Correspondence and Compendium are combined together and this week I will feature Correspondence, written by Kristina Marie Darling and published by Scrambler Books in 2013. True to form, Darling’s work exposes empty spaces to be filled by the reader with footnotes and appendixes given as clues to the story unfolding in its pages. The main character is struggling with her desire for her beloved who is no longer in her life yet whose mementos remain distressingly clear. The romance and obsession of keeping these pieces close dance among the pages. I am not able to produce the exact effect of the footnotes and symbols in her text but I will expose them as best I can. Below I am happy to share some examples:
1. The ledger documents her gradual displacement from the beloved. His sparse eyelashes and luminous red necktie.
2. Within each envelope she placed violets and locks of her tangled hair. It was then she imagined him as a tiny bird in golden cage.
3. Diminish.
+1. To make smaller.
++2. To detract from the authority of.
I imagine the main character trying to distance herself from his memory by tucking pieces of herself, such as locks of her hair, away. As she tucks the violets and her hair into the envelopes she imagines him in her own way, “trapping” his memory and likening it to the bird in the golden cage. That is how I picture the scene. The bottom notes expose her way of trying to lessen his hold on her memory.
1. It was his letter, with its intricate flourishes and belabored epigraph, that prompted her to bury the necklace.
2. Within the locket she kept small photographs and a loose thread from his jacket. The little clasp at the back of her neck still gleaming.
3. “I had wanted to discard the strange trinket, with its silver chain and innumerable compartments. Now the interior has been cordoned off with a white ribbon.”
Another example of the main character struggling to distance herself from the memory of her beloved but finding it difficult: her attempts to bury the necklace are futile. I love how Darling always makes the smallest pieces that much more intricate, a trinket with innumerable compartments is hard to imagine, and then it’s been “cordoned off with a white ribbon” adds to the complexity of the trinket and therefore the relationship before it ended. Darling creates a world of delicate fragments that are further complicated with every turn of the main character’s movements and memories.
Dearest ,
this letter will burn & burn
In a series of letters where the name is absent, Darling eliminates all but the most enticing and obscure lines of each letter to which we are left to imagine for ourselves its potential contents. In the above, I imagine the main character writing to her beloved and then erasing all but that which pleases her most. Perhaps, also, the beloved’s letters have been scrubbed away leaving only that which the main character chooses to keep for herself of each letter received. Either way, it lends mystery and the capturing of the reader’s imagination and who could ask for more?
If you enjoyed this brief sample of Kristina Marie Darling’s Correspondencen as much as I enjoyed the collection, you may purchase a copy of copy of Correspondence/Compendium for $12.00 at:
http://thescrambler.com/books-darling.html
Thanks always for reading, please drop by again soon…
Tuesday, October 22, 2013
Wednesday, October 2, 2013
The Shared Properties of Water and Stars by Kristy Bowen
In the idyllic landscape of suburbia on the edges of a forest lies the story told in a series of soul-capturing vignettes created by Kristy Bowen in her collection the Shared Properties of Water and Stars published by Noctuary Press. Wildlife such as bears and rabbits mingle with the neighbors who live out their secrets in painted houses with little labeled boxes hidden away inside. The children of the neighborhood experience life in a way that would make their parents’ skin crawl if they had any idea and the adults also participate in rituals and lifestyles that would cause their neighbors to be wary and cautious if they had any notion. The prose is gripping, imaginative, and whimsical and has me looking out the windows from my own house imagining the secret lives of my own neighbors. Below I am happy to share a sample:
There are 3 houses in 3 different colors. Each owner keeps a certain kind of sadness locked in the cupboard. The tall man lives in the white house. The short man keeps rabbits as pets. The woman in her white dress drinks vodka and stays up late. The yellow house is to the immediate left of the white one. The woman in the second house keeps her sadness in a smallish box. The older woman with the violets on her hat lives in the first house. The girl with the blonde hair lives next door to the man who keeps rabbits. One summer the rabbits multiply and chew through the fence. Mostly, they all keep to themselves.
This is the introduction to the homes and the lives of those inside that appear through the rest of the pages. I feel it is important to include this prose poem in your introduction because it sets the stage for an odd and whimsical look at the lives within.
Inside the yellow house are two boxes. One marked with less, the other with forgotten. The girl with the blonde hair holds a tin marked desire and keeps trying to hide it in the bureau. Her movements startle the starlings that have just begun to weave themselves into her hair. If both boxes are marked incorrectly, how long until the wallpaper begins to peel off in sheets? How long until she finds herself crying in the kitchen, every cup filthy in the sink? Every shoebox marked open me?
What I love is the mystery of the contents of the boxes. The blonde girl trying to stuff a tin marked desire into her bureau makes you wonder her age, is she hiding this from her parents? The idea of the wallpaper peeling and the cups piling in the sink show the slide of neglect in keeping house and home. You wonder what is causing the blonde girl to descend into sadness and it keeps the reader engaged page by page.
Once, in the meadow behind the elementary school, the bear boy finds a cache of clean white bones. When he shows them to the girl, they lay them out side by side on the porch, running their fingers over the smooth bleached surface. Such whiteness makes her uneasy, fuzzes at the edge of her vision. Such smoothness undoes the rigging of her ribs, where the bears inside her begin shuffling their way into the cavity of her chest.
This piece reminds me of my own childhood, digging for buried treasure or scouring the woods for interesting finds. I wonder who the bear boy is and what he looks like. The girl’s unease is expressed in an elegant and unusual way: “undoes the rigging of her ribs, where the bears inside her begin shuffling their way into the cavity of her chest.” It makes you think of the movement of your own breath in your own chest and what the shuffling bears would feel like. The bones causing the uneasiness as they are laid out, one by one, on the porch.
The woman in the red dress waits for significant damage. To sprout feathers or scales. For a trapdoor inside to open and swallow her whole. She places tangerines in her pockets and hides them in the shrubbery. The story depends so much upon the hidden. The reveal. The cloaked movement under dark of night.
Another character in the story in which we wonder about the pieces of her life. She wants to escape and we have no idea why, her odd behavior of hiding tangerines in the shrubbery makes us wonder who she is hiding them for. What I love is that each character is described vaguely and succinctly and leaves a lasting impression for us to create our own story around. Kristy Bowen is a master of open-ended storytelling.
I would love to share many more samples than I have but I will leave you with those above. If you enjoyed this sample you may purchase a copy of the Shared Properties of Water and Stars by Kristy Bowen for yourself for $14.00 through Noctuary Press here:
http://noctuarypress.com/catalogue/
Thanks always for reading, please drop in again soon…
There are 3 houses in 3 different colors. Each owner keeps a certain kind of sadness locked in the cupboard. The tall man lives in the white house. The short man keeps rabbits as pets. The woman in her white dress drinks vodka and stays up late. The yellow house is to the immediate left of the white one. The woman in the second house keeps her sadness in a smallish box. The older woman with the violets on her hat lives in the first house. The girl with the blonde hair lives next door to the man who keeps rabbits. One summer the rabbits multiply and chew through the fence. Mostly, they all keep to themselves.
This is the introduction to the homes and the lives of those inside that appear through the rest of the pages. I feel it is important to include this prose poem in your introduction because it sets the stage for an odd and whimsical look at the lives within.
Inside the yellow house are two boxes. One marked with less, the other with forgotten. The girl with the blonde hair holds a tin marked desire and keeps trying to hide it in the bureau. Her movements startle the starlings that have just begun to weave themselves into her hair. If both boxes are marked incorrectly, how long until the wallpaper begins to peel off in sheets? How long until she finds herself crying in the kitchen, every cup filthy in the sink? Every shoebox marked open me?
What I love is the mystery of the contents of the boxes. The blonde girl trying to stuff a tin marked desire into her bureau makes you wonder her age, is she hiding this from her parents? The idea of the wallpaper peeling and the cups piling in the sink show the slide of neglect in keeping house and home. You wonder what is causing the blonde girl to descend into sadness and it keeps the reader engaged page by page.
Once, in the meadow behind the elementary school, the bear boy finds a cache of clean white bones. When he shows them to the girl, they lay them out side by side on the porch, running their fingers over the smooth bleached surface. Such whiteness makes her uneasy, fuzzes at the edge of her vision. Such smoothness undoes the rigging of her ribs, where the bears inside her begin shuffling their way into the cavity of her chest.
This piece reminds me of my own childhood, digging for buried treasure or scouring the woods for interesting finds. I wonder who the bear boy is and what he looks like. The girl’s unease is expressed in an elegant and unusual way: “undoes the rigging of her ribs, where the bears inside her begin shuffling their way into the cavity of her chest.” It makes you think of the movement of your own breath in your own chest and what the shuffling bears would feel like. The bones causing the uneasiness as they are laid out, one by one, on the porch.
