Crucifox E-Book

Geraldine Clarkson

• Herausgeber: Verve Poetry Press
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Seitenzahl: 29

Beschreibung

It feels like this incredible pamphlet from Geraldine has been ages arriving. We're so glad it is finally here in all its foxy glory! Crucifox is more a state of mind than a particular creature or person. The collection circles rebellion, emergence from disappointment and fasting, new beginnings, recreation following destruction; soulwork; inspiration and the act of writing itself. There is a focus on female desire and feral impulses behind polite exteriors; assumed responsibilities and pre-packed creeds; the role of women within close-knit community, the silent and marginalised aspects of women, their masking and unveiling and the stilling of their tongues. There is no shortage either of vermin and sleaze, crime, including murder; along with curlicues, cleaners, clowns, gambling, lotteries, and a lot of luck… These poems are intricate poetry masterpieces – breathtakingly beautiful, stomach churningly real. We know you will love this wonderful work!

Leseprobe

PUBLISHED BY VERVE POETRY PRESS

https://vervepoetrypress.com

[email protected]

All rights reserved

© 2021 Geraldine Clarkson

The right of Geraldine Clarkson to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

No part of this work may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, recorded or mechanical, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

FIRST PUBLISHED MAY 2021

Printed and bound in the UKby Positive Print, Birmingham

ISBN: 978-1-912565-59-7

ePub ISBN: 978-1-912565-99-3

a fox sees all that there is to be seen,

And from all sides

—Marianne Moore

CONTENTS

Janus

The flowers you gave me started speaking

On a Hill

Christmas Surgery

Apple Snow

My spirit broke her fast on you

Fainting Room

In Old Mr Spence’s Kitchen

FILTH

Fox, the Prisoner

Fox, the Prisoner II

FOX NEWS : CREATRIX

CROSSFOX : CROSSBOX

After ‘IF—’

lemonjim: brittle england

Compliments of the Patron

St Osburga’s Surprise

Brood

Bell-ringer’s Knee

In Praise of the Office Cleaner

Labials of a Half-Remembered Lover

BOOK OF BLUE

éclat & cast lots

I could murder a prose poem

winding down

The Three Felicities

Acknowledgements & Thanks

Crucifox

‘Geraldine Clarkson is—quietly, attentively, humbly—writing some of the best poems of our time.’ - Kathryn Maris

Janus

For all that December left with pinched lips,

and interminable evenings of the soul,

January burst onto the scene all hips

and buttocks, with mornings of grey silk

and angora-bedjacketed frost,

presaging something else

entirely. I’d had years of the turn,

a hateful hagiography of dragging winters

with incipient springs, word-ugly

and black-fasted, on the poorer side

of my life, and now the worm was feeding

at the lintel, ready to rear up.

The flowers you gave me star ted speaking

on the second or third morning after.

First, a Rose choked out some syllables,

inchoate, but I wasn’t tuned in

and mistook it for thirst. Then a Gerbera

got of her chest a whole theory

of irreconcilable mismatch

between what you thought

and what I thought—

as distinct, in her opinion,

as tips of her opposing petals.

Freesias were easy about backing her up,

promiscuous scent lingering for hours

in my lounge after they had unburdened

themselves. But it was the Cheerfulness

(Narcissi)— with serried heads nodding

and dipping—who let loose the volley

of breezy hearsay (Her place…Passion…

Perhaps) that finally shook me

and took my tongue.

On a Hill

When the sun had set and darkness had fallen, behold,

a smoking firepot and a flaming torch appeared

and passed between the halves of the carcasses.

—Genesis 15:17

On a hill, I always thought, I’d have an encounter, woman

to God; or in the candled calm of some huge-statued

basilica, its sparkling dark. Perhaps at a tree-

starved shrine, with pilgrims stretched in crocodile;

or in bed—through the night—like in Psalm 63.

Maybe via an angel, masquerading

as a stranger. Or in the bath,

public or private—it’s not unheard of.

But—en la poesía—how could it happen?—

pen and paper prodding to prayer—to prepare.

Just as father Abram—with promise of offspring

plenty as stars—offered sacrifice:

animals caught, blood-let, slaughtered, halved, set out in a line.

Before the flames came.

Christmas Surgery

The waiting-room ceiling was hung with twisted

paper chains and frowning angels on gold twine.

I took the required number of tablets

and turned towards the beige-faced nurse

with the velvet hands and hunky-dory feet:

Please may I leave now