Cups and Saucers
o', you borrowed | a line
from Art House | the colour
several shades | of darkness
of hues emanating | radiation
leaks and droplets | burning images
you supply | cups and saucers
generalisations | with pretty filigree
and encounter | gold riddles
etched in time | unruffled by cause
and effectively | placed to pasture
you tighten your noose | around your neck
and jump | stretching your existence.
………………I should ode a meadow – a solitude we once passed through ….a million million grains of grain – a lea ………………..golden and currented – like dawn at sea and answer its enchanting beckon – for us to come and wallow in ………its ripples kissing landscape – its tide so invitingly introduced ………a profoundness by which we – unsuspecting prisoners-to-be ………………………………………-were seduced-
We would like to draw your attention to a very
special event. Please join us for an evening of poetry and rock and
roll with Paul Muldoon, the Pulitzer Prize winning poetry editor of
the New Yorker, and the Princeton-based band Rackett, on Saturday,
December 20th, 8-9:30 p.m., at the Bowery Poetry Club, 308 Bowery,
(Between Houston and Bleecker), New York. Ticket cost is $15.
A Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature, the American Academy of
Arts and Sciences and the American Academy of Arts and Letters, Paul
Muldoon was given an American Academy of Arts and Letters award in
literature for 1996. Other recent awards are the 1994 T. S. Eliot
Prize, the 1997 Irish Times Poetry Prize, the 2003 Griffin
International Prize for Excellence in Poetry, the 2004 American
Ireland Fund Literary Award, the 2004 Shakespeare Prize, the 2005
Aspen Prize for Poetry, and the 2006 European Prize for Poetry. He has
been described by The Times Literary Supplement as “the most
significant English-language poet born since the second World War.”
Along with Muldoon, RACKETT features: Stephen Allen (keyboards), Bobby
Lewis (drums), Lee Matthew (lead guitar, vocals), Paul Muldoon
(guitar, lyrics), and Nigel Smith (bass).
Please feel free to contact us for more details.
Katelyn Maloney
Media Director Bowery Poetry Club
His monotonous
voice dull as water running
through a pipeflows from the room
where the night nurse
reads in the hall,her legs crossed and
kicking.
.
.
.
.
.
.
His clothes heaped on
the tile floor of a room
so warm
the walls moan against
a stream of cold from a
broken window
covered over by
plasterboard
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
His calls for the
police and the
governor and a
lawyer morph into
a litany on how
many times you
hear the word “bi”
the word “polar”
in a lifetime.
His clothes heaped on
the tile floor of a room
so warm
the walls moan against
a stream of cold from a
broken window
covered over by
plasterboard
.
.
.
.
.
.
His monotonous voice
dull as water running
through a pipe
flows from the room
where the night nurse
reads in the hall,
her legs crossed and
kicking.
Nancy Williams Lazar worked as a wood-shop manager for 18 years. After her business closed she wrote for The Morning Call in Allentown, Pennsylvania. Her poems have appeared in The Loch Raven Review, Mindfire: War and Peace special issue; and Soundzine, July 2008 Beat Poetry Issue.
i'm just a girl
dreaming at the edge of sound
flirting with
a prince
consumed
in the silence
by glitter kisses
and wishes
and the happy ever afters
hidden in
desires
of wistful promises
P. A. Levy writing under the name of iDrew – to match her titles, Drew is an Essex girl that enjoys clubbing, drinking and boys, but as these are the topics she usually writes about she says it’s all in the name of research. iDrew writes for the Clueless Collective to be found at: www.cluelesscollective.co.uk
Boy Blue
Weary of waiting, blue boy Following the map of a vanished sea
Blue lights in the harbor blue sails carry you through
twilights obscuring your lodestar
with the dusk
Dark-adapted eyes in the
period of blindness, between the gods departed and the
gods yet to come
all that is rare and
excellent furnish your happy isle’s
watchtower of white
All the soul’s companions
all that you see the music of grazing horses plays
on the shore
Shaped by the charity of
the firmament blue boy gold scales begin to rise
Over the water at the edge of the dreamline
prevailing winds favor a
crossing go on ahead
The deepest chamber of the
night will restore your
exhausted wings Go on ahead there,
The shimmer of leaves breathes a song
without words
there is pleasing variety
in the moon and stars
awaiting your imprint and corals lie lost from the track
of the world
a bottle of Calvados and the silence of the universe
I had nothing
but I had you
From sea to shining sea
east to west north to south
Atlantic Pacific Arctic Antarctic Indian Ocean and the eighth mar incognito
over under inside and outbeyond everything
I had you I had words lines and paragraphs rushing down mountainsides high above the timberline
from Desolation Peak to 242 choruses of blues for the Buddha and fellaheen of Mexico City and every other place
I had your footprints on the beach in Tangiers
your palm print on the wheel of impermanence
your dreams of long childhood walks under the old trees of New England your athlete’s body your flannel shirts
your handsome face on the fire escape on E. 7th Street
just before the invocation of Duluoz
inhaling one last Lucky Strike for the pent-up aching restless road
farewell subterraneans and water towers of Manhattan
it was time for all that coming back to America
the Lincoln Tunnel oil tanks and anemic skies in New Jersey
Route 80 over the Delaware the road unraveling
the road sufficient unto itself
a twentieth-century pilgrim’s way
a home for the tathagata passing through the railroad earth the gas station night
the bebop radio wail of Charlie Parker’s saxophone clear across Kansas
to San Francisco the little alley off Market Street
Tokay in a paper bag at the mouth of Bixby Canyon
Big Sur’s ocean roar of vowel sounds
from the far side of eternity
waves laying better than a thousand transcendental diamonds of compassion at your feet
even to the end I had you
to the maenads of fame tearing you to pieces
in the glow of a television set in Florida
to what‘s buried in Lowell’s Edson Cemetary
Ti Jean nothing’s buried there
the dust of your sacred bleeeding Catholic heart
with that of the holy ghost
and certain mad and driven saints
has been placed among the stars
I had nothing but I had a grey tee shirt
And I ironed on black velvet letter
KEROUAC
Often inspired by her travels through southern Europe, Morocco, Egypt, Sudan, Ethiopia, Kenya and Tanzania, Janet Hamill has published 5 books of poetry: Troublante, The Temple, Nostalgia of the Infinite, Lost Ceilings, and her most recent, Body of Water in 2008, with photographs by Patti Smith. Hammill has released two CDs: Flying Nowhere and Genie of the Alphabet. A strong proponent of the spoken word, she has featured at readings in the U.S., England and Ireland.
Of Body of Water Anne Waldman wrote: “Janet Hamill turns her wizard poet’s eye on an immense body of alchemical empathies”, and Patricia Spears Jones said “Hamill’s mastery of form and feeling come together to create a poem that delicately examines celebrity, gallantry, silence, talent, and beauty. Only a poet could do that. Or maybe only Janet Hamill.”
