Tevis Bluff

Archive for 2012|Yearly archive page

In Preparation of the End of The World

In Uncategorized on December 10, 2012 at 10:26 pm

Not really.

Joking aside, we’re sad to announce the conclusion of Tevis Bluff.

After over a year and a half of posting and promoting local authors and artist, we’re calling it quits. From a combination of us not paying Tevis Bluff the needed attention and us not getting enough submissions, there isn’t enough stamina to keep going.

The site will be left up in case you want to read past posts but the Facebook and twitter accounts will be shut down shortly.

If interested, you can keep up with our editor, Tyson Peveto, on his blog. He is currently reading and blogging through the 100 greatest novels.

Thanks for everything!!

Tevis Bluff


Midnight Bike Ride

In Poetry on October 25, 2012 at 1:25 pm

Midnight bike ride, friend in tow
Wobbly unsure start, riding side by side
Rushing sound of the wind in your ears
Like the drone of a thousand angry bees
Exhilarating feeling, senses heightened, heart pumping
Peddle awhile, cruise, peddle some more

Yapping dogs lunging at your feet (their exercise
For the evening)
Lone walkers, dark neighborhood
You peddle faster
Another courageous biker coming out of the
Darkness of night
Riding like he’s in a New York marathon
Peddle, coast, coast, glide
You ride on…

Full moon ..a welcome beacon in the midnight sky
Like the north star for weary slaves
Lighting the way on an otherwise dark and foreboding street
Giving vision to certain obstacles in our path
Occasional bumps, or those infamous potholes
That can send you flying over the handlebars
Railroad tracks… a welcome break
Peddle hard to the top
Coast for a block, arms flailing like
Kids on a roller coaster
Pump harder, pick up speed

Street lamps dot the lane like islands
They are few and far between
A lone vehicle lights our way,
But cautiously passes by eventually
The wind engulfs us like an airish blanket
Rhythmic panting, muscles aching
Nearing the end of our trek
Slowly peddling… coast to a stop.

-Dorothy Sells Clover

Originally published in Cornucopia, her book of poetry.
Read our review

Lomelda – Late Dawn Inheritance (Music Review)

In Review on October 8, 2012 at 6:45 pm

LomeldaTemperatures are dropping, stew is simmering, and jackets are being pulled from the back of the closet. Autumn. Fall. Whichever name you prefer, I have an album for you to enjoy while sipping on that cup of coffee (spiced tea, anyone?).

Born in the piney woods of Silsbee, Lomelda will be releasing a new album later this month. Yes, I know Tevis Bluff is a literature blog but I thought you needed to know about this album. The music is perfect for the cooling weather and the lyrics are pure poetry. In fact, we featured one poem from the singer, Hannah Read, over a year ago on Tevis Bluff and it is the second track and first single from their album. Anyways, let’s get to it.

Late Dawn Inheritance is a collection of songs that can only be described as Americana. Musically, it contains acoustic guitars, a pump organ, a cello, and a few other instruments laying around the house. Vocally, Hannah portrays a hopeful despair in these songs about death, doubt, and memories. Many of the songs are about the loss of a loved one and you can hear it in her voice. Her melodies are little adventures in every line. Sometimes, her note choices remind me of an improvisational jazz musician. On Dying Song, Hannah says as much with her yodeling and voice breaking into notes as she does with her words. You need to hear her sing this song. Speaking of the words, well, let me just let you read what’s sung in Dying Song:

I can remember the day that he died
Remember and hardly cry
Well, maybe this is time to move on
And maybe I’ll just sing one more song

‘Cause when he sang his dying song
I wasn’t even close
They called to tell me it wouldn’t be long
This is just the way that it goes

Still all I can sing about these days
Is dying and being put in a grave
Well, maybe there’s no other kind of song
And maybe my thoughts are just wrong

But when I sing my dying song
I hope you’ll sit real close
And maybe even sing along
That would be the best way to go

