Series Editor - Jim Bennett

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.


All poetry is the copyright of the poet and must not be reproduced without the written permission of the poet.




Only the ear has it,

curling around the outer edges

of consciousness;


a mild tinnitus

hopping up and down

for attention.


                 from; One Bird by Dee Rivaz





Maidaid Halcyon C 500

The High Commissioner’s Wife

One bird

The mouse:

Rhydymwyn Valley Works

Hunting Books

Woman Cursing the Moon

What to do with a puffball

Spirit of Bird

Beach rose






Mixed media artist and writer:


Falmouth School of Art 1971, Foundation. University College London 1978, Jt Hons  B.A. Anthropology and Linguistics.  University of Wales Newport  2001, PGCE 

Freelance Arts Practitioner since 2006

‘In Her Element’ Gwasg Honno Press (anthology of women and landscape), Poetry Kite, Writers’ Forum, Poetry Power, Clwydian Range, Welsh Libraries: Express Yourself, How Not to Cook Book, Cross Border Poets’ Poster Poems,  Ink Sweat & Tears & various other publications and stuff.

Memberships: A-N (Organisation supporting visual and applied artists.) NAWE -National Association of Writers in Education. LAPIDUS Organisation promoting reading and writing for health and wellbeing.


Statement: I am most excited by the early stages of the creative process.  My concern in both writing and art workshops is to help people to explore ideas with a fresh eye and a fearless mind and I try to maintain this playful approach in my own work. 

Website;  http://www.deerivazstuffstore.co.uk/  









Maidaid Halcyon C 500


Sleek, grey, small

discreet, with its shh and no fuss;

on the signal performs

a tarantella so intense

it must be contained

in steel; the heat and pressure

such, that when the box is opened

steam escapes like a trapped beast

fleeing the scene:

glass, china, steel,

prepared for fresh butchery.





The High Commissioner’s Wife


When we arrive, shaken,

Mrs Brown is stitching snippets of news

from murmurs on the radio.


Suddenly white noise turns

to screech, thump and someone

declares the station taken.


Mrs B stiffens, stands and turns it off; 

She offers something to drink.  Or,

it’s so hot, a shower perhaps?


Silhouettes slip through the window

as water cascades over white tiles and red

laterite streams from my skin back to Africa.


Through the thin walls, I hear knocking;

cover my nakedness and call out, Mrs Brown!

Mrs Brown! Someone’s at the door.


She says there’s no one.

She says it’s mortars and

shall we have tea

or something cold?






One bird


There is no evidence

of animals here

except one bird

pipes music through

      tangled       leaves

past the bully wind

into this cell,

a     scurry        shadow.


Only the ear has it,

curling around the outer edges

of consciousness;


a mild tinnitus

hopping up and down

for attention.


When the wind

drops its grip

you can hear it, still

as a cornered mouse.





The mouse:


a flicker dash

                     across the step;







eyes me

with a single

rain glazed berry

of black,


then zig

         zags away









Rhydymwyn Valley Works


Nothing exploded here but

in this valley of once toxic acres,

a drip crash-lands on a concrete floor,

loud as a bomb in the derelict space.

Ghosts insist this is still a place for secrets,

even now: no paper, no loose talk.


Sycamores joke with the wind, shake

fists of keys: nothing new to unlock.

An anxious pheasant tensions her legs

once, twice; uncertain, bungles take-off

in a fluster of khaki shades and shadows

of stories haunting these paths.


Autumn flames, tossed by the late sun

set a fuse the length of the valley; race

from white-gold leaf to scarlet berry,

White-letter Hairstreak, lizard, jay;

flash through broadleaf-trees and helleborine;

redeem, bless and cauterise the past.





Hunting Books


My father and I didn’t talk much

simply because my father didn’t talk much

to anyone about anything other

than rods, flies and the wiles

of Brownies, Rainbows, Grayling

and Pike.  But on Fridays we’d go

hunting in the library; him and me,

stalking the shelves for one

that got away last time.


I remember how it was

like stepping into the Tardis,

the walls of our small-town

house of books, bursting at the seams

with shafts of light streaming from pages

as covers opened doors to other worlds,

and we’d be lost to each other,

on different quests, until we met up

light-years, continents, planets later,

to check out our treasures and

walk home side by side,

miles apart, dream companions,

our hunters’ bag between us.





Woman Cursing the Moon

(After Miroslav Holub)



just climbed to the top of the hill

and started cursing the moon:


stupid moon, stupid fat-faced moon,

fatuous copy of a pregnant belly;

beachcomber mauling the tideline;

creeping ghost of a snail

obscuring the stars with its slimy trail;

anorexic cheese,

starving itself almost to death;

satellitic sychophant,

trying so hard to be pale and interesting;

trailing around after the sun, sucking in its stomach;

fiddling with the sea, interrogating caves

month after month;

insomniac, playing with itself;


moon, you barren dusty rock of a womb -


So for a while she cursed the moon,

which stroked her head

like an anxious mother.


Then she came down and threw

nettles, oat straw,  skullcap, hips

into the moony pond.


There you are, Moon, she said

and went on her way.





What to do with a puffball


Kick it.

A flower?

Pick it.



(or buy) it.


conquer it.


Smoke it out.


Fry it.

A bird?

Cage it.


Beat them.


Piss in it.

A box?

Open it.

A white page?

Write on it.





Spirit of Bird


I am everywoman’s

adaptable blue jay,

I know the proper use of power.

I am mystic crow, affectionate duck,

a shaft of eagles, score of finches,

I am the questing goose, the sacred grouse.


I have a heron’s balance,

the tireless joy of hummingbirds,

the proper intelligence of magpies,

the lucid dreams of penguins.

I have the common nobility of a sparrow.


I can spot danger like a quail,

shift shapes, and like the raven,

play with wind.  I have

the swallow’s proper perspective,

a vulture’s renewed vision,

the boldness of a wren.


I am your salve and invocation,

the grit in your crop,

your quill.


(Native American bird meanings from All Nations Trading: North Carolina)




Beach rose


Rosa rugosa

too sweet to forget; the days

held fast in salt spray.






Down the corridor a shriek

of laughter echoes: bloody

bloody, bloody, bloody,


bloody hell, Dolly! You’re a case,

and no mistake.  Give us a kiss.

Come here and let me love ya.


I can smell urine and lilies.

Clouds snag on Brynhyfryd: Beautiful Hill,

I don’t want to turn from the window,


but a cough’s scrambling around

among the ashes in her throat. 

I want to get out before


she says get me a cuppa love,

find me a clean vest.

I watch her hands flutter up


from their weak purchase on the blanket,

they fall back like spent birds and

I wish they could fly again. 



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 -