of course, for sure! It wasn’t
one but two – meanings, I mean – a twin
string of words, like pearls, like
DNA, a double helix
looping through my brain, two
from; Caduceus by Gabriel Griffin
___________________________________________________________________________
CAUGHT IN THE NET 62- POETRY BY GABRIEL GRIFFIN
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.
_________________________________________________________________
|
|
of course, for sure! It wasn’t one but two – meanings, I mean – a twin string of words, like pearls, like DNA, a double helix looping through my brain, two
from; Caduceus by Gabriel Griffin |
________________________________________________________________
CONTENTS
1 - BIOGRAPHY
2 – POETRY
Lament for an illegal immigrant
Out of Africa
Outsiders
Blood bath
Vu’ Cumpra’?
Nicotiana tabacum.L
Well, I Never Fell for that Story of the Americans Landing $$$$$$$
Caduceus
The Nuns’ Araucaria
The Nunnery Boiler
Lab dog
3 - AFTERWORD
___________________________________________________________________________
1 – BIOGRAPHY: GABRIEL GRIFFIN
Gabriel Grifffin,
Isola San Giulio, 28016 Orta NO, Italy. poetryonthelake@yahoo.co.uk
Biog:
Childhood in Wales, now lives on small island on Lake Orta, north Italy.
Founder/organiser of Poetry on the Lake, Patron: Carol Ann Duffy: annual competition, festival and events on Lake Orta, Italy, (www.poetryonthelake.org), editor of anthologies and Poetry on the Lake Journal (annual, in preparation N° 3). .
Poems published in: Scintilla, Peterloo, HQ, Poetry Life, Acorn, Still, White Adder, Leaf, Envoi, Blinking Eye, Barnet, et al. Prized and placed in many competitions. Founder/organiser of Poetry on the Lake annual competition & festival (www.poetryonthelake.org ),
Own collections: Campango and the Mouthbrooders, Transumanza (www.poetgabrielgriffin.com)
______________________________________________________________
2 - POETRY
No moon, but fishermen
are used to that and the sea’s chanting,
the descant of the nets. The decks
silvered with sea verses,
the minims and trebles of fish
hushed into songbooks of ice.
Something didn’t sing, humped
in the net, thudding onto the deck.
Its ears heard no notes, its eyes
were blind to the men standing round,
its throat choked with words
that no-one would hear.
They let the sly octopus
sidle to the ship’s side, forgot to stop
the arch and leap of bream.
The sea moaned, the fish
slipped out of tune, the kittiwakes
hurled screeches like broken strings.
The men unfroze, thumped
what didn’t sing, what was lost for words,
over the hissing deck. Tipped that which
had no hope, had never had a hope,
back to the sea. No
word, no hymn, no prayer.
But the rags of its clothes cried. The sea
beat its fists on the boat. And the wind got up
and howled till dawn.
___________________________________
Out of Africa
We fly into Africa on an all-in,
They boat out of Africa all in.
We’ve taken a taxi to the airport.
They’ve jolted a week in a scorching truck.
Our plane is pressurised.
In the truck it was 50° C.
Our aircraft is the latest jet.
Their craft is a leaking boat.
The stewardess serves drinks of choice.
Their water bottles run dry halfway.
We are coach-borne to 5 star hotels.
They are chucked into the sea still far out.
We see rain forest, silverbacks, mountains.
Their shore is a lava cliff, wave swept.
Not many see it.
___________________________________
You don’t always notice them. The thorn
and tangle of years has smudged
their alien forms, but there –
under the berries and briar, the lizards’
flickering, a slow-worm curled easily
in their bulks’ dark hollow – they urge
their granite stolidity, their right
to stay where they rest. No return now
to the arid slopes, the mountain’s
sterility, the wind’s hard blowing. Too
ponderous to go further, the force
that had driven them spent, deposited
in an alien land; dull in leaves’ shadow –
still each molecule bears a memory
of feldspar, mica, quartz,
and glitters if touched by the sun.
___________________________________
Illuminated manuscript, Strasbourg, early 16th century.