Swifts and swallows leave – while I grasp for memories like
fruit – remnants of home
riddled with holes – my baby cools in my arms
dripping fermented juice – the milk from her mouth
sweet – sticks under my fingernails
under blushing trees – the guards, with eloquent guns, demand my coat
those that can’t leave expect a cold winter – they smirk at my battered sweetbox
with its few hopes – inside are smuggled postcards of thatched houses
and promises – of English orchards.
This cleave poem was written specifically for the “Don’t be a stranger” initiative launched at this year’s Evangelical Alliance flagship event The Temple Address 2008, given at The Royal Society on the 27th November by The Archbishop of York; The Most Reverend and Right Honourable Dr John Sentamu. The cleave is included in the booklet accompanying this initiative and on the EA website and in upcoming press releases.
I’ve held -……. night time skies laden with dreams, stars -………….. and the moon, whose orbit follows lines in my hand -.. laid down into darkness moulded by caresses, until light -….. touch of pleasures; sweet songs escaped -……… crashing into prism colours, out through -. sonnets I wrote on your flesh my fingers -…. tracing every wish into a couplet and then -……. sealing every letter of love with a kiss I just held -….. and held you until morning became clothed in mists; cloud -………….. castles crumbled on the drift and I was lost in echoes whispers -……. that blue is here to stay forever.
P.A.Levy, having fled his native East End, now hides in the heart of Suffolk countryside learning the lost art of hedge mumbling. He has been published in several magazines, although these days he spends far too much time controlling his characters on the Clueless Collective website at: www.cluelesscollective.co.uk.
After Reading Shelley and Hearing Krenwinkel is up For Parole Again
by Laurie Byro
A greater impact is
absence as you Troublesome Love
wield your chisel creating
somebody else’s wound you are thwarted by
inconvenience.
Are you the one?
It is the silver hour
Crickets will chorus
One of the unfortunate
who settles your stiff legs
into a hunter’s stance
after you claim the body? in the four corners
of my room.
They will say, as any smart
family will say,
I have gone to Ireland
to be with my aunt. Soon I will rise, Ophelia’s
wet hair clinging to my legs
like strands of lake-grass.
You have left me, but I will
walk away from you,
this time. Call me the only Romantic
in your mad maid’s circle.
You, who have been
with a man.
But bury me under a Pointing Tree its fingers brown
from its work under the sun, not woman’s work on paper
falling and covering me as you should have done had you
not preferred my sister.
========================================
Laurie Byro is a thrice nominated Pushcart Prize poet who has been published widely in the United States, Canada and the United Kingdom. Laurie lives in Northern New Jersey where she works as Head of Circulation in a library and facilitates “Circle of Voices.”
On Ativan…………………..for my trouble with heights ..I can open my eyes………………I wobble with fright …in this merciless mouth of air…………trembling ……each edge a precipice………no stable sight …….disoriented…………like a drunk baby ape ………..flailing for a vine…..aloft, out of synch ……….…oh! for a drink…….thirsty from fear …………….descend……….steps tentative ..……………….swaying…………twisting …..………………imagining……..falling ………………….……falling….calling …………………………….calling ………………………………fall ………………………………ing
Margot Brown was born and raised in Massachusetts and now lives in Northern Illinois with a Hurricane Katrina evacuee (Miss Kitty), and her husband, Michael Morrison. Margot’s poetry has appeared in joyful!, The Shine Journal and The Boston Literary Magazine and in an upcoming anthology, Poetry for Suzanne, published by Avalanche.
“I prefer poems in anthologies to poems in individual books. A poem in an anthology has forgotten its author.” —Tan Lin, “ambient stylistics,” Telling It Slant
BERNSTEIN
Brute design—beltway bozos dEmocracy—lewd propositions guRly boyz—knowing the truth thiNk about—halliburton haves and those scabS of the—ratty mourning have-nots gangsTer lobbyists—hoodlum politicians silhouEtting—formaldehyde artifices uncertaInties—nightly snarky fox-tv discrepaNcies—elephantine lies
Seed text = BERNSTEIN Source text = Charles Bernstein’s “Ballad of the Girly Man,” Girly Man (2000)
(Using the diastic method, the writer reads through the source text and successively finds words or other linguistic units that have the letters of the seed text in positions that correspond to those they occupy in the seed text.)
(Using the cleave method, the writer reads through the diastic text—hyphenating the horizontal text into2 vertical texts. The resulting text is a diastic / cleave intertext—with 3 poems in positions that correspond to each in a unique polymorphosely vocal / textual way.
Gravedigger—slowly finishing up GReene saying—“One never knows, WhEn the blow—may fall” DetEctive—sesame phrase: “FrieNd—of Harry Lime”— WinklEr—the Viennese Jansenist
Seed text = GREENE Source text =The Third Man (1950)
“Jansenist,” Dr. Winkler commented and closed his mouth sharply as though he had been guilty of giving away too much information. “Never heard the word. Why are the arms above the head?” Dr. Winkler said reluctantly, “Because He died, in their view, only for the elect.” —Graham Greene, The Third Man
BAUDELAIRE
Balking at sleep—i was a well pAscal had his abysses—i was a mine haUnted by vertigo—nightmares hanDs reaching down into—darknesss pacEs full of—languorous indifferences disobLiging work—being a lyric poet in hell consolAtions being few—in between while contritIions ending up—lame and clandestine surrendeRing sullen—boredom silhouettEs—baudelaire on the wall…
Seed text = BAUDELAIRE Source text = Les Fleurs de malNotes:
“Les Fleurs de mal was the last lyric work that had a broad European reception; no other writings penetrated beyond a more or less linguistic area. Added to this is the fact that Baudelaire expended his productive capacity almost entirely on this one volume.” —Walter Benjamin, The Writer of Modern Life: Essays on Charles Baudelaire (2006)
PIERS GAVESTON
Ganymede—prince, my future king pAge, sovereign’s son—fairest lover boy joVe’s cutest chicken—lascivious commaund sweEt beauty’s rarest purple—flower in bloom wordS can’t describe how wanton—the ivy-twisting idolaTrous my love-sick lips—kissing qualm gavestOn your servant—ogling eyes astonished ascendaNt—by rare phoenix youth…
Seed text = Gaveston Source text =”Piers Gaveston,” Michael Drayton (1593)
“This Edward in the April of his age, Whil’st yet the Crown sat on his father’s head My Jove with me, his Ganymede, his page, Frolic as May, a lusty life we led….. He might commaund, he was my Sovereign’s son, And what I said, by him was ever done. My words as laws authentic he allowed, Mine yea, by him was never crossed with no, All my conceit as current he avowed, And as my shadow still he served so”
………………………..…Please Burn This Poem, Plant this Poem
To write a cleave…………………………………………..if it is three poems
won’t be easy………………………………………….or one long one folded
the usual symmetrical……………………..bilateral or triclinic trimeter
approach is to take………………………………………..two to make three
ideas and explore……………………………….more than one the sonnet
all ins and outs……………………………………..or if I actually amputate
with technique………………………………..a formula with three results
until it sounds……………………………………..just like temporal fission
like a Bach’s……………………………………………….C Major Solo Violin
Sonata…………………………………………………………or a Coltrane tune
single melody…………………………………………………………..streaming
into three………………………………………………………………at least two
coexisting………………………………………………..simultaneous in time
if it works………………………………………….in some mysterious world
if a secret door unlocks……………………where you need three sexes
will three know……………………………………………………….to connect
and still respect………………………………………………………each other
in triplicate………………………………………..expecting baseball teams
_____________________________________________
Maybe if I use a mirror…………………………………………………so I did .write on the glass…………………………………………peer over the top …holding up to another…………………………………..and there I was ….trying to make sense……………………………..in a two way world …..of a cleavage………………………………………..layered and lucid …….like sheets of isinglass…………………..for a furnace window ……….but the poems are looking out…..three no four no more …………a trillion I suppose……..spawning darkness an abyss ………….behind the isinglass………of monoclinic evil hordes ………………but they are the isinglass……..but all is glass ………………….or just like glass…………….like isinglass ……………………….isn’t it glass………………or isn’t it …………………………….isinglass……..I guess it is …………………………………………..isn’t it ……………………………………………..or ……………………………………………..is ……………………………………………..it
J.S. MacLean lives in Calgary Alberta, Canada. His poetry has been published in
online and print publications including This Magazine, The Maynard, Beano Anthology
and Vidya and will appear in upcoming issues of Every Day Poets and Perspectives.
