February 5-11, 2001: Jim Bennett and Christine Elaine Lennon


 

week of February 5-11, 2001

Jim Bennett and Christine Elaine Lennon

Winner and runner up in the 2000
Poetry Super Highway Award
for Favorite Featured Poet

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Jim Bennett
jim@bennett11.freeserve.co.uk

Bio (auto)

Jim is a writer and lecturer who lives near Liverpool, UK He has been writing and performing his poetry in the UK and in the USA since the 1960’s “Down in Liverpool” a CD containing recent work was published in Nov 2000 He lectures on creative writing at the University of Liverpool and Edge Hill University College in Ormskirk, Lancashire He has been widely published in print and on-line
When asked about the award from Poetry Super Highway Jim said, “At first I could not believe it But when it sunk in I felt tremendously honoured that people should care enough about my poems to actualy take the time to vote for them This is what makes it so important to me Thanks to Rick for his great site, and thank you to everyone that took the time to read and vote “

The following work is Copyright © 2001, and owned by Jim Bennett and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

The Death of Père Ubu
(On the death of Adrian Henri, Liverpool Artist and Poet, Dec 2000)

I dreamed of a poet who died today
his words strangled in my throat
left paper imitations
to tease us
like clouds on imaginary landscapes

I dreamed of an artist who died today
images in dust
hang on a plaster wall
pictures of a place
illuminated by his light

I dream of a man who died today
breathed his city one last time
and then is carried shoulder high
through crowds
who cry his name

I dreamed that Ubu died today

The Secret Life of Teachers

lunch-time
school bustle left behind
friends diet over meals
wonder how much damage
crumbs will do
and curse and swear about
whoever is not there

Margaret fidgets on her chair
the welts don’t show
below her hemline
but sitting is a pain
she tries to rest between the stripes
of red raised flesh
but they insist
and press their memory on her
flushing as talk turns to (she thinks of ) handcuffs
and being stretched across the bed

Some are married
some will marry
some act desperate
some are not
some think about
steamy stormy night-club-sex
others about a weekend to the Lakes
all are pointed at the last bell
of Friday

Jean, address-book mind
open at a long fat
married memory
wonders if she should call
him for a weekend tryst
but instead for now
sits sipping, purse-lipped,
eyes on a nipple raising
moment in the past

they talk of weekenders
house warming and sleep-overs
hen-nights and parties
laugh and shriek

one man on his own
resting up against a wall
flicks a paper ball
at a laughing cleavage
and dreams of
student teachers and stock room sex
sucking games
and heads banging
behind the door
but knows he will go home
to his sex free zone

I was here too I saw this
all the razzmatazz of life
around a rattan table
in a lunch break
and this is
the secret life
of teachers

Beach

I count your ribs
finger walk
along the white boned way
follow with my tongue
the deltoid curve
of shoulder
to the sea salt of your ear
then trace the dunes of cartilage
along your spine
to a place we know,
and save for each other,

my private beach
where every day is summer

Regret

She said it was time to go
before the drink had more effect
and before she would regret
whatever it was she might regret
if she didn’t go
or if she waited till morning
and only left when
rattled milkbottles woke her
She said it was time to go
and thanks for the booze
but it didn’t buy her body
she was, she said, a free spirit
waiting to see the dawn rise
rooftop high
and hear birds singing
she would walk she said
along the empty streets till light

She left twenty years ago
and as she left a riot started
along the road
that night I watched as fires
lit up the sky like war
reflecting on the dark slate roofs
now there are no milkmen
and the birds don’t sing
but I regret that I will never know
if she had lived to regret it.


Christine Elaine Lennon
ThisPoetGirl@aol.com

Bio (auto)

Christine has been writing poetry and prose for more than 20 years She presently resides in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia She is the editor of “Verse Libre Quarterly” and “The Eclipse” and is currently collaborating with poet, Dorothy Doyle Mienko, on a new creative project called “Spark the Muse,” as well as the illustration of a children’s novella by B I Wasilewski She is a freelance web designer and writer/artist Her design studio is Artisan Studio
Previously, she has also been a magician’s assistant, an “extra” in a few movies, a computer operator, a licensed artist in New Orleans’ French Quarter, a soldier in this girl’s U S Army, a baker, and a student of all things interesting (currently, flying small aircraft) She is also a Master Poet in Ardeon’s Poets Guild Her publication credits include Poems Niederngasse, New World Poetry, Free Zone Quarterly, Poetry Super Highway, Countless Horizons, The White Shoe Irregular, Bay Review Liberal Arts Journal, Friction Magazine, 2 River View, Kota Press and Clean Sheets Personal Page Pieces of me .

The White Room

nicotine stained fingers
brush stray tresses
from my eyes-
this room is empty
blinding white walls, 
floor, ceiling, bereft
of anything soft

there was a chair
here, in the corner
a table filled
with books
about tomorrow
these walls
were once soft
green damask

drapes hung like stars
in velvet twilight, 
catching breezes and
summer night blooms, 
heady with fragrance

a scent I can’t recall
now that you are gone

When I Was Eight

When I was eight
I thought that death
would snatch me-

because a rusty nail
bit my flesh

and I knew
that I would miss things
like chocolate
and my favorite
stuffed animal

that I would never
be kissed on the mouth
or make out
in a movie theater

that I would not write
poems, anymore

untitled

At Saint-Lô
the ragged effigy
of Shrove Tuesday
kneels- beheaded

water clad leaves
chased false ceremony
in hazel twine; white cloth

to alder tree, flowers-
garland, the insignia
laid coffin