The woman in the red dress waits for significant damage. To sprout feathers or scales. For a trapdoor inside to open and swallow her whole. She places tangerines in her pockets and hides them in the shrubbery. The story depends so much upon the hidden. The reveal. The cloaked movement under dark of night.
Another character in the story in which we wonder about the pieces of her life. She wants to escape and we have no idea why, her odd behavior of hiding tangerines in the shrubbery makes us wonder who she is hiding them for. What I love is that each character is described vaguely and succinctly and leaves a lasting impression for us to create our own story around. Kristy Bowen is a master of open-ended storytelling.
I would love to share many more samples than I have but I will leave you with those above. If you enjoyed this sample you may purchase a copy of the Shared Properties of Water and Stars by Kristy Bowen for yourself for $14.00 through Noctuary Press here:
http://noctuarypress.com/catalogue/
Thanks always for reading, please drop in again soon…
Tuesday, September 17, 2013
Kristina Marie Darling's Brushes With
Kristina Marie Darling strikes again with creating a surreal and memorable journey through her particular style of writing in Brushes With, a collection that captures a romance that is no longer, scenes and footnotes that entice and leave the reader curious and wanting more. The works themselves provide enticing instances of foreshadowing for the doomed relationship. Darling contrasts light and dark, physical space versus the words inside one’s mind, memories and imagery delicately entwine. Below I am happy to share some samples:
Cartography
We were no longer in love. The sky, too, was beginning to show its wear. A silk lining could be seen through every slit in the dark green fabric. 1
I started to wonder where we went wrong. You were holding a map of the constellations.2 Each of the minor stars had been assigned to a square on a little grid. The map seemed scientific so I approached you.3
You kept looking down at your compass. The needle spinning beneath a little screw. Maybe this is where we went wrong.
Above us, the sky is still wearing its green dress. The most delicate strings holding it all in place.
1. The photographs portray this dress as one of the most violent manifestations of the heroine’s femininity.
2. At the edge of the map, she could discern a cluster of minor stars. Their incessant movement seemed difficult to comprehend, let alone to document.
3. “I had wanted to understand the cause of this fearful disturbance. Within my compass the needle kept spinning and spinning.”
*I apologize that my footnotes’ numbers do not appear like they should, that is the limitation of trying to transfer her work to a blog post. I will say that I love how she creates her text and ties footnotes to them, along with pages of just footnotes. In this piece the overwhelming darkness and the avoidance of eye contact depicts a couple avoiding each other even while present in each other’s lives. The comparison of the sky to dark green fabric with silk lining is romantic and delicate, so delicate that strings hold it in place and threaten to smother the couple should the fabric break free. Whether that was the meaning behind Darling’s piece I do not know, I only know that it is how I picture it for myself. Darling is a master at creating a visually stimulating piece weighted with more emotion than you initially read into.
Feminism
After the divorce, after your mistress, after the stars were eclipsed by the bright lights of the city, I gathered all of the broken dishes you’d left behind. I placed each one of them on a little shelf, recorded their height in a dark green book.
I began to realize the significance of this gesture. What is love but a parade of memorable objects, a row of dead butterflies pinned under glass?
You had always loved mementos. Once you’d even rented a small boat to find your missing porcelain statuette. 18
I started to wonder what other gifts you’d leave behind. The dried insects I’d find in each of your letters.
I closed the cabinet door, counted each piece of shattered glass, and tried to imagine them all in your perfect white hands.
18. This statue of the Holy Mother would later be found headless in a tiny museum in northern France.
*I love the line “What is love but a parade of memorable objects, a row of dead butterflies pinned under glass?” So often we keep objects to remember our loved ones by, even during our courtship. How many of us have kept old love notes or gifts from past relationships? I also am intrigued by the “dried insects I’d find in each of your letters,” the significance perhaps being the dried up feelings of romance? Also, the mention of the man appearing to be scientific in the previous sample and the dried insects leads me to believe this is a clue to his scientific interests. The footnote, #18, is one I like simply because I was raised Catholic and the idea of Holy Mother becoming headless is terrifying for someone like me. For it to appear in a completely different location, a museum, shrouds the whole passage in mystery which is intriguing to me. We have an understand for what led to the separation but the actions afterwards only provide more intrigue and questions. I’ve noticed that throughout her pieces Darling makes mention of the color dark green which can connote “intelligence” or of course, lush forests and perhaps fertile growth, along with broken glass, something that can be reflective and dangerous all at once. Darling’s work is often layered and I enjoy reading her pieces several times over to find more underneath the words than initially encountered.
46. A scene in the documentary, in which the woman replies, “What he really loved was my ignorance.” Although an awkward silence ensued, the camera kept rolling for a few more minutes.
*This strikes me at my core. Many of us can relate to being adored by someone who thinks or knows we are clueless about their true nature. The camera continuing to roll despite the awkward silence is interesting, the person in charge of the camera showing that vulnerability and exposing it that much further which causes the reader to pause and place themselves in the woman’s place. Where were you when you experienced the same realization in your own life? That’s the question that comes out to me as I read this footnote.
As always, I feel I cannot truly do justice for Kristina Marie Darling, I often personalize her work in order to feel my way through it and then share it with all of you. It is a beautiful collection of pieces that I urge you to read. If you enjoyed this sample you may purchase a copy of Kristina Marie Darling’s Brushes With from BlazeVox books for $16.00 at:
http://www.blazevox.org/index.php/Shop/new-releases/brushes-with-by-kristina-marie-darling-342/
To learn more about Kristina Marie Darling, please visit her website at:
http://kristinamariedarling.com/
Thanks always for reading, please stay tuned for more featured poets…
Cartography
We were no longer in love. The sky, too, was beginning to show its wear. A silk lining could be seen through every slit in the dark green fabric. 1
I started to wonder where we went wrong. You were holding a map of the constellations.2 Each of the minor stars had been assigned to a square on a little grid. The map seemed scientific so I approached you.3
You kept looking down at your compass. The needle spinning beneath a little screw. Maybe this is where we went wrong.
Above us, the sky is still wearing its green dress. The most delicate strings holding it all in place.
1. The photographs portray this dress as one of the most violent manifestations of the heroine’s femininity.
2. At the edge of the map, she could discern a cluster of minor stars. Their incessant movement seemed difficult to comprehend, let alone to document.
3. “I had wanted to understand the cause of this fearful disturbance. Within my compass the needle kept spinning and spinning.”
*I apologize that my footnotes’ numbers do not appear like they should, that is the limitation of trying to transfer her work to a blog post. I will say that I love how she creates her text and ties footnotes to them, along with pages of just footnotes. In this piece the overwhelming darkness and the avoidance of eye contact depicts a couple avoiding each other even while present in each other’s lives. The comparison of the sky to dark green fabric with silk lining is romantic and delicate, so delicate that strings hold it in place and threaten to smother the couple should the fabric break free. Whether that was the meaning behind Darling’s piece I do not know, I only know that it is how I picture it for myself. Darling is a master at creating a visually stimulating piece weighted with more emotion than you initially read into.
Feminism
After the divorce, after your mistress, after the stars were eclipsed by the bright lights of the city, I gathered all of the broken dishes you’d left behind. I placed each one of them on a little shelf, recorded their height in a dark green book.
I began to realize the significance of this gesture. What is love but a parade of memorable objects, a row of dead butterflies pinned under glass?
You had always loved mementos. Once you’d even rented a small boat to find your missing porcelain statuette. 18
I started to wonder what other gifts you’d leave behind. The dried insects I’d find in each of your letters.
I closed the cabinet door, counted each piece of shattered glass, and tried to imagine them all in your perfect white hands.
18. This statue of the Holy Mother would later be found headless in a tiny museum in northern France.
*I love the line “What is love but a parade of memorable objects, a row of dead butterflies pinned under glass?” So often we keep objects to remember our loved ones by, even during our courtship. How many of us have kept old love notes or gifts from past relationships? I also am intrigued by the “dried insects I’d find in each of your letters,” the significance perhaps being the dried up feelings of romance? Also, the mention of the man appearing to be scientific in the previous sample and the dried insects leads me to believe this is a clue to his scientific interests. The footnote, #18, is one I like simply because I was raised Catholic and the idea of Holy Mother becoming headless is terrifying for someone like me. For it to appear in a completely different location, a museum, shrouds the whole passage in mystery which is intriguing to me. We have an understand for what led to the separation but the actions afterwards only provide more intrigue and questions. I’ve noticed that throughout her pieces Darling makes mention of the color dark green which can connote “intelligence” or of course, lush forests and perhaps fertile growth, along with broken glass, something that can be reflective and dangerous all at once. Darling’s work is often layered and I enjoy reading her pieces several times over to find more underneath the words than initially encountered.
46. A scene in the documentary, in which the woman replies, “What he really loved was my ignorance.” Although an awkward silence ensued, the camera kept rolling for a few more minutes.