Pastor in White
I begged the minister - to bow down to an unknown God
support my matrimony - as we preached to John
creating a new inference - to demonise George - King
and passing the Grace, - unto facts of insobriety
I stood firm, knees tight - and passing judgement on the Christ
nailed to the wall - where the blood dried and
we spoke in tongues - a Pastor in White washed.
CLEAVE POETICS 13&14 of 19
13
“metaphor chains”
—Clark Coolidge,
“Arrangement,” Talking
Poetics from Naropa
not everyone here—hears words turning
feels apportionment—mosaic night-soil moving
collecting in sleep—penetrating dreams
invisible stalagmites—slow motion overhead
older than pyramids—elvis’ blue suede shoes
cassiopeia’s taxi—outside the 7-eleven
the lady in the red dress—the queen of spades
words want to make us—faking us away
twisting crimping—that’s their style
give them some slack—chill your cool
14.
“there are no rules,
let’s see what can
be written”
—Clark Coolidge,
Postmodern Poetry:
The Talisman Interviews
see the ink—egyptian papyrus jive
see the ships—on the walls of the temples
see the nile—inching back and forth centuries
see the birds—in the reeds along the banks
see the steep steps—hear the coffin creak & groan
see the antique palms—leaning into the sunset
see the piles of stone—beneath the ancient stars
see the gold mask—see thru tut’s time-machine
see the coiled caduceus—uncoil when it’s time
see the face that’s yours—when the pyramids fly
We have been in ‘Proof of Principle’ mode since the launch of The Cleave Webzine.
This meant an inevitable mixture of quality, practice and experimentation – good for the beginning.
My aim was to prove the viability of the Cleave poetic form – I believe this has been proved, to a greater extent than I had envisaged. Thank you all.
Therefore, I will to take The Cleave to the next stage.
I will call it, for want of a better phrase, the Editorial Feedback stage.
If I believe a submission can be improved I will give feedback, along some of the following points, usually in question form rather than specifying how it should be changed to:
Depth: What is the theme, what is the point – so what?
Craft: Does each poem work on its own and together?
Communication: Is it clear; does it communicate?
Experimentation: Is it pushing the envelope?
This may lead to a reduction in quantity but will lead to an increase in quality.
The change will come into effect on the 1st of December 2008.
CLEAVE POETICS 11&12 of 19
11.
“Language isn’t just
objects, it moves…”
—Clark Coolidge,
“Arrangement,” Talking
Poetics from Naropa
if after all—they do know
if i say so—and they agree
a marriage—a convenience
between us—our arrangements
parallel poetry—out of thin air
making it up—right then & there
with me—who am i to quibble?
12.
“you go where it goes,
I think that connects with
arrangement in a way”’
—Clark Coolidge,
“Arrangement,” Talking
Poetics from Naropa
carbide—lamps
terrifyingly—brighter
acetylene torching—working better
brighter down there—than flashlights
spelunking—inside trilobite time
stalactite organs—playing in the dark
intrauterine—underground journeys
passageways—connected arrangements
crawling climbing—using ropes down deep
reading rocks—rocks reading you
cleaving deeper—thru strata and faults
Please welcome another new cleave poet – Carol Lynn Grellas.
One last thing Bury these words - someday
they’ll be too real - if read out loud
too convoluted - you won’t understand
such shocking things - these thoughts and dreams
all better left unsaid - conceal the remnants
cover up the truth - this final rubbish
my only poem - and lasting proof
your souvenir - of all that was unspoken.
Carol Lynn Grellas is the author of two chapbooks:
Litany for Finger Prayers, forthcoming from Pudding
House Press and Object of Desire available from
Finishing Line Press. She is a two-time Pushcart
nominee and widely published in magazines and
online journals, including most recently, The Hiss
Quarterly, Flutter, Oak Bend Review and an electric
chapbook, Desired Things from Gold Wake Press.
She lives with her husband, five children and a
blind dog named Ginger.
The Verdant Lore
by Ernesto Pangilinan Santiago
On the page - of this lore
painted verdant by - the rod of God
a word traveler - unveils
A song, - its charm
perhaps, sounding - on the mystic
blue - sea
Amidst the echoes - of peripheral visions
his thoughts are - dancing wildly in the
orphic - wind
Like - the twists
of leaves - in early Autumn
that innocently - falling in passion,
seeking a home, - to entertain the souls
He sighs through… - the remnants of dreams
and finds himself - a proverbial comfort
In the breath of - this blossoming page is
a verdant lore, - the scents of my life
CLEAVE POETICS 9&10 of 19
9.
“He’s one of the
interesting bad writers”
—Clark Coolidge,
“Arrangement,” Talking
Poetics from Naropa
it lurks—my window's open
i don’t even see—what’s coming thru
but it knows me—noxious yog-sothoth
spawn of primal time—tentacles amorphous
monster cleaves—threshold lurkers
frothing congeries—protoplasmic flow
opening the gate—eldritch netherworld
hip lovecraft—call of cthalhu
10.
