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john netting

Email: roegau@talktalk.net
Twitter: @breathtook
Updated: Wed, 8 Mar 2017 10:39 pm

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Biography

John Netting is a poet who lives in North Wales. He was educated at St Asaph Grammar School and Jesus College, Oxford, where he read English. He has spent most of his working life buying and selling paintings, finally returning to matters literary in December 2015. He believes that poetry should strive to reach the parts that prose can't. He feels no shame at showing the influence of earlier poets, and deplores the deliberate isolation from the past seen in much "establishment" verse today. He admires the work of William Blake, G M Hopkins, T S Eliot and (especially) Sylvia Plath. His other interests are horses; dogs; reading (mostly historical); painting and paintings (especially mid to late 20c abstracts and abstract-landscapes); Georgian and some modernist glass. He has been a widower since September 2015.

Samples

RIDING Still undawn distances, their sibilance. Soft clop through gloam of unshod hooves that muffle into mud. Faint blackberryers we pass back spectrally to black. They switch off their torches. For us no mad orgasmic gallop over plough exploding into wheat - we plod to the pale of a hidden thridding. We skirt deep puddles mirroring their firsts of red, cleave to the long left woodland - its rising carbon mist, riot of root-twist, fantasy of fungus. Shattering of sky. Pilgrims autonomic - we reach the shut reach, that of the isolate eye. John Netting 21 November 2016 THE FIRST YEAR'S TURNING You have now a year been gone - and I detained, a thrall to time's atrocity. I fear the brittling of leaf, leaf-vein, sap's rallentando - more, I fear oblivion of memories. My remaindering delays a possible another spring. I will hope, and try to keep you, try to hold you clear in mind - and on the random wildwind strain to hear old notes maintain the glory of your voice, your name. But I have a sick dread of a fading, of a live unravelling, of an arriving at the river decomplete, in holes, web-thin, disqualified and ticketless - my mirror imageless, my map to find you gone. John Netting 22 October 2016 A RIDING SCHOOL IN DEVON, AUTUMN 1962 Did you turn up one afternoon and did your brisk instructress say: "Quickly, tack old Posy up! Sylvia is on Ariel - you've learnt enough to go out on the road with her today!"? You did - and as you ambled with her on those horses safe and slow, did her greatness radiate, her genius show? Did you sense transcendence near? Likely not - she content to simply be - to breathe on Ariel a dilute, evanescent air - above, beyond, the blood, the sand: the grand, the savage circle of her mastery. (Worlds away the rhythm, and the different dreaming; worlds away the power, the telepathic mind, the kind surprising aura of a horse!) All unknowing you'll have spoken to her - as in a pub, perhaps, to a man called Arthur you didn't see leave, retrieve from where he'd propped it by the door the sword Excalibur. And what of Ariel? No Bucephalus he, old plod - there never was for him a celebrated grave. The meat-man will have come one day, stood, stared a second, shrugged and paid two shillings, led the horse away. As well ask the fate of the donkey, he that another unlikely, untoward and suicidal poet-prophet rode, into palm-sick Jerusalem. John Netting September 2016 ALL THE WAY BACK if you when window shopping touch the plateglass with the corner of your specs your head jerks back - oh snail horn sensitivity! half a billion years recoil react recall retract touch was the first it felt the light it felt the lack of sight need seeded it to differentiate to pucker up locate parts to start rudiments of tastebuds nostrils ears and eyes * but here and now your woman soundly sleeps - from a fraught five sense inventory you need to pick a perfect birthday wake up call clearly inappropriate - with a nice hot cup of tea or not - would be the shining of very bright lights or a small laser on her eyelids so too to utter loud uncouth noises shout "Fire!" or trickle water between two glasses by her ear to make her need to pee - unthinkable to introduce some drastic odour to her comatose nose or a tastebomb past her teeth quite so instead you must with patient fingers loving lips and subtle tongue arouse her - bend her body back all the way back to the ancient urgency to the primal sea from which she comes by touch John Netting 22 July 2016

All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.

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Comments

Travis Brow

Wed 19th Apr 2017 11:49

Hello John, a few members of my family are also laid up with chest infections.
I'm a patient man so i'll wait until you're back in the game - i'm sure it'll be worth the wait.
Take care, T.

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john netting

Thu 13th Apr 2017 14:44

Hello again Travis,

My chest infection has cleared up but my voice loss hasn't completely yet. And I am afraid I am still inspirationless when it comes to poetry.

I have been much distracted by developments with my lady of 'Between Islands - these may yield the odd poem as time goes on, but believe me it will need to be a case of emotion recollected in tranquillity!

Hope all is well with you, Travis. Let me know.

Cheers, John.

Travis Brow

Thu 13th Apr 2017 06:39

Hello John, how are you?