*This strikes me at my core. Many of us can relate to being adored by someone who thinks or knows we are clueless about their true nature. The camera continuing to roll despite the awkward silence is interesting, the person in charge of the camera showing that vulnerability and exposing it that much further which causes the reader to pause and place themselves in the woman’s place. Where were you when you experienced the same realization in your own life? That’s the question that comes out to me as I read this footnote.
As always, I feel I cannot truly do justice for Kristina Marie Darling, I often personalize her work in order to feel my way through it and then share it with all of you. It is a beautiful collection of pieces that I urge you to read. If you enjoyed this sample you may purchase a copy of Kristina Marie Darling’s Brushes With from BlazeVox books for $16.00 at:
http://www.blazevox.org/index.php/Shop/new-releases/brushes-with-by-kristina-marie-darling-342/
To learn more about Kristina Marie Darling, please visit her website at:
http://kristinamariedarling.com/
Thanks always for reading, please stay tuned for more featured poets…
Tuesday, August 27, 2013
Tim Myers' Dear Beast Loveliness: Poems of the Body
Tim Myers’ collection Dear Beast Loveliness: Poems of the Body, is a collection about the soul and the senses. Published by BlazeVox Press, these poems range from dark and shielded, to open and lively, they include love, lust, tragedy, struggle, all of the emotions that poems are meant to contain and reveal. Below I am happy to share a sample:
To My Sibling, Miscarried 1956
Catching a fragrance of nectarines
from the basket on the table,
I feel how strange it is
that you’re not here,
find myself wondering who you might have been.
At my grade school, well-meaning nuns
gave us their strange perfunctory tale
of unborn babies drifting in Limbo.
But I was born, and have come to fruit,
my sons on the floor here
giggling and bucking like horses,
as if five short years ago
neither was compounded our of infinite nothingness.
Now that the mystery of Me is a bit clearer
in the mystery of Them,
I think of You who never came from our mother,
you who are less now than
a fragrance of nectarines
in a breeze from the window so slight
only my new-shaven face can feel it.
This poem strikes me because my own mother miscarried and there are days I wonder what it would have been like to have siblings much closer in age than my only sibling, my sister who is twelve years younger. I was always envious of my friends who had siblings close to their age growing up—built in adventurous companions through the trials of early grade school--and I can understand this poet observing his children and drifting into thoughts of who his sibling might have been. The smallest sensation: that of the smell of nectarines, brings to light how the essence of someone’s absence or presence can be felt. I think it’s a beautiful poem that many can relate to either through experiencing the pain of miscarriage or the knowledge that they might have had more siblings and will never know the essence of that person.
A Boy
I saw a boy jerking along the street,
a palsied boy who walked as a stutterer stutters,
misfired genes like a great hand having
squeezed and twisted the living mud of him.
His arms joined in tight v’s, limp hands skyward,
so he almost seemed to flap them as he came,
legs crooked to a perpetual stagger.
But as I passed him in my car,
a fiddle tune came over the radio, fiddler
drawing that sweet commotion out of nowhere
onto his instrument, guitar strings
chiming intricately behind, so that
one’s heart like a child of Hamelin must rise and follow,
one’s body like some Odysseus strains to pursue
whatever sirens live in the sea of music—
and then I saw
how the boy’s twisted steps fell perfectly, inexplicably,
against the pavement with the music. This was
strange. But with sudden grace I understood. How great, how
vast the world is, rhythm-driven, all that is
flowing like notes along countless strings—
and one more dancer dancing.
Every living thing has movement and dance to them, dance is a great love in my life and so this poem trapped my heart. I love watching people as they move through a space, however they are able to move, and there is always a song or piece of music that will fit them. I love that the poet witnessed this Zen-like moment of his own music matching another’s rhythm, especially since that boy’s rhythm may have not been seen as rhythmic at all in the beginning. Haven’t we all had those pure moments of music matching our steps or watching someone else’s movements match the music in our headphones?
Song to Be Sung by a Happy Skeleton
The shy white beast you never see
is me—
for when beloved flesh is fled,
I too am dead.
I am the stilts life gave you; I will
save you.
I dearly hold within my arms
the lover
who holds his lover. A deeper I
am I,
a part of all his Is,
his Why.
Gaze long into his eyes and you
will see how true
I am, his deeper Other,
godly brother.
An animal beneath, I spring
or poise,
in every moment mutely to rejoice.
If I am death, then death
makes living free.
I am the hidden, white, and dancing
tree.
This poem makes me smile. How can the title not draw you in? I also love that Myers refers to the skeleton as “the stilts life gave you” which creates a fabulous mental picture. As a collector of Dia De Los Muertos skeletons, this poem is a guilty pleasure for me. The skeleton as the remaining essence of our flesh long after we’re gone, our “dancing/tree” is a great tribute to the bones we sometimes take for granted every day.
I hope you enjoyed this sample as much as I enjoy the entire collection. To purchase a copy of Tim Myers’ Dear Beast Loveliness: Poems of the Body, for $16.00, please visit:
http://www.blazevox.org/index.php/Shop/Poetry/dear-beast-loveliness-by-tim-j.-myers-326/
To learn more about Tim Myers who is a songwriter and also writes children’s books, fiction, and nonfiction in addition to poetry, check out his website. I have to say I love his opening quote by Rilke because I am all about it. Please visit:
http://www.timmyersstorysong.com/TM_Website/Homepage.html
Thanks always for reading, please drop in again soon…
To My Sibling, Miscarried 1956
Catching a fragrance of nectarines
from the basket on the table,
I feel how strange it is
that you’re not here,
find myself wondering who you might have been.
At my grade school, well-meaning nuns
gave us their strange perfunctory tale
of unborn babies drifting in Limbo.
But I was born, and have come to fruit,
my sons on the floor here
giggling and bucking like horses,
as if five short years ago
neither was compounded our of infinite nothingness.
Now that the mystery of Me is a bit clearer
in the mystery of Them,
I think of You who never came from our mother,
you who are less now than
a fragrance of nectarines
in a breeze from the window so slight
only my new-shaven face can feel it.
This poem strikes me because my own mother miscarried and there are days I wonder what it would have been like to have siblings much closer in age than my only sibling, my sister who is twelve years younger. I was always envious of my friends who had siblings close to their age growing up—built in adventurous companions through the trials of early grade school--and I can understand this poet observing his children and drifting into thoughts of who his sibling might have been. The smallest sensation: that of the smell of nectarines, brings to light how the essence of someone’s absence or presence can be felt. I think it’s a beautiful poem that many can relate to either through experiencing the pain of miscarriage or the knowledge that they might have had more siblings and will never know the essence of that person.
A Boy
I saw a boy jerking along the street,
a palsied boy who walked as a stutterer stutters,
misfired genes like a great hand having
squeezed and twisted the living mud of him.
His arms joined in tight v’s, limp hands skyward,
so he almost seemed to flap them as he came,
legs crooked to a perpetual stagger.
But as I passed him in my car,
a fiddle tune came over the radio, fiddler
drawing that sweet commotion out of nowhere
onto his instrument, guitar strings
chiming intricately behind, so that
one’s heart like a child of Hamelin must rise and follow,
one’s body like some Odysseus strains to pursue
whatever sirens live in the sea of music—
and then I saw
how the boy’s twisted steps fell perfectly, inexplicably,
against the pavement with the music. This was
strange. But with sudden grace I understood. How great, how
vast the world is, rhythm-driven, all that is
flowing like notes along countless strings—
and one more dancer dancing.
Every living thing has movement and dance to them, dance is a great love in my life and so this poem trapped my heart. I love watching people as they move through a space, however they are able to move, and there is always a song or piece of music that will fit them. I love that the poet witnessed this Zen-like moment of his own music matching another’s rhythm, especially since that boy’s rhythm may have not been seen as rhythmic at all in the beginning. Haven’t we all had those pure moments of music matching our steps or watching someone else’s movements match the music in our headphones?
Song to Be Sung by a Happy Skeleton
The shy white beast you never see
is me—
for when beloved flesh is fled,
I too am dead.
I am the stilts life gave you; I will
save you.
I dearly hold within my arms
the lover
who holds his lover. A deeper I
am I,
a part of all his Is,
his Why.
Gaze long into his eyes and you
will see how true
I am, his deeper Other,
godly brother.
An animal beneath, I spring
or poise,
in every moment mutely to rejoice.
If I am death, then death
makes living free.
I am the hidden, white, and dancing
tree.
This poem makes me smile. How can the title not draw you in? I also love that Myers refers to the skeleton as “the stilts life gave you” which creates a fabulous mental picture. As a collector of Dia De Los Muertos skeletons, this poem is a guilty pleasure for me. The skeleton as the remaining essence of our flesh long after we’re gone, our “dancing/tree” is a great tribute to the bones we sometimes take for granted every day.