The usual crucifixion: Jesus hanging
limp like some old teacloth used to dry
more plates than it could cope with, then
abandoned sodden on a nail. Blood. Blood,
oozing, spotting, spurting, dripping,
gushing from the teacloth, rushing from
the wounds and thorns
splashing into
a wooden tub. The tub’s
at the foot of the cross, along with
a skull, stones, bones, and a number
of unidentifiable flowers – perhaps
one is clover. I suppose you could call it
a flowery mead, seems more appropriate, seeing
that in the tub a young woman – pretty, blond –
is wallowing nude. In Christ’s blood.
Brings to mind that scene in East Sheen years
back when a lorry, skidding, lost its entire
close-packed load of ketchup – that was before
plastic bottles. No-one was hurt, thank God, but
ambulances ferried to and fro all day scooping up
the swooned. The police, after consultation, removed
the warning ACCIDENT
and replaced it with FILMING IN PROGRESS
till the mess could be washed away.
And our star actor is still
hanging from the cross. Stand-ins
by the thousands. We’ve lost count of
all the retakes and since it’s not
our scene can get on
with something else. We’re strong-
hearted, have seen it all before, don’t
mind a bit of gore. We
jump right in.
___________________________________
Vu’ Cumpra’?
(A popular Italian term used to denote illegal African street pedlars,
a corruption of the phrase Vuoi comprare? Want to buy?)
Try dodging. But there’s
one a block at least, opaque
against the shops’ bright lights.
You’re stopped. Roast chestnut scent
slinks off, gives way to breath
of pepper, acrid herbs that bite.
A knitted cap, coat oversize, wools
that scratch and stifle shine. Only eyes
spit neon light. Guess he takes turns
for shoes and beds, no ochre sands, hot
cobalt skies. No, no thanks! Nothing
I need or want to buy.
A watch? Good! Opens his thin coat:
watches in rows. Like medals on those guys
who run his rundown land, worth
as much, I bet, as these. No, thanks. I try
a getaway, I’m blocked – Socks? Pure wool!
Who does he think he fools? I don’t want
a dud watch, acrylic socks, a cheap lighter,
pirate cassettes...Here, mate, take this, have
something hot. Grazie. His voice
sounds flat. He turns away. Poor sod.
I ask you married, mate? A wife? I curve
both hands to chest, cup phantom boobs.
A grin. The Metro rumbles underground.
Repeats my mime, makes tits oversize.
Wha-if in Africa. Very good wha-if! We laugh.
Bambini? His large hand opens, fingers wide.
Looks up: beyond the viscid lamps
a lurid moon, choked in the filthy skies.
His kids with locust legs, I bet, and white
lamb’s eyes. Kids who pull herbs, suck bones
and nibble bits of mushroom moons
that swell and blow their bellies out; below
dark skin faint globes of light – A torch?
I buy the torch. Sirens howl, brakes yelp.
I call Good luck ... and to your wife and kids!
Black beetles hovering – winging off – his eyes.
He pads loose-limbed, questing through the herd.
From slaughtered lands the sounds of flies.
___________________________________
Nicotiana tabacum.L
“... a viscid annual or short-lived perennial”
In Umbrian fields: stooping, tanned, straw
hats over cotton fazzoletti, they slowly pan
down lines of green; the flowers cow-lung
pink, clustered in a brazen showing. Heat
shimmers the scene unreal; a card discarded from
a faded pack, its colours smudged and blurring.
On shaded terraces we pour cool wine, gaze while
they heap the baskets, carts, and straighten
sighing take the loads in lines to sheds,
seeds of sweat and tiredness shining.
*
No, thanks, I don’t! Leaves shrivel, twist,
contract like hands whose fingers yellowing
lose lymph, as they their cool ellipses.
Heat swirls the smoke haze of the shed;
in the darkening day a choking, bitter scent.
*
You cultivate flowers of your own; their petals
soft as ash, flyaway as clocks of dandelions.
Cut it out! Or down, at least. You’re young...
You laugh, inhale, breathe blossoms newly blown,
whorled, impalpable, feathery as down.
I close my eyes, see petals flake, fall, form
loam where spores seed, mycelia creep
and black fungi slowly grow.
