Crazy Jane is in the World

Wayne Clifford's Jane Again should begin hitting bookstores across this land sometime this week, so, in anticipation, another SCRIBD sneak peak.

Jane Again by Wayne Clifford

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Crazy Jane Curses Her ReMaker

Wayne Clifford's Jane Again arrived yesterday, and she looks fabulous. Though she's not at all courtly, and evidenced in this second poem from the collection CrazyJane Curses her Remaker.

Crazy Jane Curses her Remaker

Who thinks he knows a self
that never was but song
a man once used for shelf
to rest his pretense on

has doubled breadth to Her
Who Measures out the Fire
thru which you call me here,
so intent on answer.

You fail to see I’m bait
the question’s set aslant.
If you can’t see the back,
my face convince you yet,

as Helen took in Faust,
and, succubal temptress,
so usered him the cost
embalmed in each caress,

that once belief had spread
through every of his senses,
desire turned to dread
to pinch his own pretenses.

May what fame be sudden
as grass kindling;
all you guess, hidden,
endless riddling;
may trust be rotten;
vows piddling.

May beggar ghosts wheedle
what god you surmise
to bless your eye by needle
camel-wise.

Crazy Jane Talks With the Bishop

Crazy Jane, the heroine of Wayne Clifford's forthcoming collection Jane Again, was originally a creation of W. B. Yeats, who based her on a vagrant woman known by the name of Cracked Mary. Clifford gives his own Jane much more elbow room in this collection than Yeats did in his own work -- there's not many more than half-a-dozen Crazy Jane poems in the Yeatsian repertoire. In an interview with press intern Laurie Smith we'll be posting here closer to the book's launch, Clifford recalls first coming across Jane while reading as a teen in his local library. It was in a poem entitled Crazy Jane Talks With the Bishop, and it's been lingering with me for many a week since I first read it.

Crazy Jane Talks With The Bishop

I met the Bishop on the road
And much said he and I.
'Those breasts are flat and fallen now,
Those veins must soon be dry;
Live in a heavenly mansion,
Not in some foul sty.'

'Fair and foul are near of kin,
And fair needs foul,' I cried.
'My friends are gone, but that's a truth
Nor grave nor bed denied,
Learned in bodily lowliness
And in the heart's pride.

'A woman can be proud and stiff
When on love intent;
But Love has pitched his mansion in
The place of excrement;
For nothing can be sole or whole
That has not been rent.'

One more thing...

Julie Wilson's 30 in 30, for National Poetry Month, which will include poetry from two Biblioasis poets, Zach Wells and Wayne Clifford. I've heard Wayne's recordings, from his forthcoming Jane again and some of the Yea's's poems that inspired him, and they are absolutely fabulous. the whole project will be as well, I'm certain.


30 in 30 from Seen Reading on Vimeo.

(Just learned this embed thing. Pretty neat: you can teach a luddite publisher new tricks, at least if they are simple enough.)

Introducing Wayne Clifford's Jane Again

The proofs to Wayne Clifford's wonderful collection Jane Again arrived in the post today, so it seemed a good time to introduce you to her. Yes, as this first poem in the collection indicates, you may have met her before: W. B. Yeats made use of her in a rather self-serving fashion in a handful of poems a few years back. She's given much more elbow room here, and has been given close to a century to stew in her juices, resulting in an irreverent, bawdy, humourous, thoughtful and moving collection, our only poetry title this spring. Jane has agreed to make a few appearances here between now and the time of publication, so do check back.

Crazy Jane Gets Born Again

Yeats drew her old so she’d agree
with what his doubt of age declined
to credit to mortality
the moment body’s left behind.
Her scoffing was his guarantee.
He knew the game whereby skull grinned.

Ask her, then, what she remembers
breath-robbed in that old man’s mind.
Have her count back gyral numbers
ruffling on his pinioned wind.
She’ll cite his vulgate to pretenders
her heart’s pentecosts rescind.

Allow she satisfy your fright;
take her passion yours for free;
tell her she must quench the night
no less than stairs down to the sea.
Chant her porous as the light
shades may write on, that you see.

As you bunk alone down by her,
try, with angel-wrestling might,
to mix some pity with your hunger.
Make your purpose angel’s plight,
that no trite hope be her torture,
no sane, considered love, her flight.