I hope you enjoyed this sample as much as I enjoy the entire collection. To purchase a copy of Tim Myers’ Dear Beast Loveliness: Poems of the Body, for $16.00, please visit:
http://www.blazevox.org/index.php/Shop/Poetry/dear-beast-loveliness-by-tim-j.-myers-326/
To learn more about Tim Myers who is a songwriter and also writes children’s books, fiction, and nonfiction in addition to poetry, check out his website. I have to say I love his opening quote by Rilke because I am all about it. Please visit:
http://www.timmyersstorysong.com/TM_Website/Homepage.html
Thanks always for reading, please drop in again soon…
Friday, August 23, 2013
Read A Good Book: Making Sense by Jim Murdoch
Jim Murdoch’s collection of short stories in Making Sense is his best work yet. Twenty stories that encompass a wide range of personalities, lifestyles, and ages provide perspectives on everything from gambling to intrigues to fetishes. There are also a variety of “voices” as some are written in dialect that require you to read the story aloud in order to sound out the character. Several of the characters struck a chord with me, reminding me of people I knew, and I bet you will find the same in these pages.
There are some great lines in these stories that hooked my attention. In “Coping,” the opening line is: “If there’s one thing that annoys me about my mother, it’s this: She watches life with the sound turned off.” How can I resist? With those of us who have living mothers, we immediately begin thinking about our own. The story entails a discovered intrigue and the mother learns to live with the news, not say a word, and move on through hearing only what she wants to hear. Most of us know such people and it’s a story you might be familiar with yourself.
Another story, about a woman discovering her man is into men, has a sense of humor to it which I appreciate: “A week later I barged though the back door laden with half-a-dozen shopping bags and with my purse gripped firmly between my teeth to find him in flagrante dilecto in the hall with the bloke from 4G but what the heck? I guess they couldn’t make it to the bed in time. We’d done it in the hall before. It wasn’t exactly our place but I quite liked doing it there…” Honestly this made me laugh with the “not exactly our place” and the rest of the story is light considering the heaviness of the situation. Life goes on, is what I take away from the story.
I only revealed a couple of the stories to you, there are some funny and wonderful surprises in the pages of this collection, Making Sense, by Jim Murdoch. If you enjoyed this review, you may purchase a copy for 8.50 (pounds) by following the link below:
http://www.fvbooks.com/jmurdoch/jmurdoch6.htm
Thanks always for reading, please drop in again soon…
There are some great lines in these stories that hooked my attention. In “Coping,” the opening line is: “If there’s one thing that annoys me about my mother, it’s this: She watches life with the sound turned off.” How can I resist? With those of us who have living mothers, we immediately begin thinking about our own. The story entails a discovered intrigue and the mother learns to live with the news, not say a word, and move on through hearing only what she wants to hear. Most of us know such people and it’s a story you might be familiar with yourself.
Another story, about a woman discovering her man is into men, has a sense of humor to it which I appreciate: “A week later I barged though the back door laden with half-a-dozen shopping bags and with my purse gripped firmly between my teeth to find him in flagrante dilecto in the hall with the bloke from 4G but what the heck? I guess they couldn’t make it to the bed in time. We’d done it in the hall before. It wasn’t exactly our place but I quite liked doing it there…” Honestly this made me laugh with the “not exactly our place” and the rest of the story is light considering the heaviness of the situation. Life goes on, is what I take away from the story.
I only revealed a couple of the stories to you, there are some funny and wonderful surprises in the pages of this collection, Making Sense, by Jim Murdoch. If you enjoyed this review, you may purchase a copy for 8.50 (pounds) by following the link below:
http://www.fvbooks.com/jmurdoch/jmurdoch6.htm
Thanks always for reading, please drop in again soon…
Tuesday, July 30, 2013
Eva Heisler's Reading Emily Dickinson in Icelandic
Reading Emily Dickinson in Icelandic by Eva Heisler is published by Kore Press and contains a collection of prose by a poet exploring the world and translations of Iceland. This is the kind of book in which you will want to find a quiet or natural setting in which to indulge fully in the nuances of the landscape, language, and characters that Ms. Heisler reveals throughout the pages. I found the work to be beautiful, savory, and best consumed slowly so your mind can absorb fully the weight of her words. Below I am happy to share a few samples:
Wind
That first winter in Iceland I didn’t mind the wind. Stillness itself was winged. The wind wrapped me in an elsewhere—else the traffic of scholars and accountants. But this year, my heart flaps like a shutter against the side of a barn. This year, the wind no longer sounds like itself. I wake in the night and mistake the sound of the wind for the roar of the snow plow in Syracuse; the squeal of tires spinning in Columbus; the hoot of a barn owl in Boyds; the whistle of a former lover’s kettle. “Don’t forget what it was like before.” Lying in bed, I tell myself this. The sound of wind engulfs me like the roar of an airplane passenger. “Don’t forget.” Remember the bottoms of your feet slippery with perspiration, and a jingle at every turn.
I feel like the poet is sharing her nostalgia of her experiences at home in America and is comparing them in her mind to her current experiences in Iceland. Her travels have brought her to different places and they all have a place etched in her heart and she is trying to remember each of those places while the winds of Iceland make their own mark. Lovely.
Something to Finish
Steinunn’s mother takes me to the flea market at the harbor. She shuffles among mugs in the shape of soccer balls; earrings made of feathers; Judy Blume in Icelandic; Bath Boutique Barbie; Working Woman Barbie; Barbie with Baby Keiko the Whale; Barbie Sassy Pony; and “Fizz Balls” advertised as “the latest in home aromatherapy.” Encountering these in the States, I would have folded into myself. But in Iceland, the kitsch doesn’t claim me. I finger the gaudy beads; they don’t take the shape of coffins—I am here and someplace else. Steinunn’s mother hands me a bundle of papers tied with boot strings. She purchased the rights to thirty-seven unfinished poems. It is a gift, she says. She pats the sheaf of papers that I press to my chest to keep them from blowing away. She says, It is something to finish.
I love that the flea market in Iceland feels different than in the States although it holds the same kinds of items. I also enjoy the mystery of thirty-seven unfinished poems being purchased with the idea of the purchaser “finishing” the poems. Can you imagine selling something unfinished at a flea market such as your own writings and allowing someone else, a complete stranger, to do so? That in itself is intriguing, just as much as it is interesting that Steinunn’s mother would purchase such a thing as a gift. It is a world of mysteries and I enjoy letting my mind wander the scene to figure out my own ending to the story that is unfinished here.
What I Remember
What I remember is neither the words nor the light in the kitchen but the press of a hand against my forehead. What I remember is not the color of eyes but what it felt like to be seen. What I remember is not the overstuffed luggage but the door, and you leaning against it. What I remember is not computing sums in the margins of my notebook, but three words and a grove of birch that I mistook for a herd of ghost horses. What I remember is not the new wardrobe but a fling of red and white.
Isn’t this the essence of memory? The feelings and colors that made a deep impression on us during our experience in a new place? I love the image of the grove of birch mistaken for ghost horses, as well as the wardrobe being a “fling of red and white.” It invites the reader to open up their own imagination and create their own memorable experience from the poet’s.
I would love to visit Iceland and see the sights and meet the people that Eva Heisler reveals in her collection Reading Emily Dickinson in Icelandic. If you enjoyed this brief sample as much as I do, you may purchase a copy for yourself for $15.95 at:
http://korepress.org/ReadingEmilyDickinsoninIcelandic.htm
Thanks always for reading, please drop by again soon...
Wind
That first winter in Iceland I didn’t mind the wind. Stillness itself was winged. The wind wrapped me in an elsewhere—else the traffic of scholars and accountants. But this year, my heart flaps like a shutter against the side of a barn. This year, the wind no longer sounds like itself. I wake in the night and mistake the sound of the wind for the roar of the snow plow in Syracuse; the squeal of tires spinning in Columbus; the hoot of a barn owl in Boyds; the whistle of a former lover’s kettle. “Don’t forget what it was like before.” Lying in bed, I tell myself this. The sound of wind engulfs me like the roar of an airplane passenger. “Don’t forget.” Remember the bottoms of your feet slippery with perspiration, and a jingle at every turn.
I feel like the poet is sharing her nostalgia of her experiences at home in America and is comparing them in her mind to her current experiences in Iceland. Her travels have brought her to different places and they all have a place etched in her heart and she is trying to remember each of those places while the winds of Iceland make their own mark. Lovely.
