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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.
This poem works on all levels. Beautiful work!
Yes, Mary Jo C.
Andrea’s September cleave of the month is beautiful.
Thank you. Diana’s Cleave is a beautiful read
My congratulations to you, Diana, on your superb cleave being chosen as cleave of the month, a sure winner!
beautiful, Andrea!
you’re great, A! Inspirational 🙂
Thanks for this webpage. It is really fascinating. I found a “cleave” poem in the Danish Museum, in Danish, so I couldn’t read it, written in the 1700s and it really fascinated me. I cannot find the poem, but I did find your page and I have been educated! I am excited to try my hand at writing a poem like this and to keep following and reading the new entries.