I get chills every time I listen to the track (and I’ve hit replay a few too many times). Real quick, before I tell you where to get this album, read this little poetic nugget from The Sea is Calling:

Oh, let’s face it
the present is gone
and the future is not
The past is all we’ve got
Good thing it holds a

The album was released on October 26th. You can purchase the physical or digital album at lomelda.bandcamp.com. The first single is Still, which you can hear below:

Review written by Tyson Peveto

Like Hart Crane

In Poetry on October 2, 2012 at 5:00 pm

You’re so tragic,
in that green wool sweater
first time sailing in a steam liner
going across the harbor
thinking about eating,
thinking about dying.
Night time, middle of the night
crying, sinking, falling onto land
of a conclusion,
peaceful emissions
coming from the brain to the body to swallow
that cleaning
liquid kept underneath the sink

Youre so tragic,
everything to you is about dying
eat something! damn it.
dont you wish you could
since you’re drinking yourself silly,
in Houston last night
with music coming from across the street
through patio lights and tables

You’re so tragic,
driving your car down the interstate
thinking about eating something
thinking about dying or something
thinking about crashing this leased car into a barrier,
crumpling, like paper, tossed into a basket
by a man in the office, who is
just so damned tragic,
never going to escape this
casual black tie affair.

Youre so tragic,
waiting in the morning,
breathing though a clogged nose
sleeping on your side,
wondering if this is a story
in some other’s play
and this protagonist-
missing his mother, missing the sunlight,
working his tired eyes towards easy


You’re so tragic
standing on the rooftops,
making no ends meet,
living like Hart Crane,
thinking about drinking,
thinking about eating.
thinking about dying.


Wondering what it is like to sleep all day, instead
of taking the stairs back down to the ground floor
and passing up the lobby
outside the door- into the street
looking at the men and looking the women
and their bodies and their faces,
as you pass them passing you by,
riding in their cars
watching their movies
eating their dinners
(something that you will never have)


and wondering if its all worth it.

Walking inside at night,
through the lobby, up the stairs
Thinking about eating.
Thinking about sleeping.
Thinking about the rush of air
as it breathes out
emptying the lungs of the
and then over through
the hairs on the face and the head
sighing for excitement
smiling for the ideas
of eating, and sex
and joy.
Thinking about eating.
Thinking about drinking.
Thinking about dying.


Ryan Fisette

Montana Peak

In Fiction, Short Story on August 7, 2012 at 12:00 pm

They told me to write this down. To write down what happened. Don’t know why. Nobody I’d want to read this could. Plus, what do I know? Half-truths. Propaganda, maybe. Mix in some rumors, Holiday lights, and a bad smell and you know what I know.

I lived in North Ruby, the northern region of the once united city-state Ruby. I don’t know much history but it was once a wealthy mining region that broke into civil war for some reason. Now we have North and South Ruby. Two city-states with a big fence in the middle. Oh, and we hate each other. Always have and well, you know.

At 16, I joined the army. All children do. My parents were worried because of the growing tension between the Southies and us. I didn’t think much of it until actual violence broke out around the Fence. Luckily, some of our soldiers had found an old mining tunnel that led to the southeastern end of South Ruby. So there we go into the tunnel to surprise the Southies and win the war. You know, quick and easy.

“Surprise! We magically appeared behind your borders and we’re going to kick some ass!” Our group leader yelled something stupid like that when we first appeared and all hell broke loose. I found a ladder leading up a cliff. I climbed it to do some scouting or surveillance or whatever. Got to the top to find lots of provisions. You know: water, food, tents, rope, matches, survival books. Who the hell knows why it was up there.

Bomb exploded. Didn’t hurt me but destroyed the damn ladder. The smoke cleared just in time for me to see the army heading north into the city.