Something to Finish
Steinunn’s mother takes me to the flea market at the harbor. She shuffles among mugs in the shape of soccer balls; earrings made of feathers; Judy Blume in Icelandic; Bath Boutique Barbie; Working Woman Barbie; Barbie with Baby Keiko the Whale; Barbie Sassy Pony; and “Fizz Balls” advertised as “the latest in home aromatherapy.” Encountering these in the States, I would have folded into myself. But in Iceland, the kitsch doesn’t claim me. I finger the gaudy beads; they don’t take the shape of coffins—I am here and someplace else. Steinunn’s mother hands me a bundle of papers tied with boot strings. She purchased the rights to thirty-seven unfinished poems. It is a gift, she says. She pats the sheaf of papers that I press to my chest to keep them from blowing away. She says, It is something to finish.
I love that the flea market in Iceland feels different than in the States although it holds the same kinds of items. I also enjoy the mystery of thirty-seven unfinished poems being purchased with the idea of the purchaser “finishing” the poems. Can you imagine selling something unfinished at a flea market such as your own writings and allowing someone else, a complete stranger, to do so? That in itself is intriguing, just as much as it is interesting that Steinunn’s mother would purchase such a thing as a gift. It is a world of mysteries and I enjoy letting my mind wander the scene to figure out my own ending to the story that is unfinished here.
What I Remember
What I remember is neither the words nor the light in the kitchen but the press of a hand against my forehead. What I remember is not the color of eyes but what it felt like to be seen. What I remember is not the overstuffed luggage but the door, and you leaning against it. What I remember is not computing sums in the margins of my notebook, but three words and a grove of birch that I mistook for a herd of ghost horses. What I remember is not the new wardrobe but a fling of red and white.
Isn’t this the essence of memory? The feelings and colors that made a deep impression on us during our experience in a new place? I love the image of the grove of birch mistaken for ghost horses, as well as the wardrobe being a “fling of red and white.” It invites the reader to open up their own imagination and create their own memorable experience from the poet’s.
I would love to visit Iceland and see the sights and meet the people that Eva Heisler reveals in her collection Reading Emily Dickinson in Icelandic. If you enjoyed this brief sample as much as I do, you may purchase a copy for yourself for $15.95 at:
http://korepress.org/ReadingEmilyDickinsoninIcelandic.htm
Thanks always for reading, please drop by again soon...
Tuesday, July 9, 2013
Something Random and Tragic to Set The Guts Aflame Third Edition by Hosho McCreesh
The expanded third edition of Hosho McCreesh’s poems are released for our reading pleasure in Something Random & Tragic To Set The Guts Aflame published by Mary Celeste Press. McCreesh’s style is dead-pan and fervent. A gratuitous read, Hosho McCreesh reminds us to live in the moment, to watch the world around us and I have a hard time selecting just a few poems to share:
The Evening Commute In America
An entire nation of
employees,
refugees, really,
of socio-economic
warfare,
ignorant of their true & actual station,
their cog-like existence
rushing,
feel like they’re always missing something,
refusing to even let their fellow man into
gridlocked traffic,
unfulfilled they rush home
in the cars they were told to buy
to homes they won’t own for 30 years
to husbands or wives they don’t know
& children they regret,
they shove pizza boy delivery into their mouths
get fatter,
sicker
& doze off
as the TV flickers a
dead
blue.
This poem pretty much sums up my worst fears about our society. That the majority of people are just working and not living. As a result of not living they rarely help their fellow man—hence the lines about not allowing fellow drivers into traffic—and the “cogs” in the machine stuff down their worries and stress with things that will only make life worse—unhealthy foods and sitting down to do nothing else but watch TV. It’s a poem that challenges the reader to be better than that and we should.
The Plinking of Keys,
The Chasing Off of Demons,
The Scattering of Ghosts,
& The Gods Giving Us All Our Fair Shake…
Saw a story about a guy
once,
could hardly take care of himself—
autistic, &
blind,
among too many other things…
almost
every
single
facet
of
his
existence
was an enormous
challenge,
a chore,
the most basic,
rudimentary skills
proved to be
nearly
insurmountable…
However,
he had over
7,000 songs
committed
flawlessly
to memory,
pounded them out on a whim,
played with them like marbles—
he played all sorts of instruments,
piano to piccolo,
he need hear a song only
once
& he could crank it back out to
perfection.
Prodigy isn’t even the word,
he was hard-wired to channel
music,
& he could play them all,
Gershwin,
Joplin,
Cole Porter,
everyone
like it was easier than nothing.
easier than
breathing,
& it afforded him with an
income,
a means to provide for himself, for his family,
a little something to help out all the folks without whom he
could not
exist.
& things like that
always make me
smile,
to see that
somehow
the gods find a way to
balance
it all out,
to tip the scales back the other way,
to never stack it all against
anyone
completely…
cosmically, somehow
we’ve all got our shot & that
somehow it’ll all work out for
everyone
eventually.
This poem lifts up my spirits and I know a wide variety of people so this is a personal favorite of mine as well. I think the poem is self-explanatory—somehow we all are given our gifts to share with the world no matter what “limitations” may be accompanying us.
Hope –or- Oscillate & Pivot
You owe it to yourself to
acknowledge
when times are good,
life is good,
when everything is
simple,
enjoyable,
beautiful,
because it will
always
always
always
oscillate & pivot
back the
other
way…
This poem reminds me of how difficult it can be to relax and enjoy the good days and the good times. When things are going smoothly we are often holding our breath and waiting for something to go wrong. It’s good advice we should all take more often—if times are good, embrace them and be grateful for them and let tomorrow worry about itself.
If you enjoyed this sample of Hosho McCreesh’s expanded, third edition of Something Random & Tragic To Set The Guts Aflame you may purchase a copy for $12.00 at:
http://www.lulu.com/shop/hosho-mccreesh/something-random-tragic-to-set-the-guts-aflame-selected-poems-3rd-printing/paperback/product-21037853.html;jsessionid=D5B1C2BAD8C5F1A862F36438D482492B
Thanks always for reading, please drop in again soon…
The Evening Commute In America
An entire nation of
employees,
refugees, really,
of socio-economic
warfare,
ignorant of their true & actual station,
their cog-like existence
rushing,
feel like they’re always missing something,
refusing to even let their fellow man into
gridlocked traffic,
unfulfilled they rush home
in the cars they were told to buy
to homes they won’t own for 30 years
to husbands or wives they don’t know
& children they regret,
they shove pizza boy delivery into their mouths
get fatter,
sicker
& doze off
as the TV flickers a
dead
blue.
This poem pretty much sums up my worst fears about our society. That the majority of people are just working and not living. As a result of not living they rarely help their fellow man—hence the lines about not allowing fellow drivers into traffic—and the “cogs” in the machine stuff down their worries and stress with things that will only make life worse—unhealthy foods and sitting down to do nothing else but watch TV. It’s a poem that challenges the reader to be better than that and we should.
The Plinking of Keys,
The Chasing Off of Demons,
The Scattering of Ghosts,
& The Gods Giving Us All Our Fair Shake…
Saw a story about a guy
once,
could hardly take care of himself—
autistic, &
blind,
among too many other things…
almost
every
single
facet
of
his
existence
was an enormous
challenge,
a chore,
the most basic,
rudimentary skills
proved to be
nearly
insurmountable…
However,
he had over
7,000 songs
committed
flawlessly
to memory,
pounded them out on a whim,
played with them like marbles—
he played all sorts of instruments,
piano to piccolo,
he need hear a song only
once
& he could crank it back out to
perfection.
Prodigy isn’t even the word,
he was hard-wired to channel
music,
& he could play them all,
Gershwin,
Joplin,
Cole Porter,
everyone
like it was easier than nothing.
easier than
breathing,
& it afforded him with an
income,
a means to provide for himself, for his family,
a little something to help out all the folks without whom he
could not
exist.
& things like that
always make me
smile,
to see that
somehow
the gods find a way to
balance
it all out,
to tip the scales back the other way,
to never stack it all against
anyone
completely…
cosmically, somehow
we’ve all got our shot & that
somehow it’ll all work out for
everyone
eventually.
This poem lifts up my spirits and I know a wide variety of people so this is a personal favorite of mine as well. I think the poem is self-explanatory—somehow we all are given our gifts to share with the world no matter what “limitations” may be accompanying us.
Hope –or- Oscillate & Pivot
You owe it to yourself to
acknowledge
when times are good,
life is good,
when everything is
simple,
enjoyable,
beautiful,
because it will
always
always
always
oscillate & pivot
back the
other
way…
This poem reminds me of how difficult it can be to relax and enjoy the good days and the good times. When things are going smoothly we are often holding our breath and waiting for something to go wrong. It’s good advice we should all take more often—if times are good, embrace them and be grateful for them and let tomorrow worry about itself.