___________________________________
she said the moon ) in Turkey
is more how do you say ? ? ? beautiful…
we asked but
Surely !
it’s just the same = as = here
she smiled : - ) & the next day
brought a Turkish moon (
& hung it on the wall
it glowed ( gleamed ( glared (
we stared enchanted °° °° °°
and we got quite hooked
on its dancing horns () )( () )(
___________________________________
Caduceus
After. Raking through
what you’d said. Banal and yet –
some phrase not clear, a word
ill used, a meaning
still obscure –
of course, for sure! It wasn’t
one but two – meanings, I mean – a twin
string of words, like pearls, like
DNA, a double helix
looping through my brain, two
serpents twined around
my spine, a caduceus
of mixed intent, a promise to
be picked up if...
You went. I’m left.
Trying to recall – how did
that riddle go? – which of two
to ask the way
if one tells the truth, the other
lies blind and you
don’t know who
is who?
___________________________________
Not at all the kind of tree you’d expect to find
In a monastery garden. It squears above the wall
Its giant fingers horning the heavens, effing
Up at the skies. And the nuns who moved in have
Left it there, yet chopped down
The stammering mimosa, the cherry whose blossom danced
A Swan Lake over the boughs, the sacred yew by the gate with
The scarlet berries we plucked and sucked and spat at
The monastery well. But a monkey puzzle?
Was it an abbot who had planted it, a symbol
Of life’s labyrinth or of evil’s intricacies? Did he intend it
To stand as a speechless sermon long after he’d died?
Is it a warning of purgatory’s trials or a statement
Of the life we are confusedly living: snared, squittering
In Fate’s mesh while the Dark Hunter, unmoved,
Looks on? Or does it symbolize nothing
At all, have no significance, is just a prelate’s whim,
A caprice to slip between the lines of the Rule?
From my window at night that tree plays games
With the stars; tracing a Nine Men’s Morris
Over the mooning sky. Soundless as shadows nuns
Slide under its boughs – who’s to tell if it grabs at their
Veils or pricks them on their way? Or do they –
For some penance or for a sly joy – clamber
Into its bristly branches, struggle out of their
Caught and cumbersome habits and wriggle,
Naked and lithe as monkeys, up to the winking stars?
___________________________________
The Nunnery Boiler
In the black
Heart of the night
Something wakes me
Not quite a sound
A purring below
The range of hearing
A drumming
A vibration under my body
Under the bed
Underground
No lamp swings
No window trembles
I rule out earthquakes
Feel the throb
Wonder if it’s their
Plainchant
Vibrating through
The walls and rock
It’s not night
To the brides of Christ, they
Affirm the Lord’s name
Before cockcrow
Slipping off night robes,
Sliding into black habits; only
The novice’s veil
White as the dawn still
Tied behind the hills.
On the blind
Window pane frost
Has pinned arcane
Symbols; grotesques
Glitter like sins. Cold
Is crouching at the foot
Of my bed, ready
To snap and bite my toes.
But waking them sweetly at dawn,
Assuring them of God’s love,
Enfolding them in blessed warmth,
Is their own animal spirit –
Hot and throbbing.
___________________________________
The truth today’s a vivisected dog.
It screams but makes no sound, its vocal chords
were slit by those whose coats and words are white
as ticker-tape that falls to hide dark ground.
We manufacture lies: production lines
of fiction, fantasy, romance, sci-fi;
spin hides the politicians’ sleights of hand –
they juggle power and profits while kids die.
In countries racked by famine, Aids or war
Death rides in triumph brandishing a scythe
we all have helped to sharpen. Our main care
is for ourselves – just want an easy life!
Don’t venture near the lab to look inside –
they’ll shoot you down, afraid that dog still bites.
Publishing History
Lament for an Illegal Immigrant – Barnet Anthology 2005 and published with Rumenian translation online at Translation Caffé 2008
Out of Africa –Private Photo Review 2008
Outsiders – published on line with German translation and in And the Story Isn’t Over poetry pRO 2009
Blood Bath - Barnet Anthology 2004
Vu’ Cumpra’? Private Photo Review 2008
Nicotiana Tabacum L. - online www.poetrypf.co.uk
The Nuns Araucaria – Peterloo 2006
The Nunnery Boiler – Bloodline, Blinkng Eye 2007
Lab Dog – Barnet 2008
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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
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are Transparent Words ands Poetry Kit Magazine, which are webzines on the Poetry Kit site and this can be found at -
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