Cleave of the Month

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• New Cleave of the Month:
• Payment of GBP25 for the Cleave of the Month
• The Editor will choose his favourite each month
• The usual submission guidelines apply
• The changes will start from August 2009

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August 2009

Down by the Lake by Ashley Bovan

Under a nearby weeping willow	a flock of geese pad and poke
a push-chair rattles along	Alice wipes mud from an off-green park bench
two bedlam kids squawking	then she rests
Vicious seagulls hunt for sandwich fragments	Exhaust fumes, and hums and grinds, from the morning motor-rush waft over
Alice fidgets and then heads off to the rose gardens	a discarded sheet of kitchen roll sticks to her shoe
The flowers sway like nodding dogs in the backs of cars	She listens to echoing Greensleeves again and again piping out from the ice cream van over on the promenade
Up-wind an old boy fires up his acrid briar	it’s time to move on
She takes the tarmac path around and up to the rockery tasting the hint of salt blown in from the bay	A brittle crisp packet rattles, trapped in an exclamation-mark-like tree
She wanders through the patterns of rocks	Her arms droop by her side
and she catches her hand on a clump of nettles	Reluctantly, she prepares herself for the long walk home

February 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

January 2009

Dearly Belateds by Diana Manister

December 2008

2 Poems were voted Cleave of the Month for December:

Spontaneous thing by Dennis Kelly

Larry Eigner

—for Diana Manister

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“when you search the

spontaneous thing”

—Larry Eigner, “The Fine Life,”

On My Eyes

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When I search for—the thing

The spontaneous thing—already there

It becomes even more—spontaneous

Do it yourself—try it & see

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What blooms—in drought

Isn’t you or me—it’s intuition

The other radio—the Red Sox one

The Orphée one—just ask Cocteau

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Heurtebise—your chauffeur

Eurydice—your wife

Maria Casares—La princesse

The Land of Dis—Spontaneous now

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Words—your Rolls Royce

Language—your motorcycle escort

Writing—thru the liquid mirror

Runtime—Saturday matinee

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The more—you read

The more—you write

The more—you cleave

The more—you see

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KEROUAC by Janet Hamill

I had nothing but I had a grey tee shirt		I ironed on black velvet letters
KEROUAC
I had nothing I had four walls on St. Marks Place		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

November 2008

October 2008

Whisper Your Name Three Times Into the Wind and It Will Go

by Diana Manister

to that imaginary land of – signs

titles, drawings & stories -  of love

songs alluding to – April’s fragrance

facsimiles of – r e a l sun

showerless – showers

counterfeit flowers -  bees in the buddleia

always a step away from sensations – feelings and real places

nothing is wonderful but the word -  W O N D E R

leaving behind a sigh -  a n  e x h a l A t i o n

whose name blew away – on a windy day

a word as virtual as signified snow – let it rise as a whisper and go

September 2008

            Point of view by Andrea Barton

                    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.