If you enjoyed this sample of Hosho McCreesh’s expanded, third edition of Something Random & Tragic To Set The Guts Aflame you may purchase a copy for $12.00 at:
http://www.lulu.com/shop/hosho-mccreesh/something-random-tragic-to-set-the-guts-aflame-selected-poems-3rd-printing/paperback/product-21037853.html;jsessionid=D5B1C2BAD8C5F1A862F36438D482492B
Thanks always for reading, please drop in again soon…
Tuesday, June 25, 2013
X Marks the Dress A Registry by Kristina Marie Darling and Carol Guess
X Marks the Dress A Registry, a collaborative effort by Kristina Marie Darling and Carol Guess, has been published by Gold Wake Press and puts a twist on the traditional outlook of weddings, relationships, and those hopeful, loving gestures that we take for granted on such a grand occasion. There are a variety of types of written word in this collection: prose with titles of objects you might find on a registry, deconstructed pages leaving just a few tantalizing words, footnotes, figures, appendixes, all circling around notions of relationships, love, traditions, marriage, and the breaking up of all these traditional ideas in a variety of ways and stages. This collection reveals characters that are potentially scandalous, heart-wrenchingly beautiful, naïve, unique, and altogether exciting. It is a tantalizing read and below is a brief sample:
{Pull-Out Closet Organizer & Shoe Rack}
Since when is pretending a job? I’m still paying the mortgage with my fashion sense: pink sunglasses, matching pumps, & your favorite dress. Nights like this I walk the boulevard, asking for a handout. Men will offer me rides & fine chocolate as you watch from the kitchen window. Stilettoes & frostbitten, I keep looking for someone to warm me up. I’ve been such an unruffled bride that the lace on my skirt is starting to unravel. Clothes cost money, darling. A husband like you should foot the bill.
There is a piece before this in which the spouse pretends they still have a job, the piece above is the response to it. It makes me wonder what kind of hand-outs are being asked for, doesn’t it make you wonder? I picture a woman outside the house standing on the street in her finest trying to flirt with rich men and feeling resentful that her husband inside the house cannot meet her needs. The piece gives you a sample of the less-than-perfect marriage and a darker side of how to get by when things go awry.
[Wedding Favor: Chocolate Truffles]
She drops a penny on the stoop, spun copper truffle. I’ve never been inside your house, but now I’ve knocked, and now I’m in. She wrote me such a charming thanks – pink scented paper, chocolate ink. I wrote back, so anti-Google. We’re sitting down to tea, no joke. She talks about lipstick and she talks about church. After mimosas she starts on you. Albert, I say. She calls you Bert. I want to scream your name –Adele- but after A I’m starting at her perfect mouth, still mouthing worlds. Clavicle. Delicious. Eat.
There is a series of pieces about a character who gives me the impression they are leading a double life: one as a man, one as a woman, and I’ve no idea what the original identity is. Either way, the person who knows the secret of the character with two sides evidently is not the spouse who apparently doesn’t know. The two worlds meet: the person who knows Albert/Adele and the spouse who only knows Albert. An old fashioned friendship is beginning out of a very strange connection, hence the speaker’s fascination with meeting the spouse and saying the spouse is “mouthing worlds.” Worlds apart, these three characters that are all connected somehow has caused the speaker in the piece to stop listening and only hear and notice bits and pieces as their mind wanders over the connection. It makes me want to be a fly on the wall in this encounter. I’m also eager to know how Darling and Guess created the story and where the inspiration came from.
From Appendix A: Marginalia & Other Misc. Fragments
1. A rare variety of orchid, which was mounted and displayed on a silver placard.
2. She snipped the red flowers as the music began. Her fingers intertwined with the cold metal shears.
3. “I had wanted to free myself from the endless parade of feminine embellishments. Within every window the same bouquet of pink roses. Now a vase lies shattered at my feet.”
These three lines lead me to imagine a woman who is tired of living up to an ideal and uses cold hard slashing away in the literal sense, clipping flowers, then knocking over a vase of the things that she feels are a burden to her sense of identity, freeing herself literally in order to free herself emotionally.
If you enjoyed this sample, you may purchase a copy for $15.95 of X Marks the Dress A Registry by Kristina Marie Darling and Carol Guess at:
http://goldwakepress.com/books/
Thanks always for reading, please drop in again soon…
{Pull-Out Closet Organizer & Shoe Rack}
Since when is pretending a job? I’m still paying the mortgage with my fashion sense: pink sunglasses, matching pumps, & your favorite dress. Nights like this I walk the boulevard, asking for a handout. Men will offer me rides & fine chocolate as you watch from the kitchen window. Stilettoes & frostbitten, I keep looking for someone to warm me up. I’ve been such an unruffled bride that the lace on my skirt is starting to unravel. Clothes cost money, darling. A husband like you should foot the bill.
There is a piece before this in which the spouse pretends they still have a job, the piece above is the response to it. It makes me wonder what kind of hand-outs are being asked for, doesn’t it make you wonder? I picture a woman outside the house standing on the street in her finest trying to flirt with rich men and feeling resentful that her husband inside the house cannot meet her needs. The piece gives you a sample of the less-than-perfect marriage and a darker side of how to get by when things go awry.
[Wedding Favor: Chocolate Truffles]
She drops a penny on the stoop, spun copper truffle. I’ve never been inside your house, but now I’ve knocked, and now I’m in. She wrote me such a charming thanks – pink scented paper, chocolate ink. I wrote back, so anti-Google. We’re sitting down to tea, no joke. She talks about lipstick and she talks about church. After mimosas she starts on you. Albert, I say. She calls you Bert. I want to scream your name –Adele- but after A I’m starting at her perfect mouth, still mouthing worlds. Clavicle. Delicious. Eat.
There is a series of pieces about a character who gives me the impression they are leading a double life: one as a man, one as a woman, and I’ve no idea what the original identity is. Either way, the person who knows the secret of the character with two sides evidently is not the spouse who apparently doesn’t know. The two worlds meet: the person who knows Albert/Adele and the spouse who only knows Albert. An old fashioned friendship is beginning out of a very strange connection, hence the speaker’s fascination with meeting the spouse and saying the spouse is “mouthing worlds.” Worlds apart, these three characters that are all connected somehow has caused the speaker in the piece to stop listening and only hear and notice bits and pieces as their mind wanders over the connection. It makes me want to be a fly on the wall in this encounter. I’m also eager to know how Darling and Guess created the story and where the inspiration came from.
From Appendix A: Marginalia & Other Misc. Fragments
1. A rare variety of orchid, which was mounted and displayed on a silver placard.
2. She snipped the red flowers as the music began. Her fingers intertwined with the cold metal shears.
3. “I had wanted to free myself from the endless parade of feminine embellishments. Within every window the same bouquet of pink roses. Now a vase lies shattered at my feet.”
These three lines lead me to imagine a woman who is tired of living up to an ideal and uses cold hard slashing away in the literal sense, clipping flowers, then knocking over a vase of the things that she feels are a burden to her sense of identity, freeing herself literally in order to free herself emotionally.
If you enjoyed this sample, you may purchase a copy for $15.95 of X Marks the Dress A Registry by Kristina Marie Darling and Carol Guess at:
http://goldwakepress.com/books/
Thanks always for reading, please drop in again soon…
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
Drawing Water by Eva Heisler
Published by Noctuary Press, Eva Heisler’s Drawing Water is a collection that focuses on lines and how they blur and come into focus, their very presence or absence when a line breaks or continues on, it brings forth imagery that is fresh and innovative. Samples below:
The page is the body of a ghost (but I don’t believe in ghosts).
--This line describes the intimidation of a blank page, in my mind. It is such a simple phrase and yet so poignant as we all stare at blank pages when trying to think of something new to say or write or how to respond, whether it is paper or e-mail or walls, the “page” is a ghost, eerie and intangible.
I cover ground with dark and pointed instrument.
I say, first, white is precious.
I do not mean merely glittering or brilliant:
it is easy to scratch white gulls out of black clouds,
--I love that the poem ends with a comma, allowing us to continue on in our own minds. We try to cover white, blank space with our writing instrument and here we find dark surface being scratched to reveal white, a new perspective on a different colored surface.
Anything you find ugly is good to draw.
--Personally, I just love the sentiment of the line itself. Especially for someone like me who cannot draw to save her life. Drawing something ugly almost takes the pressure off of trying to do the subject justice. It’s a thought you don’t normally encounter and so it creates fresh imagery in my mind which I appreciate.
If you enjoyed this brief sample you may purchase a copy of Eva Heisler’s Drawing Water for $14.00 at:
http://noctuarypress.com
Thanks always for reading, please drop in again next week…
The page is the body of a ghost (but I don’t believe in ghosts).
--This line describes the intimidation of a blank page, in my mind. It is such a simple phrase and yet so poignant as we all stare at blank pages when trying to think of something new to say or write or how to respond, whether it is paper or e-mail or walls, the “page” is a ghost, eerie and intangible.
I cover ground with dark and pointed instrument.
I say, first, white is precious.
