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the red startle of duct tape on the edge of your date book is your way of pissing on perfection when broken things claim you like rats from a sewer you bind them to you with stolen orange prayer flags to keep them from floating away with the dish and the spoon til the little…
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Only when I’m quiet and do not speak can I hear your breath slide from parted lips. I want to kiss you the way I used to, pressed against your chest. I’m afraid to steal what is not mine- probably never was. Take bread away from me if you wish, I’m full of yesterday’s laughter….
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In homage to Patrick Lane on his birthday Thanks to Mark Doty The rude dust once snaked under your cap when you were a boy and you didn’t dither or hang back just left a question mark in those railings of boned sky you called home. Now you gaze with fresh gratitude at the small…
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She can’t close her eyes but to see him floating hair caught with ice, anchored to this heart break like a star. Her hands clamp shut silent pleas of ‘if only’s’. To heave up the unforgivable- that one day her heart, would still all songs of charity. Someone else, dear God, someone else. She crouches…
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Praise for Jude Neale’s poetry: “A mixture of formal control and emotional weight … I especially liked the simplicity (always much harder to achieve than it appears).” –Sir Andrew Motion, Britain’s Poet Laureate, on “Still Life.” “Amidst the marks and scars, is the strength of the human spirit to find humour, irony, and beauty in…
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I stand in the dark shake ice from my hair and walk beneath the moon to a neighbour’s house for matches. Snow up to the top of my thighs, each gunshot footstep, scatters owls through the black silk night. I hear the deer snapping fallen branches, their faces emerge like knots from a pine wall….
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My poetry manuscript was hidden beneath a mossy darkness and the relentless tears that drained my days, stole my years. What could I harvest from grief and the sure knowledge of despair? These poems were held together by the awful weight of bipolar disorder, each one reflecting back another facet of myself struggling to remain…
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Review by Richard Labonté A grandfather strokes a grandchild’s chest “to find those places that make him breathe hard.” A man tells a woman she is beautiful, “though I haven’t bathed for three days…and can only look at the wall.” A young girl has “been planning my funeral since I was ten.” A poet lies…
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Jude cordially invites you to the launch of “Only the Fallen Can See” (Leaf Press) “What could I assemble out of grief, out of the sure knowledge of despair? My poems were held together by the awful weight of bipolar disorder. Each one reflecting back another facet of myself struggling to remain above water. The…
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where imagination takes us and invents us by Daniela Elza, Jun 21 2011 Last Thursday I helped co-host Twisted Poets with Bonnie Nish. The two features that read that night came from Bowen Island. One of them, Jude Neale, was a new voice to me. I was not sure what to think of a book…
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