As of this Cleave of the Month poets with 2 ‘wins’ in the preceding 6 months will be excluded from the shortlist.
Here is the shortlist for February – closing date 15 March 2009.
A trip to Great Yarmouth for lunch by Graham & Fleur Blick
| Gentle, courageous victorious Horatio | Brittania marks a Norfolk hero |
| renowned and adored by Burnham Thorpe Nor-folk | exposed to the elements and flurrying snow |
| then cosseted warmth in Kings Head, Acle | we scuttle inside |
| feasting on history and food at the tavern | surrounded by ploughshares, creatures and pheasants |
| hospitality abounding and implements galore | creative adornments both inside and out |
| we talk | we eat |
*
Gamelan Music by Dennis Kelly
—for Phuoc-Tan & Diana
“I write for myself—
and strangers”
—Gertrude Stein
*
i write for myself—and strangers
but mostly—for myself
i wouldn’t be writing—this way tho
if it weren’t—for strangers
especially a stranger—who said
there’s somebody—i want you to meet
so i write now—for two strangers
and myself—i write for her
even tho—we don’t talk anymore
i write for him—we talk a lot
without her—there wouldn’t be him
i write for him now—not her
funny how strangers—come & go
i write for myself—and them
*
Indecent Assault by Thane Zander
Murder
Broken marriages – surviving – a lifetime
present problems – and marked – considering
those years wishing – praying – the abuse would stop
Rape
The dogs at the gate – penalise – passing ladies
retaliating – the prophet buried – in places austere
barking new orders – in the Town Centre – find gravitational pull.
Armed Robbery
Vandals splattered – paint and pens – tagging new neighbourhoods
where virgins – fearing to tread – found new ground
passed into Heaven – their end placated – where light shone from below.
*
How can it be that the gas chamber door opens inwards? by Steve Parker
(to David Irving)
the occasion is Smoking Mirror, an exhibition–Flarf
to execrate the despicable English practice of riding to hound
–W.S. Burroughs
he’s asking in the wrong colour!
–Seance Recording (anon)
| what it is | to outselect | the egregious shadow | assemblage |
| of flickers | the flickering voice | half-memory | a gestalt |
| of fireflies | & rattle | of redacted love | of the Ramp |
| of that confluence | of whispers | gargled up | in evoking |
| of the | noisy spirit | beyond | the machinery of |
| blue saturates | tested for at | Birkenau | Auschwitz |
| by weight of | its own inertia | so to assail | a weakness |
| prying alone | alone with the conviction | with such fervour | thereby mining |
| with the fixation | of a boy | digging out | his first living spine |
| that such determination | sapping away | a bulwark | artfully |
| might | who might just bring | the walls coming down | with fumbling |
| with the flagship | at the blowing | thrice O thrice | of the trebuchet |
| trumpet trumpet | and canary | glossolalia there look listen | with jerks & squawks of |
| trumpet | that thou art | in thy posture & | mild hooting hubris |
| thy resolve | to be other but | always in pursuit | and hot sneer |
| of what is truly | as the fall | of clouds cry now | in deadly blue |
| & otherwise | spirited | from your holes | of deadness flushed |
| for the shoving | your redcoat tripes | in those faces | of deluded boys |
