The Exile's Papers: Part 4: Just Beneath Your Skin, the Dark Begins by Wayne CliffordThe Exile's Papers: Part 4: Just Beneath Your Skin, the Dark Begins by Wayne Clifford

The Exile's Papers: Part 4: Just Beneath Your Skin, the Dark Begins

byWayne Clifford

Paperback | March 30, 2016

Pricing and Purchase Info

$19.95

Earn 100 plum® points
Quantity:

Ships within 1-3 weeks

Ships free on orders over $25

Available in stores

about

The Exile's Papers Part Four: Just Beneath Your Skin, the Dark Begins, is the final chapter of Wayne Clifford's sweeping sonnet sequence. In this volume, the exiled poet questions notions of truth, identity and salvation in his quest to describe and interpret a journey through life that is both familiar and unfamiliar.

Wayne Clifford was born in Toronto in 1944. He studied English at University College at the University of Toronto in the mid sixties during which time he came to be associated with a small coterie of students that included Stan Bevington, Dennis Reid, Doris and Judith Cowan, and David Bolduc. Wayne also remembers Tangiers Al, but not ...
Loading
Title:The Exile's Papers: Part 4: Just Beneath Your Skin, the Dark BeginsFormat:PaperbackDimensions:176 pages, 8 × 5 × 0.5 inPublished:March 30, 2016Publisher:Porcupine's QuillLanguage:English

The following ISBNs are associated with this title:

ISBN - 10:0889843902

ISBN - 13:9780889843905

Look for similar items by category:

Reviews

Read from the Book

Lexical ConundraWe've established by proving, further and further back,a past insulting our obvious gifts, our speech,our social graces, intellects creating participlesthat can sustain true notyetness. At points,some among us mutter, "The fools've got languageall mixed up with meaning. Meanest wins!"but curiosity reaches even into lies,where ape, with paw caught in the jar's surprisegrasp, learns it's hard, inventing storieswhen we know so much, that in frustration we digup graves and pick our dead out of accretingmatrix. "See? See?" we taunt our doubter. "Ownwhat's Yours. Who'd You think You were fooling? Angels?We're sometimes right!" You fade into the next question.The Grove The spruce here pillar up to close their height against the sky. In their arcade I am,the berry edge of open. The flim-flamduel through dapple of two butterflies, flightthat spirals up beyond, before they scramon wind the speed of breath, is mostly hoax, a way that butterflies come up with jokesthey brag as though someone might give a damn.Much like these lines that go where rhyme provokes.The city. Country. Somewhere one has worth.The only rhyme that makes some sense is death.The only one that might convince the folks.If fluttering the tensions makes a fight,spruce-shade goddess, what's the good I write?