The Cleave Poetry Webzine [ISSN: 1758-9223]

Posts Tagged ‘Cleave Suite’

A repeat of Diana Manister’s spooky cleave suite

In submission on October 31, 2008 at 7:33 am

This is for those who enjoy the spooky: a repeat of Diana Manister’s great cleave suite.

Dancing with Mary Shelley and Henry James

A Cleave Suite

the phantasmagoric audience – all of them having

strangely –  the same face

takes the stage, –  multiples of one man

acting all the parts –  a replicating fantôme

in the dark –  populating the nightscape

of dreaming’s Cartesian theater – by morning melting away

withdrawing into daylight –  uncovered by lightless night

The place, with its gray sky and withered garlands, its bared spaces and

scattered dead leaves, was like a theater after the performance — all strewn

with crumpled playbills

the entity –  I

the first person – me or mine

is it separate or  – just a named hallucination

a wave in a sea of they  – a drop of rain

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

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

I saw the master — nothing could be more evident — in the light of an intense

emotion,and I trembled, I remember, in every limb, while at the same time, by a

blest fortune, emotion produced no luminous blur, but left him shining indeed,

only shining with august particulars.

I busied myself with – concocting a tale

a story – that would speak to

mysterious – fears

awakening 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 – making that progeny conscious

cackling in triumphalive at last

I caught him, yes, I held him — it may be imagined with what a passion; but at

the end of a minute I began to feel what it truly was that I held.

seemingly normal – nodding responses

but hollow inside – cognizant, bright

having no lack of  – emotional

affects yet not  – conscious of being

a self  – in a condition of

rather uncanny – I-less life

cloned with indifference or cloned with a difference

The story had held us, round the fire, sufficiently breathless, but except the

obvious remark that it was gruesome, as, on Christmas Eve in an old house, a

strange tale should essentially be.

despite disaster –  this single thing

language  remains – survives the damage

panic forms – phrases

sentences – take shape

writing alone escapes – from nothing’s pure night

so

let us go then you and I – along with our alters

under the Titian-white sky

what is the nouveau siècle to its whyless wide

to its dumb sun

all of us subsequents – formed by the story

until the text ends

Wonderful was it thus to see, and thrilling inwardly to note, that since the

question was of personal values so great no faintest fraction of the whole could

succeed in not counting for interest.


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Dancing with Mary Shelley and Henry James A Cleave Suite by Diana Manister

In submission on October 20, 2008 at 6:50 am

Dancing with Mary Shelley and Henry James

A Cleave Suite

the phantasmagoric audience – all of them having

strangely –  the same face

takes the stage, –  multiples of one man

acting all the parts –  a replicating fantôme

in the dark –  populating the nightscape

of dreaming’s Cartesian theater – by morning melting away

withdrawing into daylight –  uncovered by lightless night

The place, with its gray sky and withered garlands, its bared spaces and

scattered dead leaves, was like a theater after the performance — all strewn

with crumpled playbills

the entity –  I

the first person – me or mine

is it separate or  – just a named hallucination

a wave in a sea of they  – a drop of rain

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

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

I saw the master — nothing could be more evident — in the light of an intense

emotion,and I trembled, I remember, in every limb, while at the same time, by a

blest fortune, emotion produced no luminous blur, but left him shining indeed,

only shining with august particulars.

I busied myself with – concocting a tale

a story – that would speak to

mysterious – fears

awakening 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 – making that progeny conscious

cackling in triumphalive at last

I caught him, yes, I held him — it may be imagined with what a passion; but at

the end of a minute I began to feel what it truly was that I held.

seemingly normal – nodding responses

but hollow inside – cognizant, bright

having no lack of  – emotional

affects yet not  – conscious of being

a self  – in a condition of

rather uncanny – I-less life

cloned with indifference or cloned with a difference

The story had held us, round the fire, sufficiently breathless, but except the

obvious remark that it was gruesome, as, on Christmas Eve in an old house, a

strange tale should essentially be.

despite disaster –  this single thing

language  remains – survives the damage

panic forms – phrases

sentences – take shape

writing alone escapes – from nothing’s pure night

so

let us go then you and I – along with our alters

under the Titian-white sky

what is the nouveau siècle to its whyless wide

to its dumb sun

all of us subsequents – formed by the story

until the text ends

Wonderful was it thus to see, and thrilling inwardly to note, that since the

question was of personal values so great no faintest fraction of the whole could

succeed in not counting for interest.


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