“to find a form that
accommodates the
mess, that is the task
of the writers today”
—Samuel Beckett
next to—next to
does it join—does it join
does it mean—does it mean
does it know—does it know
if after all—it does know
and I say so—does it?
NovemberThe sun weeps - cider tinted tears
for Summer - for the fading
for the moon that hides - light
behind the trees - as Autumn leads Winter
shivering and anaemic - by the hand
…and another new cleave poet; a mysterious cleave poet by the name of Mal…
Cloven by Mal
Chief Joseph Pass
the apex of the distribution curve
where we should be
on schedule
on time on a slick curving road
about to descend
into the Big Hole
there are no potholes in the surface
of space
that we negotiate without conceptualizing
aware that we’ve been here before
that we are allowedto pass through this grand trick of what we cannot observe
without alteringtime the collision of particles
kochia tumbling the highway
A snow ganderspreads his wingsin freeze-up across the Big Hole River
Bio: Mal, who lives in Montana. Often misplaces his shoes.
Gets 1950's model tail-finned American convertibles
mixed up with deepwater fish, much to his detriment.
Otherwise a mystery.
A very warm welcome to another cleave poet, Thane Zander.
Ducks Eggs
by Thane Zander
She ducked-dived - waltzed in the blue pond
her mane ruffled - the spreading tree making
extricated - partnership deals
from within her mind - the light omitted
seven fingers of hope - dancing a polka
until the last joy - blowing her away.
Bio: Thane is a retired man writing poetry as a full
time occupation out of Feilding New Zealand.
He is a New Zealander born and bred. His secondary
school was Palmerston North Boys High School,
where he was first introduced to poetry
(WH Auden’s Night Mail).He spent 27 years in the
Royal New Zealand Navy, dabbling in poetry occassionally,
but was invalided out with a diagnosis of Bipolar Disorder
in 2002. He has been retired since trying to cope with
the illness and he turned to poetry as a means to
moderate his moods and to measure his progress with
his illness. To date, in six years, he has written over
900 poems, mostly at several online poetry forums.
He has been published in several anthologies and ezines,
but writes mainly for self gratification.
Please give a warm welcome to a new cleave poet Ernesto Pangilinan Santiago.
This Is My Shadow
This
Is
My
Shadow
Poetry is my escape - and my cure
I float - in word
like free bird soaring - swiftly
into the blue sky; freedom is not - found
in what you can offer - me
but in what I can do - for my self, without you
vacuuming - my whole
Oh, my shadow - can only be
seen
by those who are willing to see - me
Poet's Profile: Ernesto Pangilinan Santiago
is a poet and author of “The Walking Man”,
a poetry book published by Outskirtspress.
He lives in Athens, Greece.
CLEAVE POETICS 7&8 of 19
7.
“Just a sequence
of rooms…”
—Clark Coolidge,
Postmodern Poetry:
The Talisman Interviews
i hear it—when it’s coming
i don’t know—it’s different each time
ignorant me—an undertow beneath
my style—just flowing with it
failing—just what is needed
finally—entering the moment
when i am—into who i am
8.
“or should I
say nonconnection”
—Clark Coolidge,
Postmodern Poetry:
The Talisman Interviews
entering it—the keyhole
the cleave—down the middle
slicing—cerebral hemispheres
the tale—of two cities
boulevards—left and right
drawbridge—across the channel
down below—thru the metal grating
tall ships—passing in the night
my brain—springs a leak
falling down—into sailboats
CLEAVE POETICS 5&6 of 19
5.
“This is very
unprovoked thought”
—Clark Coolidge,
Postmodern Poetry:
The Talisman Interviews
it opened—i caught it
versions left over—over the edge
they shifted—down the spinal cord
all the hyphens—slouching like cats
sniffing—soft paws on the carpet
here in the city—craning their necks
getting a good look—thru the gate
at the other—shape-shifter
6.
“the great
misunderstandings”
—Clark Coolidge,
Postmodern Poetry:
The Talisman Interviews
it comes here—i don’t know how
i say this—i’ve lost so much
planting hyphens—slanting it down
how it grows—nobody knows
beneath a—night sun moon
blackness—dark at high noon
it’s coming—undoing me
Hubble a Cosmic Cleave
Of the years of being
lost in space. homeless in a
placeless place
only the falling
feeling remains and all the stars
whistling away like jet planes
CLEAVE POETICS 3&4 of 193.
“the energy of word art”
—Clark Coolidge,
Postmodern Poetry:
The Talisman Interviews
cleaving—against it
seeing what—emerges
writing—three-ways
monsters—of the id
ghosts—of the ego
superego—doppelgangers
the body—as movie
dreaming—voyage imaginaire
provoking—poetry
i’m starved—i’m hungry
the way—poets eat poets
language—cleave du jour
4.
“wait and see
what emerges…”
—Clark Coolidge,
Postmodern Poetry:
The Talisman Interviews
what’s happening—with cleaves?
the difficulty—talking about them?
designing them—as 3 texts in one
suggesting that—their meaning
somehow comes—from a “complex”?
when actually—the artifice of cleaves
performs simultaneously—paraphrasing
the old surrealism—thru LangPo research
into a new reading—worthy to be
called American—parasurrealism…
(From Dancing with Mary Shelley and Henry James A Cleave Suite)
to the land of titles - signs
and diaries drawings and stories - of love
words describing - April's fragrance
distant pictures of - real sun
showerless - showers
facsimilies of spring flowers- and bees in the buddleia
always a step away from places - feelings sensations
nothing more wonderful than the word - wonder
leaving behind a trace - a sigh
whose name blew away - on a windy day
******
Maypoleby Andrea Barton
The
brightly colored - center - celebration of
spring - of - ribbons held by - poems - this way
colors - are - dancing girls - maypoles - that way
twirling - driven - skipping
twisting - into - light steps of
children - the - laughter and
hope - earth - in the sun
and
w
a
i
t
i
n
g
******Argentina by Dennis Kelly
“Los artificios y candor del hombre”
—Jorge Luis Borges,
“El golem”
already you can see—the tragic setting
each thing here—in its appointed place
the broadsword—the ash destined for dido
the coin—ready for belisarius
why do you weep—searching in lazy
bronze old hexameters—gone old empires?
when 7 feet of dirt—waits for you
a slow rush of blood—Argentina
watches you now—the mirror of death
dreaming you up—spitting in your face
all your crummy dayz—so bourgeois
goodbye middle class—it was the house
by the street—you grew up in
but now peron, evita—Argentina
wants it back—again
******All Along the Campaign Trail! by Jennifer Semple Siegel In the other gardens -- On the endless networks
And all up the vale, -- And all through cyberspace,
From the autumn bonfires -- From Springtime surprises
See the smoke trail! -- Now see how they placed!