Travis Brow

Wed 29th Mar 2017 06:46

Hello John, i'm okay thanks, biding my time waiting for the nod from the muse. Hope your chest infection has cleared up.
T.

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john netting

Thu 23rd Mar 2017 20:13

Hello Travis,

I've been out of it for a while I'm afraid - various things, and now recovering (I hope) from a chest infection. None of which has yielded much in the way of inspiration!

How about you?

John.

Travis Brow

Thu 23rd Mar 2017 11:57

Hello John. How are you?

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Cynthia Buell Thomas

Thu 9th Mar 2017 13:39

You have a fine face, Sir.

I've enjoyed the exchanges between you and Travis. He is one of my favourite poets; has been for years. Great to hear/read him in a relaxed, conversational mode. I just wish it didn't feel a bit like 'snooping'.

I will try to catch up on your work. It promises to be delightful. Not to do so would be my loss, I'm sure.

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Paul Waring

Mon 20th Feb 2017 22:20

John, thank you so much for your insightful comments at about 'The Heart of the Matter'. I really enjoyed reading them, not just well thought through but making me think about how the poem could be interpreted in ways other than I intended. As a former clinical psychologist, I can't help but be intrigued by human nature, motivations, behaviours, etc.

Sincerely John, thank you once again. I am very grateful to you for adding me to your favourites list. I really hope you are feeling at home on here now.

Paul

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john netting

Sun 19th Feb 2017 18:45

Paul, I've just put you on my favourites list, and I'm going to have a good long read. Yours I've read so far really do strike a chord.

Yes I am having a good time on here - after only ten days I find myself following strange and unknown pathways. My concept background, and hopefully my poetry, will inevitably morph through the experience.

Cheers,
John.

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Paul Waring

Sun 19th Feb 2017 00:25

Thank you John for your kind comment about 'write, edit, re-write'

I hope you are enjoying yourself on here!

Paul

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john netting

Fri 17th Feb 2017 21:53

Thanks for your suggestion Harry. I was beginning to think along the same lines, at least for the shorter ones. Against that is the thought that blog postings should be "new", to the WOL site at least. But my whole profile page needs a revamp, it has a 20th century look (as I do!) Cheers!

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Harry O'Neill

Fri 17th Feb 2017 16:56

John,
Why don`t you post all of these samples - save one
- individually spaced on to the blog...they`d get more appreciation there.

















mayb`e on to the blog individually

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john netting

Fri 17th Feb 2017 16:16

Travis, Milton's Paradise Lost is explanation enough! I bet that's where your sense of structure, subtle musicality, and the hard-to-explain feel of spaciousness around your words come from. In terms of language, there was no greater master of the subliminal. Once absorbed, Milton stays in the brain's linguistic department for ever!

I very much enjoy your poems, they are seriously good.

Travis Brow

Fri 17th Feb 2017 06:29

Morning John, honestly, my literary background is largely non existent. Dare i say i've read next to no Shakespeare; although Paradise Lost is among my favourite books, so that gets me off the hook a bit. I started writing song lyrics when i was sixteen and singing in a band. When the band broke up i switched to writing poems in order to get on stage and hog some limelight (i'm more self effacing these days). My dad spent his working life as a journalist and both him and his father wrote/write poems so i've inherited that from them.
I think it would be interesting to see both versions of Time Comes. I've got no poems from my youth - they were rightly discarded.
Thanks, take care. Trav.

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john netting

Thu 16th Feb 2017 19:35

Hello Travis,

Glad you are enjoying my posts!

No, I haven't written before - except for the usual late teenage scribbles. But when I got to the sixth form I proved very capable at what was then called "practical criticism" of poetry (now, the more flaccid "critiquing" seems to be its nearest equivalent). This, plus a certain independence of attitude, was what got me into Oxford, and the ability to understand what makes a poem's language tick has never left me.

Last year I found in a box my only surviving teenage scribble, called "Time Comes" and I rewrote it as an exercise! Might post the two versions on here together!

Travis Brow

Thu 16th Feb 2017 12:49

John, you say ''finally returning to matters literary in December 2015'' I take that to mean that you've written before? I can believe it. It's a real pleasure to read your posts.

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Alexandra Rockwell Lorenz

Sat 11th Feb 2017 20:56

Thank you, John. You're comment touched me. I look forward to reading your work.

Travis Brow

Fri 10th Feb 2017 15:15

Hello John, i would have written more but i thought the brevity might suffice to convey my feelings. I'd say your writing was more the stuff of what, at least to my mind, is 'proper' poetry. I know this is a circular and largely pointless argument, but to be honest, i consider myself more a mechanic and technician than a poet. Nonetheless i get enormous satisfaction from writing. The typewriter is one my dad won in a writing competition aged sixteen, and still has.

Travis Brow

Fri 10th Feb 2017 07:30

Brilliant.

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