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.



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






Pope Joan



Kingdom of a Doomed King



With Love from Euphor



An Awkward Tribute to Charles B.

Many Slit-Opened Heads Later – To Julien B.




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/






Pope Joan


The yellow wall is sweating



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’



The yellow wall is sweating



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



The light dies

under your impish white breast

Sappho sheltered me

Isis caressed me

Man has condemned me.


The yellow wall is sweating



While the beer evaporates

on your warm body

the cigarette between my fingers

keeps on

burning slowly.


The yellow wall is sweating



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



It’s hard to guess what’s next

and what our bodies could give

these sweetened



The yellow wall is sweating



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



I still listen to the Germanic girl



the yellow wall is healed



The yellow wall is sweating



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



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



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.







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.






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






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


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








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




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.







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.



years later

Time achieving its duty,

compelling him to spread milky lotions

on his face and ex muscled limbs



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.



whether they come from Thrace or Euphor

always haunted my frozen mornings,

my capsized nights.



- 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


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.







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



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







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






& 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











of islands lost in the middle of the ocean – He sang



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



like buzz

the grasshoppers

the spiders

the beetles

the flies

the black wasps

the centipedes




I hear them all


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.


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


you go.


I wanted to write something special

but it seems I didn't. Do

you care if I hate you



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



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 -