*
Pleasant summer over -- Conventions now passed
And all the summer flowers, -- And all summer potshots,
The red fire blazes, -- O'Biden blazes hot,
The grey smoke towers. -- McPalin does not.
*
Sing a song of seasons! -- Sing a song of absurdity!
Something bright in all! -- All frightful in Fall!
Flowers in the summer, -- Hucksters all through Summer,
Fires in the fall! -- One winner nabs all!
--Seed Poem: "Autumn Fires," Robert Louis Stevenson--
We would like to draw your attention to a very special event.
Bowery Poetry Club presents a night of poetry on Thursday, December 4 at 8 PM at 308 Bowery, (Between Houston and Bleeker) New York.
Bill Berkson and Tony Towle, notables of the second-generation New York School, will read from 50 years of their poetry. Berkson’s recent books include OUR FRIENDS WILL PASS AMONG YOU SILENTLY; a major book of poems that will appear from Coffee House next year. Towle’s most recent book is WINTER JOURNEY. For more info please call 212-614-0505 or visit bowerypoetry.com.
Welcome to a new contributor: K.M. Ryan with a rhyming cleave.
The Truth and Lies of Lovers
No, I’m not chasing – the truth in the lies, the chance
dreams, so alluring – that without consequence
they remain recurring, – would ruin all thought of romance
until they sting, – until words are lost in afrozen glance,
*
until these eyes lose their fire – until love loses its luster
but I could chase a desire – reducing a reality to a blur,
if the circumstances should require, – may a change of heart occur,
that a lover be reduced to a liar – to conjure any truth I could muster.
#268
KM Ryan, 19, college student, have written poetry for about 7 years, took a few months off over the summer to focus on other activities. KM Ryan’s poetry can be found at: Mind on Display.
Cleave It is –A- joining of words
A fusion and -cleave– separated by
oddly, a division that –is– a physical gap
ruptures -the – eye’s path
the rhythm here –opposite- to a smooth
joint venture -of- meaning
in clutching -itself- as one
jeez—intricate
imagine—being able
forgetting—to do
thinking—3-ways
doing it—doing it now
writing it—cleaving it
intuiting it—the hyphens
now—your guides
CLEAVE POETICS 2 of 19
2.
“I remember waking up one
morning with the look of that
page in my mind.”
—Clark Coolidge,
Postmodern Poetry:
The Talisman Interviews
i wake up—in the morning
with the page—in my mind
the layout of—the cleave
long-lines—becoming one
the cleave voice—sketching
provoking me—to visualize
the phantom page—again
the usual way—linking lines
the overall—arrangements
pages waiting—patiently
to be written—to be typed
creating them—back again
cleaving—the darkness
improvisational—incognito
fingers typing—magic keyboard
words of light—onto a screen
tHe mAgic typEwritEr“It is a parasurrealism
that examines its own
lyrical structure…
a lively, dramatic
edginess, a visceral
sense of “being there.”
—Charles Borkhuis,
“Writing from Inside Language:
Late Surrealism and Textual Poetry
in France and the United States,”
Telling It Aslant:Avant-Garde
Poetics of the 1990s
1.
“How much of poetry is
unprovoked thought?”
—Clark Coolidge,
The Crystal Text
what provokes—cleavage?
that which is—blank?
a new kind of—line?
three lines—in one?
how to be—simultaneous?
three-way—at the same time?
rearranging—past present future?
writing it—into a new tense?
picasso—does it
juan gris—does it
kandinsky—does it
braque—does it
but what—do they do?
do they do—cubism?
or does cubism—do them?
provoking—such cleavage?
Another month, only our second, and we have reached a new high point: Ron Silliman mentioning us on his extremely popular poetry blog. However, our greatest assets are our cleave poets themselves. Thank you so much.
Let us aim to go onward and upward. I believe success is a by-product of trying.
Marrow The union between–at the core of us–the heart and the hand
a poet’s heart–is a gossamer strand–must work
and his hand–of steel–as one
is the fine gilt thread–binding love–to fuse poetry
of words–to loss–to feeling.
Argentina
“Los artificios y candor del hombre”
—Jorge Luis Borges,
“El golem”
already you can see—the tragic setting
each thing here—in its appointed place
the broadsword—the ash destined for dido
the coin—ready for belisarius
why do you weep—searching in lazy
bronze old hexameters—gone old empires?
when 7 feet of dirt—waits for you
a slow rush of blood—Argentina
watches you now—the mirror of death
dreaming you up—spitting in your face
all your crummy dayz—so bourgeois
goodbye middle class—it was the house
by the street—you grew up in
but now peron, evita—Argentina
wants it back—again
Here are 2 more personal political cleaves from Jennifer Semple Siegel.
If Obama were in the Army, you’d call him–A FIVE-STAR GENERAL
If he were an athlete, you’d call him–A GOLD MEDALIST
If he were a plumber, you’d call him–A MUCH IN-DEMAND MASTER PROFESSIONAL
If he were a student, you’d call him–A PH.D. CANDIDATE (ABD)
If he were your doctor, you’d call him–ASAP!!!! (First published here).
***
Mavericks(Apologies to William Wordsworth)
The cock is crowing — The Mav’rick a-groaning
The stream is flowing — The bullshit a-running
The small birds twitter — The GOP a-flitter
The lake doth glitter — The banks a-slippin’
The green field sleeps in the sun; — In fog, the Moose a-hidin’
The oldest and youngest — He and She wanna-bees
Are at work with the strongest; — At odds with odds the longest;
The cattle are grazing, — Joe’s six-packs are amazin’
Their heads never raising; – Their polls ne’er a-risin’;
There are forty feeding like one! — Seven hundred billion? Who won?
*
Like an army defeated — The Mav’ricks march unheeded
The snow hath retreated, — The rescue near defeated,
And now doth fare ill — Almost disappearin’ to nil
On the top of the bare hill; — Come the Dems to save the bill;
The plowboy is whooping–anon-anon: — Former playboy, flound’ring–Viet-nam:
There’s joy in the mountains; — There’s no joy in mudslinging;
There’s life in the fountains; — No life in the campaignin’;
Small clouds are sailing, — There’s a-slumpin’ in autumn,
Blue sky prevailing; — Barracuda’s a-floppin’;
The rain is over and gone! — Over and gone: McPalin’s pain!
Seed Poem: “March,” by William Wordsworth
“The recognition that the
very presence of the line
is predominant current
signifier of the Poetic will
cause some poets to discard
at least for a time, its use”
a third ‘horizontal’ poem being the fusion of the vertical poems read together.
This is a simple and elegant concept, but it is a paradigm shift.