So I waited. A few hours. Night. A few days. Where is everybody? A few weeks. What the hell? Thanks for the provisions, whoever. Two months and it was the Winter Holiday. I could see the festivities in South Ruby so we lost, came to another truce, or had successfully invaded (whatever that means). Another few weeks and I had enough rope, cloth, tent material, and other stuff tied together to climb down.

I walked into South Ruby. Some kids ran inside. Southies. So whatever that means. Some elders came out to meet me. They actually talked warmly to me. Yet I was sat down at a table somewhat forcibly. For dinner. It made me suspicious.

When my chance came, I ran for it. For the Fence. Home. Oddly, nobody followed me. The first thing that hit me was a smell. I didn’t really notice, being so close to freedom. There was a tree by the Fence so I jumped up to the nearest branch and started climbing. As soon as my eyes could see over, I stopped. Holiday lights? That was weeks ago. Front doors were open. Cars weren’t moving. Not a soul in sight. And that smell. What the hell was it? I jumped back down. On the south side. Not home.

There was a kid nearby. I grabbed him. Demanded answers. What! Nobody knows? Of course I could smell it. What was it? Did he say disease?

I fell to my knees.

I laid my head against the fence.

you know,

-Benjamin F. Preston


In Poetry on May 15, 2012 at 6:12 pm

Oh ‘Mother,’ what’s in the name?
Of course quick to mind is fame.

As we all know by far
You are the shining star!

To add we cannot forget kindness,
Nor gentleness and thoughtfulness,

As much as the human heart can hold
So are these that the name beholds.

Until a woman bears a seed
So these emotions have no title or deed?

Yet upon the birth, a woman becomes a mother,
There is a burst of all these together.

Whereas the mother releases from the heart,
All that God’s given – Oh what a start!

To receive too small to mention,
There is no other in contention.

For the name ‘Mother’ means simply to love.
Indeed, God instills it from above.

And so we write line for line,
This little poem that comes to mind.

But it also comes from the heart and soul.
To again be recited and told.

Lisa Clark

Cornucopia by Dorothy Sells Clover (Short Review)

In Review on March 6, 2012 at 8:40 pm

Walking around the Merchant Soirée this past weekend, I came across a poet selling her books. After I stopped, she insisted on reciting a poem for my girlfriend and me. Of course I let her. A few lines in, I was sold. I was sold on Dorothy as a great poet and a great person.

Reading through Cornucopia, you’ll learn a lot about Dorothy. She jumps from matters of faith, race, relationships, and weather and treats all topics with equal beauty and melody. You’ll meet a strong, independent women that loves her family, her city, and her God.

Back to the Merchant Soirée, here’s the ending of the poem she beautifully recited to us:

 Deny me, taunt me, refuse me of
a kiss from lips divine.
I will accept most eagerly; a fool would not decline.

A kiss to feed my wanton soul…


Interested in purchasing Cornucopia? Click here to buy in book or digital form.

Review written by Tyson Peveto


Machiavellian Bonanza

In Poetry on February 9, 2012 at 12:00 pm

Bought, sold, traded, underwritten

Shipped overseas and hidden away

In brass cavities the size of a house

Secret tombs still holding the wealth

Passed down from long dead men

Stashed away from the public sphere

For fear of an uprising

Poverty breeds violence, right?

Damn, dirty beggars trying to catch a free ride

Off of someone else’s inheritance

Flabbergasted fools glued to blue cloth seats

Pretend to understand the evils of socialism

And will scream it through the streets

As they patrol the neighborhoods

Protecting everyone from themselves

And pocketing that redistributed wealth

Hypocritical normalities cloaked in moral ambiguities

That closely resemble the emperor’s new clothes

And the sidewalks are still buzzing

With the ignorant whispers

Breathing life into their own doom

As trillions is washed out to sea

And settles not beneath the ocean

But in the slimy pockets of overcoats

Hanging from the shoulders

Of all those we never stopped calling Master


Roy Dequeant

%d bloggers like this: