published widely in the UK, both in print and online. Most recently in The Open Mouse; Ink, Sweat and Tears; Pushing Out the Boat; and OBSESSED WITH PIPEWORK. In addition, she is a frequent contributor to The New Shetlander - the literary magazine she grew up reading, reputedly Scotland's oldest literary magazine. Find her, a full list of publications, and details of forthcoming work here - facebook.com/maxinerosemunro
 

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2 - POETRY 

They were Old when I was Young

Her

Her I didn't visit, not myself.

She lived in one room. Curtains

I remember better than the face -

screens to corner that was Kitchen.

I remember no windows, one door,

one box bed. Her face, her name,

are not there.

Duncan, Kitty

He lived mainly in greenhouses

in his laird's garden, one was

tomatoes - red, yellow, white

I swear. He showed me. She

lived in her kitchen, Rayburn

warm, baking relays through

one foot of clear space - rock

cakes, scones, bannocks. Cold

living room opened fifty-two

times per year. Sunday best

starched across their faces.

Wullie and Maggie

Tea on a saucer with

a Parkinson's shake

and sunlight laying

on white formica.

Childhood is blind.

I couldn’t see,

under their smiles

their struggles.

60° North

60° North, but with a gulf stream                                                      

that warms like a peat fire - both local specialties.              

Anywhere else on that latitude, we would be                                  

living like Eskimos, fishing through bore holes                              

and catching whales for our tea.                                                     

We do not need to snuggle in furs                                               

or wait till spring to start a stopped car.                                          

Instead we live in a land of legless sheep           

that float bizarrely through knee-high clouds,        

soaring birds, squalling birds, lots of birds,               

flowers that love the damp and all things soggy,                    

and horizons as close as your nose.                         

60° North, for us a meaty broth                                 

that lines our metaphorical stomachs,                                                

a tangible truth wrapped in smug conceit.           

In this line around the world we are Unique.                                       

I have never seen the merrie dancers, or an otter,                             

or the mareel on the ocean’s waves.                                                   

My life has been altogether prosaic,                                                   

but my people are a miracle of nature                                                 

Merrie Dancers - the northern lights

Mareel - phosphorescence on the ocean

Still Life by Rock Pool

Life pooled into a rock cleft built

itself by years of tectonic shift,

tiny facsimile, a thing of beauty.

Held by perfection, she studies

weed, whelk, limpet, sees

something in them of the world

she knows. As above, so below -

here there are trees, canyons,

busied movement of small animals.

Locked outside looking in I watch her

watch them. An anemone will close

and limpet stick if touched unasked,

calm surfaces will break into one

small ripple after another

until underneath is obscured; stilled,

she reveals herself as the moment

before the wave crash, the sea wet

pebble stranded on sand for an instant

before being pulled back into

deeper oceans. Still she is time

stopped, and I watch, breath caught

on this pinnacle of the present,

wanting in a senseless, unreasonable

way for this now to become always.

Edges

Cliff edge, edge of three worlds only one

of which is mine. The water’s below. Under,

around and in front is air in which birds wheel

and whirl. Seaweed waves in liquid deeps,

leafy forests I can never walk through,

leastways not while still breathing.

Pulled to edges of everything, I try

to suck it all inside me. But it’s too big,

slithers away from me. Leaning out I feel

the punch of wind that skims up cliffs.

Eyes closed, I press up on my toes my whole

self alive to the need to fall,

crash into water, clunky legs and arms

torn off in the fall, lithe as an eel. Startled,

I hear the roar of Da’s bike and draw back. Da -

grease monkey with oily hands that never

clean, deep ocean eyes that watch so close.

He fixes broken things.

Frightened, I turn and run.

Matryoshka

Don't get too close or I'll run.

Leave my skin behind, become

a smaller, fiercer me. Stay away,

I'll bite then throw off my disguise,

get away scot-free. Any provocation

I split apart, escape as a concentrate.

I am infinity heading inwards, sliding

through your fingers. Littler. Littler.

Until at last, blurry, ill-defined, I slip

into a crack in the floorboards,

out of your reach.

Faux

Biscuit scented cream slides on

as she prepares for the hunt.

Long arms have been dusted with gold,

generous black mascara hides the glue

that holds thick lashes fast.

Waxed lips pout provocatively

as cleavage is pinioned in place.

Gilded and sprayed with floral fumes,

her eyes burn bright as she steps into night.

She’s never felt more real than right now.

Golden

There it is, a hand print

on the glass, golden

in the shaft that runs

deep into the dark like

shadow made of light,

not its absence. Small

hand print, low down

where she leaned,

reached for support

as toy homes grew

among the plants,

fit for both princesses

and frogs. Indeed,

menageries posed

opposable limbs, splay

almost painful to see.

Eyes watered, while

praise warmed proud

little one, it took her

hours to put it right.

And now, in the quiet,

night comes through

glass into a room

cleared of childhood

detritus - adults only

in here, until there,

there it is. Small,

luminous, attention

grabbing, impossibly

precious, spun from

gold. I touch it.

Moving On

Disjointed we sit amid boxes, you and I

lost in the tape and wrap of it all. New

life for us we had said. Our old life had

floundered, had stalled so soon after

birth we had not recognised the truth

till now. You make me coffee. Kettle

boils on bare boards, we drink it out

of washed out jam jars left on a shelf.

We joke it is avant-garde, funky, cool.

It is not. I wonder where to start to

begin to unpick our world. To bring

to light things we had covered over

in the rush, the need to be somewhere

else. Maybe I think I should leave it

boxed, become someone else without

baggage. Maybe I think there is hope.

But I think none of these things. Instead

I take your hand, lift you off the floor.

And together we open the first box.

Refuge

A squirrel came to my door, 

still a child not yet an adult,  

unaware a welcome is not always  

true. Slops in bucket unwanted,

unused. Steam and smell

paused en route to wormy heap,

it hopped slowly ever closer,                    

raked the muck with tiny hands.

Manna from rodent heaven.

Too late I opened up my door,  

a dead squirrel lay at my feet,  

mauled by fat and pampered cat,          

slit wide open, bled dry.                     

Heavy with creeping murderer’s guilt           

I threw it and the slops on the pile,

swore to become a better person         

and never let a false welcome

darken my door. After a time                           

I did though. After a time

I blamed the stupid, grasping squirrel.                

On making an innocent comment in Paisley

just after Brexit

We are not deep fried pizzas

just as you are not vomit

on the pavements of Blackpool.

We are not misers in tartan hats.

Yes we bicker like a litter of kittens,

but we unsheathe our claws together,

face danger as one united beast.

We are not anger, just as you are not

untouchable posh. We are scots.

We sing loud, and we sing welcome

friends of all nations, yes even yours

English man. Let us not be beholden but

let us be friends. Let us drink to each other,

to now and the future.

Whatever it may be.

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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/