It has been interesting to see the development of the cleave form so far. In less than 2 months cleave poets have modified and made it their own, making cleave in their own poetic image by cleaving in at least these ways:
fusion
division
seeding
co-operating
using cleave as a meta-form
It has been incredible to see the versatility of the cleave form. Something I had not expected, indeed it is very exciting.
As a summary, here are 11 points. These are my current thoughts on cleave poetics. I will expand on each subsequently. They are for discussion. Please comment and dialogue.
a foundation for creativity
gives freedom to explore
a framework for that exploration
art fused with craft
focuses on multiplicity of meanings
allows simultaneous seeing of the whole and its parts
synergistic
exercise in poetics and linguistics
a meta-form
poetic maturity
communication and dialogue
Finally here are some thoughts for the future:
Potential for multiple cleave forms and ways of cleaving including multilingual cleaves.
The cleave in education as a tool around which language can be taught and skills honed.
The cleave in poetry as a new poetic form.
The cleave as a way of bringing people and cultures together.
A 6-way cleave by Andrea Barton - a concrete cleave?
Here are her words:
"this is a six way poem based on the cleave form.
I'm going to wait and see if anyone can figure out
the six ways in which this poem can be read..."
Maypole
The
brightly colored - center - celebration of
spring - of - ribbons held by - poems - this way
colors - are - dancing girls - maypoles - that way
twirling - driven - skipping
twisting - into - light steps of
children - the - laughter and
hope - earth - in the sun
and
w
a
i
t
i
n
g
If you have the time and the inclination please pick one or more of these to join and ‘digg, bookmark, share etc’. This will raise the profile of The Cleave webzine and help others to find us.
PS. You will see below each post is an “ADD THIS” button, clicking on it will give you a list of more bookmarking sites and services than you knew existed.
A personal political cleave poem by Jennifer Semple Siegel,
seeded with Robert Louis Stevenson.
(First appearance: here).
All Along the Campaign Trail! In the other gardens -- On the endless networks
And all up the vale, -- And all through cyberspace,
From the autumn bonfires -- From Springtime surprises
See the smoke trail! -- Now see how they placed!
*
Pleasant summer over -- Conventions now passed
And all the summer flowers, -- And all summer potshots,
The red fire blazes, -- O'Biden blazes hot,
The grey smoke towers. -- McPalin does not.
*
Sing a song of seasons! -- Sing a song of absurdity!
Something bright in all! -- All frightful in Fall!
Flowers in the summer, -- Hucksters all through Summer,
Fires in the fall! -- One winner nabs all!
--Seed Poem: "Autumn Fires," Robert Louis Stevenson--
—based on “Salvationists”
Ezra Pound’s Personae (1926)
the stylist
the stylist—unpaid, uncelebrated
beneath saggy roof—seeking shelter
words on paper—receive him
placid uneducated—exercising his talents
without sophistication—writing
while his mistress—behind creaky door
makes love—cooks feasts for him
—based on “Beneath the Sagging Roof”
Ezra Pound’s Personae (1926)
risqué
they say—risqué
my cleaving—canzonetti
composing—four A.M.
listening to—her music
seeing diana—nude in her bathtub
bathing—blushing
delectable—in the delicate
sunlight—skylights
thru—castalian spray
the granite—cliffs of helicon
gathering—about me my
dice—weak knees
—based on “Ancorda”
Ezra Pound’s Personae (1926)
metro
the apparition—of these faces
in the crowd—pennies
from—heaven
—based on “In a Station in the Metro”
Ezra Pound’s Personae (1926)
words
words—words
manila folders—giving the illusion
order everywhere—actually chaos rules
my den—library knows
the truth—jungle words
gone—amok
vice
sarah palen—amorous
thus have the gods—elaphantine
republican voters—republican votes
blessed you—allowing you
my dear—to rule in vice
—based on “Phyllidula”
Ezra Pound’s Personae (1926)
lily bart
flawless—aphrodite
thoroughly—beautiful
tableaux vivant—goddess
your posing—concerns me
—based on “Ladies”
Ezra Pound’s Personae (1926)
valentino
9 adulteries—12 liaisons
64 fornications—a rape
nightly—how you brag
valentino—my friend
seemingly—so loud
effortless—and sexy
while I—on the contrary
never talk—I’m shy about
love—romance
being recently—father of twins
accomplished—at some cost
four times—cuckolded
—based on “The Temperaments”
Ezra Pound’s Personae (1926)
Ezekiel saw a vision,-a gleaming godly vision,saw wheels within wheels-making the mind spinspreading across the sky-as it slowly revealed itself
dazzling the enlightened man-with all its terrible beautysweeping him away-and took watcher, mind and body,from the reality around him-with its naked, shining splendour.
Point of view by Andrea BartonI see - the same thing:
you - through a different lens
your eyes - blue, oceanic
the way they look - a sea to one
they take in the distance - to another, sky
the center of - the you place
maybe - eyes wide
there aren’t any - hollower places;
starpoints - or pinpricks of light
only you - through a different lens
your - eyes, the way they look
blue gaze - and the way you see.
From the cleave suite Dancing with Mary Shelly and Henry James by Diana Manister
I busied myself with - concocting a tale
a story - one which would speak to
mysterious - fears
awakening horror - terror
dread - quickening the blood
I saw a body - made of ghastly fragments
stolen from a graveyard - showing signs of animation
moving eerily - due to its creators skill
the pale student of unhallowed arts - giving consciousness to his progeny
cackling in triumph - it is alive
___black panther by Dennis Kelly
A cleave ‘Translation’ from Pound’s Personae (1925)the black—panther
sleeps—beneath
the black—jungle sky
blackness—everywhere
except for—his dark green
eyes—eyes
closing—opening
Introducing a new cleave poet:
Indolenceby Royce Icon
This - I fell asleep on the bus
Kind of thing - Dizzy and drooling
Always happens - I awoke in a foreign area
To - Worried and delirious
Me - Miles away from my stop
Here is another ground-breaking cleave from Andrea Barton, 3 poems fusing into one:
bold (right), italics (middle), normal (left) and then the whole cleave.
My Human Brain by Andrea Barton
May I direct your attention –here– follow me
this way please –I am– here to the right
on your left –in– this section
you will notice –all– ready for paint are
the columns formed by –the– blank canvasses
logically situated battalions –quivering– in anticipation
of warriors at the –conjunction– of thought and feeling
ready for the battle –of– reason vs. intuition
there is no room for –love– in our struggle for
identity today, only sequence –and– expression caught in the fray
and contrapuntal equilibrium of –algebra– or in the poetry of a lush epic.
rational thought –and– be careful here
on your left –childbirth– the absolute beginning
art in its purest form –and– the creation of life
a mere moment we are only without –fault- exquisite and blameless.
