Cleave by Angela Felsted - REVIEW by J.R.McRae
This first chapbook by Angela is a promise
of more intriguing, achingly revealing, painful and joyous revelations to come.
It is an intensely personal collection. Were it not for the pull of the
wonderful imagery, one might flinch from its almost too acutely drawn accounts.
The loss of a parent – “a man holds a
little girl’s hand” – gives us the pain and self doubt of a child who feels
abandoned by parental separation and yet, in hindsight, cannot deny the
feelings in the last contact and memories invoked.
“you think of the hug he ached to give you
filled
with sunsets, sandcastles, a warm breeze
handfuls
of shells from the sea.
.
First love laid bare – “under waning
stars” and “she came to you as a
new bride” - in the hands of a much older man, is as much a diary of betrayal
as a rite of passage.
“friends, he called us
in
the hushed fervent
voice
of a preacher
clasping
my body to
his,
front against front
like
a god fearing man
prays
palm against palm.
our
shoes made
circles
in the dying
leaves.
our friendship
dying
with them.”
Images
of snow/frosting and sunshine/yellow flowers weave through the entire
collection, defining its pages and creating a sense of life in all its
complexity and contradiction.
Some examples follow -
“daffodil
petals unfurling
to
the sun, spreading with
the
swell of her stomach” [she cried in to the silver delta]
“they shot
through his scalp like new
grass, meadows of gold”
“her baptism like
a
swatch of snow-white cotton, taken from the blanket
nurses wrapped her in at birth.” [when my daughter moves away from me]
and
one of my favourite verses –
“in
the station, a clock strikes two.
on
the platform, snowflakes kiss.
years
from now, the girl will leave home
and
the snowflakes whirling, falling in her hair
will
mirror the stirrings of her
guarded
heart: soft, cold, delicate. “ [a man hold’s a little girl’s hand]
Married
life is shown as a seesaw of love and disaffection - “your truth like a water drop” and “your love like an old well” -
“metal squeals on metal, ropes
stretch, arms ache. the bucket
creaks as
i lift it to my lips, tip back my
face, wait
for the life-giving deluge of your
love.
an avalanche of topsoil falls into my
mouth. why do i always come back?”
Then there is the anguish of
motherhood – “if I refused to
cry”, “neurofeedback” and “sitting
in church” – the gigantean effort, the endless wondering and helplessness fed
by censorious others,
“and that’s when i sense it: the
wary gaze of the
woman in front of us, moving from
my brood to her four obedient
daughters
each with a wide brimmed pale pink
hat.
they fold their hands just like
their mother’s
silent mannequins in a fancy store
window”
The collection
starts with “buttercups” and ends with -
“gauzy
in the moon's silver-white rays.
naked skin glowing
as pale frosting “
This is a collection that will resonate
with women the world over! But keep tissues by and be prepared for the sharp
sting of recognition.