I do not mean merely glittering or brilliant:
it is easy to scratch white gulls out of black clouds,
--I love that the poem ends with a comma, allowing us to continue on in our own minds. We try to cover white, blank space with our writing instrument and here we find dark surface being scratched to reveal white, a new perspective on a different colored surface.
Anything you find ugly is good to draw.
--Personally, I just love the sentiment of the line itself. Especially for someone like me who cannot draw to save her life. Drawing something ugly almost takes the pressure off of trying to do the subject justice. It’s a thought you don’t normally encounter and so it creates fresh imagery in my mind which I appreciate.
If you enjoyed this brief sample you may purchase a copy of Eva Heisler’s Drawing Water for $14.00 at:
http://noctuarypress.com
Thanks always for reading, please drop in again next week…
Tuesday, June 4, 2013
Sofisticated White Trash by JJ Campbell
J.J. Campbell’s latest collection, Sofisticated White Trash, is published by Interior Noise Press and is filled with the raucous, the indiscreet, and the kinds of poems that live up to its title. This book is not for the faint-of-heart, Campbell writes the nitty gritty sides of life and tackles a wide range of topics from being the weird guy at the supermarket to sex to the feelings of being down and out. Below are some sample poems:
a day in the life
it was one of those rare occasions
that i actually left my cage
you know
for a few odds and ends
some rays of sunshine
a breath of fresh air
or whatever fucking reason
people go out these days
and it was as soon as i
entered the store that i realized
why i don’t leave my cage
very often anymore.
the purses were held a bit
closer to the chest
children stared and then ran
back to inattentive parents
the quick double glances
followed by hushed voices
“did you see that fucking guy?!”
it felt like my adolescence
all over again
the weirdo, the outcast
the misunderstood non-conformist
the echoes of counselors and parents
“we just don’t see why you don’t
want to fit in”
as this mini-movie was
playing in my head
i put some milk in my cart
a woman strolled past me
that smelled rather nice
instead of playing it cool
and saying “excuse me, what’s that
lovely perfume you’re wearing?”
i sniffed rather loudly
trying to get all of the scent
out of the air
she stopped, looked back at me
gave me that what the fuck
are you doing look
i smiled and she looked away
she walked quickly to
the other end of the store
i began laughing to myself
thought the world was getting
back to normal
i proceeded to the checkout lane
stared off into the distance
watched the people come and go
wondered if one of them
could possibly carrying
a loaded gun
i suppose at the time
the wonder was actually a wish
to my disappointment
i made it out of there alive
minus the money for my items
and the time it took to
weave my path through
the creatures
the wanna be trendy teenagers
the anorexic mothers
the soon to be gay stock boys
and of course, the old women
the old women who make me,
out of the feat that i truly am
a violent motherfucker deep within,
yearn for the comfort of my cage
the very second
i step out of it.
This poem reminds me of any time any of us have felt socially awkward or unkempt in a public space. This poem takes it to a darker extreme, the poet wishing he hadn’t made it out alive after noticing others’ reactions to him. In one sense it is humorous, in another it is dark and tragic.
from my empty bed
someone once told me
if i learned how to dance
i would always have
a woman by my side
and as i write this
from my empty bed
i realize that was one
piece of advice i should
have actually listened to
I like this poem because I love to dance and it’s hard to find men who do. Therefore, listen to the above, all you males in the population out there. Learn how to dance. This is one of those poems I just wanted to share because I like it’s message.
If you enjoyed this sample, you may purchase a copy of J.J. Campbell’s Sofisticated White Trash for $15.00 from Interior Noise Press. *Make sure you get your 25% discount by typing in “MMARCA7Z” so please follow the link below:
http://www.interiornoisepress.com/INP_HP_Campbell.html
Thanks always for reading, please drop in again next week…
a day in the life
it was one of those rare occasions
that i actually left my cage
you know
for a few odds and ends
some rays of sunshine
a breath of fresh air
or whatever fucking reason
people go out these days
and it was as soon as i
entered the store that i realized
why i don’t leave my cage
very often anymore.
the purses were held a bit
closer to the chest
children stared and then ran
back to inattentive parents
the quick double glances
followed by hushed voices
“did you see that fucking guy?!”
it felt like my adolescence
all over again
the weirdo, the outcast
the misunderstood non-conformist
the echoes of counselors and parents
“we just don’t see why you don’t
want to fit in”
as this mini-movie was
playing in my head
i put some milk in my cart
a woman strolled past me
that smelled rather nice
instead of playing it cool
and saying “excuse me, what’s that
lovely perfume you’re wearing?”
i sniffed rather loudly
trying to get all of the scent
out of the air
she stopped, looked back at me
gave me that what the fuck
are you doing look
i smiled and she looked away
she walked quickly to
the other end of the store
i began laughing to myself
thought the world was getting
back to normal
i proceeded to the checkout lane
stared off into the distance
watched the people come and go
wondered if one of them
could possibly carrying
a loaded gun
i suppose at the time
the wonder was actually a wish
to my disappointment
i made it out of there alive
minus the money for my items
and the time it took to
weave my path through
the creatures
the wanna be trendy teenagers
the anorexic mothers
the soon to be gay stock boys
and of course, the old women
the old women who make me,
out of the feat that i truly am
a violent motherfucker deep within,
yearn for the comfort of my cage
the very second
i step out of it.
This poem reminds me of any time any of us have felt socially awkward or unkempt in a public space. This poem takes it to a darker extreme, the poet wishing he hadn’t made it out alive after noticing others’ reactions to him. In one sense it is humorous, in another it is dark and tragic.
from my empty bed
someone once told me
if i learned how to dance
i would always have
a woman by my side
and as i write this
from my empty bed
i realize that was one
piece of advice i should
have actually listened to
I like this poem because I love to dance and it’s hard to find men who do. Therefore, listen to the above, all you males in the population out there. Learn how to dance. This is one of those poems I just wanted to share because I like it’s message.
If you enjoyed this sample, you may purchase a copy of J.J. Campbell’s Sofisticated White Trash for $15.00 from Interior Noise Press. *Make sure you get your 25% discount by typing in “MMARCA7Z” so please follow the link below:
http://www.interiornoisepress.com/INP_HP_Campbell.html
Thanks always for reading, please drop in again next week…
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
A Deep and Gorgeous Thirst by Hosho McCreesh
Hosho McCreesh’s A Deep And Gorgeous Thirst is a collection of poems filled with drunken days and nights that will have you laughing or crying into your own drink, or you’ll want to raise your longneck and clink it so hard against your friend’s that it would shatter to the floor. It has everything a good raucous batch of drunken poems should have: tales of tragedy, comedy, and inspiration. Pour yourself a glass of wine or grab yourself a beer and sit down and enjoy reading. I’m proud to provide a brief sample of this 254 paged collection. I’ll only share two poems since they are long ones, one to make you smile, one to make you hopeful:
Shoshone, Wyoming,
and you and your buddy
are propped up on
two tall barstools.
It's about 1 in the
afternoon at the
Pair-A-Dice bar,
and you still have a
long drive in
front of you.
“Whatcha got on tap?”
you ask, and the owner,
Neil, says they've got
Bud and Bud Light.
“I guess I'll do a Bud,”
you say, reluctant.
“And one for me,”
your buddy says.
And Neil pulls two,
and instantly the glasses
sheet over in an icy film.
“Wow,” you say, “just
how cold do you
keep that stuff?”
And Neil says “Cold as
a well-digger’s ass,”
and you run a
fingernail down the
frosted mug,
peeling the ice
like snake skin,
then take a
few huge gulps,
and it's half gone,
the coldest beer
you have ever had,
and Neil says,
“That’ll be $3,”
and your buddy
slaps down a ten.
“No,” says Neil,
“$3 for both.”
And you say,
“Hot damn,
I guess we
better have
two more,” and
Neil says,
“During Monday Night
Football beers are
half-price.”
And you
realize that there is
a time and a place for
every kind of drunk,
and you tell Neil so.
“So you’re really
a writer?” he says
and you say
“No…but maybe
someday.”
“You should put me
in your book,” and
you promise him
you will, because
this, here, the
Pair-A-Dice Bar
in Shoshone, Wyoming,
is the perfect
ice-cold
Budweiser
drunk.
I love that the poet does credit the barkeep as he says he will. If I’m ever in Shoshone, Wyoming, I’m going to go looking for this Pair-A-Dice Bar, too. On a long road trip, a cold refreshing drink is always in order whether it’s beer or something else. I can imagine this oasis in the middle of a long, long drive and it makes me want to take a road trip myself just to see if I can stumble upon such an establishment.