Three way(s)cleaves are—three way(s)
new LangPo—doorways
the Line—opening up
eyessmall pigs—looking at
big pigs—observing
unwieldy—dimensions
curious—imperfection of odors
a formal—male group
gathering—together
young pigs—looking at old pigs
considering—the elderly mind
observing—inexplicable correlatives
—based on “The Seeing Eye”Ezra Pound’s Personae (1926)
Unspeakable -- Mad Bela croaking L-O-N-G before wrapHorrors -- Worst movie ever made? Camp Sci-fi? From -- Sea to murky sea, a cult hit Outer -- Cloaking for chiropractor Tom Mason Space-- Vampie Vampira from Outer Space Paralyze -- Almost. Nearly tanking sans its Zombie star The -- Filming: never, never after dark Living -- Zombies: Pod People 9 years in future And -- Changeling costumes morphing mid-scenes Resurrect -- The continuity person The -- Star: Ed Wood who pulled it off anyway Dead! -- Viral!
A great little cleave by Andrea. Something to ponder on.
I’m out of town until Thursday.
Also, I’m trying out some different formatting.
Enjoy.
Lots more cleaves and thoughts when I return.
Things I Need by Andrea Barton
In the end - it comes to this:
I parse words - on a grocery pad
meant for lists - for things I need.
A line drawn down - the middle of my words
my thoughts - rent in half
on a Sunday - in the wee days of this new fall
at the end of September - I believe
I need - and want
to remember - these words.
______this beautiful-feeling dies in me ________ally of mine-you can’t hurt me _______reaching out-for your desire __and freezing time-does not inspire
an aching heart but-tears in my eyes _____for you I smile-though I should cry
____The circus rolls-with joy and glee __________into town-a novelty ___an ageing clown-shows its face __proving youthful-without disgrace __to such old jokes-we all connect though his respect-through our neglect _no longer chimes-of ancient rhymes.
Two visions: Ezekiel andAphrodite by Brian Fone (aka patterjack)
_________Ezekiel saw a vision,-a gleaming godly vision, ____saw wheels within wheels-making the mind spin _____spreading across the sky-as it slowly revealed itself
dazzling the enlightened man-with all its terrible beauty __________sweeping him away-and took watcher, mind and body, __from the reality around him-with its naked, shining splendour.
_________________I see - the same thing: __________________you – through a different lens _____________your eyes - blue, oceanic ______the way they look - a sea to one they take in the distance - to another, sky __________the center of - the you place ________________maybe – eyes wide _______there aren’t any - hollower places; ____________starpoints – or pinpricks of light _____________only you - through a different lens _________________your – eyes, the way they look _____________blue gaze - and the way you see.
I have to take 3 weeks break from the fun and excitement of poetry; returning in mid-October. Meanwhile I will publish a cluster of cleaves, from submissions so far, on Sunday (28.09.08).
Please feel free to submit during this time.
I can NOT promise acknowledgement of receipt of submissions during this time.
Keep writing those cleave poems.
On my return I will publish more groundbreaking cleaves.
_____high in the thin blue – the moon hangs static
a vapour trail slides south – brilliant in the dawn
________shunning winter – cold and enigmatic
____for summer freedom – she yearns
______yet earth’s gravity – escaping each year
her beginning and ending – a little further into space
Sue Millard: I have had three books published so far, One Fell Swoop, Against the Odds and Hoofprints in Eden (a 2-year project published by Hayloft). Pearl Wedding is self published, as is the second edition of One Fell Swoop. Others are in the pipeline or with publishers.
Recently I’ve also been doing a good deal of editing and proofing work for other writers, running various web forums on equestrian and literary subjects, and helping to start up a local rural writers’ group.
I’ve done quite a bit of writing for equestrian magazines over the years. However, I earn my living as a university lecturer and not as a writer; go figure.
I write to clarify thought and make it accessible, using poetic forms or prose as I think fit. I refuse to confuse, and I enjoy metrical and rhyming forms, all of which which probably excludes me from the modern poetic mainstream.
_______________The sirens whine-flames flash _____and lights slice through smoke-heavy with the smell of steak
shrouding bodies littering the ground-charred at the edges. __The policeman stalks a straight line-I swallow, I gulp _____________________I wobble,-expensive ______________booze on my breath-red wine ______________and guilt in my guts-trying to conceal burnt meat.
“I set a goal for this poem that I think uses the bilaterality of the form. I wanted each vertical reading to produce a different meaning, both of which blend into the third overall reading.” Diana Manister
Welcome Andrea to The Cleave. This poem shows how the Cleave can be a form of parallelism like the Psalms and Hebrew wisdom literature. If you feel inclined to more parallelism try this link on writing a psalm.
_______________Oh- my god: _________give me - strength, _____forbearance, - for another day a life lived richly - with love ________and with - gratitude for ________what are - hard lessons _____God’s plans - for me.
Andrea Barton teaches Creative Writing and Communications to high school students. Her own poetry was last published in the Lewis and Clark Literary Review. Most recently she was recognized as a notable new Staff Pick at the Gotpoetry? website under the alias, “HSTeech” where much of her current work can be found. She lives with her daughter and Chacha the Cat in the bucolic suburbia outside of Hartford, CT.
So here we are, just over 2 weeks since the beginning.
The stats are interesting: 97 unique visitors to the webzine.
Page views are increasing gradually (obviously not including the editor’s).
So where do we go from here?
Help us grow. Join us on this journey.
What does it take?
The time to attempt a new poetic form and submit it?
What goes through my mind are cliched phrases such as: “Seize the day” & “who dares wins.”
They are truisms.
Life is too short. We live. We die…
Take a chance on more than mediocrity. Gamble that this could be a new poetic movement.
And what if it isn’t, what have you lost? Nothing.
Live on, explore life. There are answers out there, but the trick to finding them may be asking the right questions.
Here are some of Dennis Kelly’s thoughts on Cleave poetry.
Any more thoughts?
_____cleave/manifesto
______—for Phuoc-Tan Diep
__________________thinking-differently
____________trying it once-trying it again
blasting the poetic public-with our new cleavages
_______cleaving that place-in their brains
they didn’t know existed!-where angels fear to tread!
____uncleaving ourselves-poetically speaking
_starting something new-not knowing where it’s going
_____trying all the doors-to find openings ________that cleave form-pushing our brains
___________paratactically-aesthetically
_____________cleave me!!!-cleave me!!!
_____LangClo Cleavage
___—for Phuoc-Tan Diep
_______Please-don’t listen to me
I’m justtrying-to charm you
____the world-out of you
____ out on you-into me
_______synergy-fusion
_co-operation-dialectics
____marriage-interdependence
___teamwork-The Trinity
____________diamond cleavage
____cleaving is like = making love lying on your back = with her on top _doing all the work = cleaving you ______perfectly still = like a diamond ____the cleave/gem = a diamond haiku
____________________technique
_each cleave is different—just like making love. ____each time is unique—and erotically intense. _______each cleave-gem—cleaves the brain perfectly. each time is right brain—left brain cleave. _right down the middle—splits you in half. __each diamond cleave—is yours to keep. ____it doesn’t last long—but it’s deep.
