Cleaving Sudanese Jaipong

Idjah Hadidjah

it’s the flow—and form i feel
comfortable with—it’s interesting
it’s got a three-way narrative—it’s entertaining

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putting together—a cleave anthology
has opened up—some other things too
pessoa and saramago—bolaño and borges
***

publishing 100—cleave-fabulist poems
the usual horizontal narrative—moving smoothly
two vertical spontaneous—haiku-esque stanzas

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flowing up and down—coming out the blue
these vertical stanzas—not always make sense
but who cares—i want them to be free and open-ended

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they’re never complete sentences—mostly fragments
more often than not—they LangPo themselves
out of thin air—without any kind of closure

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they don’t resemble spicer—no rolls-royce radio
there’s no heurtebise chauffeur—to guide me
thru the liquid mirror—no orphée or billy the kid

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it’s a different kind of dictation—the vertical stanzas
they’re just there—regardless of the hyphens
they’re refreshingly—extemporaneous and gay

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i love their simple impromptu—their novelty
especially when i’m down and out—feeling blue
it’s like finding a shortcut—to jackson mac low

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no diastic divagations—no secret seed texts
it’s more like the sad sing-song—voice of idjah hadidjah

drifting in and out of—sundanese jaipongan music

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it’s like pretending to be—miss merrill in the evening
beneath the changing—light of sandover
opening up the ouija board—on the bridge table

***

unfolding it slowly—along its ancient cleave
letting the planchette, my dear—be my mouse
then waiting to see—what the other side has to say