__________Elsa Lanchester-Bride of Frankenstein __________Diana Manister-Dennis Kelly
____Elsa Lanchester plays – Mary Shelley and ____Bride of Frankenstein – all women knowing without a doubt what research now shows – that Baron Frankenstein guys ______most mad scientists – played by Colin Clive types ________are deeply in love – are deeply in love with themselves ____“It’s alive!! It’s alive!!” - “It’s alive!! It’s alive!!” ______________“It’s alive!!” - “It’s alive!!” _______________“It’s Me!!!!” – “It’s Me!!!!” _____________“Eternally!!!” – “Eternally!!!” ______________“Forever!!!” – “Forever!!!” ___________________“Me!!!” – “Me!!!”
______________young-old _______________Once-a long time ago ____there was a time-when I was young back when I was old-back when time stopped _when time went by-slowly like black molasses __slower and slower-creeping like a snail _____a long track of-shiny slimy words ____midnight words-film noir words _____mystery words-detective words ____true confession-sci-fi words ________pulp fiction-sports words ________latin words-old high german _______action words-surrealist words ___words of wonder-words of magic _____wordhordes of-old weirding ways ____towers of babel-skyscraper words ______getting slower-and slower ______slowing down-slowing down ________then slower-and slower _________then finally-finally home _________back home-back home ______________young-old
___________A Swarm of Gnats ____________(Mückenschwarm) __________—for Herman Hesse
_____The gnat swarm-swarming on the lawn gets bigger each day-müchkenschwarming away ___rising and falling-scattering recentering _outside my window-like a Mardi Gras crowd ____raving delirious-creating their own parade ___making even me-their View Carré voyeur ______queen for day-shivering with joy ______extravagantly-voyant me
____There is a young poet - in Wales _________ _who is unique - among males _________________in that - I think ______________he refuses – a drink to compose what he knows – never fails
Diana Manister is New York City poet who has performed her poetry live at such various
venues as the late lamented punk rock club CBGBs, famed St. Mark’s Church Poetry Project,
The Living Theater and at Carnegie Hall where she was a winner in the Lyric Recovery Festival.
A Contributing Editor of the ezine BigCityLit.com, she is also an elected member of the American Branch of the International Critics Association (AICA). Her poetry reviews appear regularly in The Modern Review and online at BigCityLit, about.com, small press exchange and artezine. Her poems have been published in print and web publications including PoetryRevolt, Autumn Sky, Salonika, Big Bridge, Waterworks and others, and anthologized in Distance From the Tree and The Company We Keep from Headwaters Press.
Welcome to our first post-call poet with this Cleave:
_______________darkness – darkness
______Once upon a time – a long time ago ________way back when – the storytellers said ___darkness once ruled – the land speaking _____through Storytime - through tongues _________through sleek – wordhunters with their ___stealthy memorized - wordhordes of Anglo-Saxon darkness - darkness…
Please explore, experiment and extend this form in your own personal way.
Articles and thoughts on Cleave poetry welcomed.
Submissions by email only.
Send your submissions to cleavepoetry (at) gmail (dot) com and include the words CLEAVE SUBMISSION in the subject line.
Please supply a short biographical note and web URL if you so desire.
Your submissions should be in the body of the mail, preferably with hyphens separating the 2 parts of the cleave poem, further formatting will be done.
You retain full copyright of your work – by submitting you grant us a non-exclusive right to reproduce your work.
Contributions in English please.
We do not pay for submissions.
We are in “Proof of Principle” mode for the present time.
Tonight on 15MinutePoet.com we shine a light on a new literary form called, Cleave Poetry with an explanation and an example from the creator of Cleave Poetry.
15MinutePoet.com is a great poetry website in the USA which highlights Poets (and the domain has a Google Page Rank of 5). Thanks for my 15 minutes.
These are joint cleave poems, they were amazingly fun to do together.
One person does one side and the partner/opponent does the other.
1) 29.11.06
Huddled together these fragments – flung through time _________________coalesce to form – the spine of a withering frown ________________a look of sadness – drops _______________like trembling rain – beading the glass _____________before the unveiling – eye
2) 30.10.06 __Pretend the violets count – on icicle fingers ___________crispy with wit – and rings of truth and lies _______drawn out the lines – inscribed with frozen thoughts __Their thoughts must sag – bending brittle branches as skulking shoots unwind – the breath of winter dies
3) 29.10.06
The words shimmer on my skin – new as bright clouds ______forming water memories – their shapes indistinct ____-__intermingling hesitantly – with inexperienced longing ____I try to hide their meaning – : the peel of shed things _____falling, ringing like bells, – curled into fists.
______I long to taste my lover once again Such sweet desserts I’ve tasted from the bottle Though never have my senses ceased to dance ___Because my love as many times before __Has never spoken she keeps me on my back.
Cleav-age ____bitter and wine milk and honey are more than fine and scones for tea ____you offer more I realise ______to me before in some surprise ________I go to bed and in my dreams _____I rest my head by moonlit streams ______I find a sleep I hold a peace ____in which I weep when will war cease?
And now bring on the dancing girls the girls who long lift their skirts to dance all night from dusk till dawn in pale moonlight but then are torn _sleepless crying from empty dreams __darkness dying or so it seems
Two cleaved haikus: Mourning Morning
Lightning cleaves the sky, thunderbolts crash down, __taking dawn’s virginity, beseaching our forgiveness, mocking morning’s peace as the birds scatter.
Two cleaved Senryus:Gain – Loss
_______search the internet look out for a word has anyone found a name that means more than desertion _________for our new baby and a lost future
In 2006 I came up with an idea for an experimental poetic form called the Cleave Poem.
One of my aims was to examine how something can be more than the sum of it’s parts and can be 3 in 1: synergy, fusion, co-operation, dialectics, marriage, interdependence, teamwork and The Trinity.
How to read a Cleave poem?
Simply:
1. Read the left hand poem as a first discrete poem.
2. Read the right hand poem as a second discrete poem.
3. Read the whole as a third integrated poem.
______________________Don’t let him charm you don’t listen to his promises his words like birds _____________scattering flies that flit from brow to lash, ________ready for your flesh, stroking feather kisses on your lips __he squawks in expectation humming in your ears, __flapping inside your skull as he lies next to you. _____________________Don’t! Let him charm you!
_____The thief brings darkness, she waits ____he brings the sun for her love _held beneath his arm her heart
the light of day blazes bright _________he is united aching _______with his lover now sightless ________he holds her blind from the sun