It’s dinner
with your field boss
and his family
a week or so after
La Vendange,
the youngest passing
much of the evening
drawing pirates, and
making pirate fighting noises,
and when his sweet kids are
off to bed, out comes a special
bottle of handmade marc,
“The last of it,” he says,
explaining that, years ago,
he made a small batch,
and this is his last bottle
and it's part cognac,
part brandy, and
part wine,
and your boss pours you
a measure and you feel
deeply honored, a
glorious nightcap, you think,
following a glorious meal,
and despite the language barrier,
you're both able to
understand each other,
and you respect and admire him,
and you laugh when his wife calls
the vineyard “his mistress,” and
you fall in love with her, and
his kids, and you imagine
living his life, a hard but
honest one, once again
marveling at
how much better
lives are lived here,
how even difficult field work
pays a livable wage,
and how the people are all
so much more than
whatever job they do,
they play instruments, and
know books, and music,
and painting, and sculpture,
and they do most things with
a quiet kind of art and grace,
and of course, they know
how to eat, and drink,
and celebrate, and
how to not worry
too much, and the
mindset is one of
collaboration, of
sharing both
what they have,
and what they are
with the world,
and with each other,
and you can't help but think
that America could
certainly do with
a little bit
more
of that
This poem makes me relish the lives of the family the poet has joined. How I wish for all the world to lead exactly this life and it creates a wistful feeling in the reader of hoping for a better working life, a better home life. I also wonder what country the poet is visiting? I imagine Italy or France with the mention of vineyards but you never know. What a wonderful world this would be if we could all share our lives together more creatively and honestly.
This collection, A Deep and Gorgeous Thirst by Hosho McCreesh will be published and available for purchase this Summer so keep track of the time by visiting:
http://www.hoshomccreesh.com/HMsite/Gorgeous.html
Thanks always for reading, please drop in again next week…
Shoshone, Wyoming,
and you and your buddy
are propped up on
two tall barstools.
It's about 1 in the
afternoon at the
Pair-A-Dice bar,
and you still have a
long drive in
front of you.
“Whatcha got on tap?”
you ask, and the owner,
Neil, says they've got
Bud and Bud Light.
“I guess I'll do a Bud,”
you say, reluctant.
“And one for me,”
your buddy says.
And Neil pulls two,
and instantly the glasses
sheet over in an icy film.
“Wow,” you say, “just
how cold do you
keep that stuff?”
And Neil says “Cold as
a well-digger’s ass,”
and you run a
fingernail down the
frosted mug,
peeling the ice
like snake skin,
then take a
few huge gulps,
and it's half gone,
the coldest beer
you have ever had,
and Neil says,
“That’ll be $3,”
and your buddy
slaps down a ten.
“No,” says Neil,
“$3 for both.”
And you say,
“Hot damn,
I guess we
better have
two more,” and
Neil says,
“During Monday Night
Football beers are
half-price.”
And you
realize that there is
a time and a place for
every kind of drunk,
and you tell Neil so.
“So you’re really
a writer?” he says
and you say
“No…but maybe
someday.”
“You should put me
in your book,” and
you promise him
you will, because
this, here, the
Pair-A-Dice Bar
in Shoshone, Wyoming,
is the perfect
ice-cold
Budweiser
drunk.
I love that the poet does credit the barkeep as he says he will. If I’m ever in Shoshone, Wyoming, I’m going to go looking for this Pair-A-Dice Bar, too. On a long road trip, a cold refreshing drink is always in order whether it’s beer or something else. I can imagine this oasis in the middle of a long, long drive and it makes me want to take a road trip myself just to see if I can stumble upon such an establishment.
It’s dinner
with your field boss
and his family
a week or so after
La Vendange,
the youngest passing
much of the evening
drawing pirates, and
making pirate fighting noises,
and when his sweet kids are
off to bed, out comes a special
bottle of handmade marc,
“The last of it,” he says,
explaining that, years ago,
he made a small batch,
and this is his last bottle
and it's part cognac,
part brandy, and
part wine,
and your boss pours you
a measure and you feel
deeply honored, a
glorious nightcap, you think,
following a glorious meal,
and despite the language barrier,
you're both able to
understand each other,
and you respect and admire him,
and you laugh when his wife calls
the vineyard “his mistress,” and
you fall in love with her, and
his kids, and you imagine
living his life, a hard but
honest one, once again
marveling at
how much better
lives are lived here,
how even difficult field work
pays a livable wage,
and how the people are all
so much more than
whatever job they do,
they play instruments, and
know books, and music,
and painting, and sculpture,
and they do most things with
a quiet kind of art and grace,
and of course, they know
how to eat, and drink,
and celebrate, and
how to not worry
too much, and the
mindset is one of
collaboration, of
sharing both
what they have,
and what they are
with the world,
and with each other,
and you can't help but think
that America could
certainly do with
a little bit
more
of that
This poem makes me relish the lives of the family the poet has joined. How I wish for all the world to lead exactly this life and it creates a wistful feeling in the reader of hoping for a better working life, a better home life. I also wonder what country the poet is visiting? I imagine Italy or France with the mention of vineyards but you never know. What a wonderful world this would be if we could all share our lives together more creatively and honestly.
This collection, A Deep and Gorgeous Thirst by Hosho McCreesh will be published and available for purchase this Summer so keep track of the time by visiting:
http://www.hoshomccreesh.com/HMsite/Gorgeous.html
Thanks always for reading, please drop in again next week…
Wednesday, May 15, 2013
Poems Found by Poet Hound
https://sites.google.com/site/whiteknucklechaps/john-dutterer/in-the-center-of-an-asian-supermarket-there-is-a-black-hole-1
“In the Center of an Asian Market There is a Black Hole” by John Dutterer
https://sites.google.com/site/whiteknucklechaps/john-dutterer/nuclear-appalachia/yukon/in-memory-of-ruben-gonzalez
“In Memory of Ruben Gozales” by John Dutterer
Thanks for clicking in, please stop by again next week…
“In the Center of an Asian Market There is a Black Hole” by John Dutterer
https://sites.google.com/site/whiteknucklechaps/john-dutterer/nuclear-appalachia/yukon/in-memory-of-ruben-gonzalez
“In Memory of Ruben Gozales” by John Dutterer
Thanks for clicking in, please stop by again next week…
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
Palimpsest by Kristina Marie Darling
Kristina Marie Darling’s collection, palimpsest, is published by Patasola Press and the definition of the word perfectly describes its interior: “a parchment or the like from which writing has been partially or completely erased to make room for another text.” Darling is known for her footnotes, appendixes, glossaries and this collection includes the same wonders as previous texts. This collection also includes chapters to a story we long to hear more of. What I love about Kristina Marie Darling’s work is that it ultimately touches a chord in you while allowing you the space to dream up your own world that she’s created, it becomes personal and yet shared with the writer who is also an artist with words. Below I am happy to share a sample of her work:
From Chapter Two:
4. An early twentieth-century stage play, in which the heroine professed to see Zukofsky’s ghost in her intricately embellished teacup.
5. “I had wanted to bottle the cold white light that shone through the kitchen window. Soon every spoon was glittering in the little wooden drawer.”
6. She realized that her desire to entertain, rather than the physical presence of a guest, was the cause of her recurring dream.
Darling mentions Zukofsky, an American poet who pushed the limits of language, in the first line of this page. I imagine his image as being the inspiration to the narrator in Chapter Two and that his ghostly presence watches over her shoulder as she moves about her daily life, such as noticing the spoons glittering in the white light of the kitchen window and the ties to a recurring dream we don’t know about. Darling lets our minds expand to accommodate our own story line and I picture myself in my own kitchen thinking of inspiring writers while pulling open my own kitchen drawers looking for something I cannot find. I always wish to know more of the story that is in her own mind to see how her mind’s inner workings translate to these pages.
From: Notes on the Dagerreotype: Its Appearance and Origins
She remembered that the shutter failed to close. Then music. His cufflink catching on the hem of her blue silk dress.
*
Soon the guests began to arrive. Her sister arranging madeleines on the most intricately embellished plates.
*
The audience grew larger and larger. Yet his presentation of the daguerreotype was marked by unprecedented sincerity. Its lucid glass and painstakingly lettered inscription.
*
Within the room, an uneasy stillness. Her cold white hands. The phonograph spinning beneath a glittering needle.
*
She affixed the daguerreotype to her bedroom wall. Nights she thought of the mercury embedded in its luminous image.
*
That was when the room grew dim. The shadow of her dress spreading out across the wall. His image suspended in an inexplicable light.
The daguerreotype is defined as: “an obsolete photographic process, invented in 1839, in which a picture made on a silver surface sensitized with iodine was developed by exposure to mercury vapor.” I imagine a grand hall with a presenter and all the audience members riveted by this process being explained to them. I love how Darling captures small moments such as “sister arranging madeleines on the most intricately embellished plates” and how this describes the type of people who would come to such a lecture. Darling creates a romantic image with lines such as “the shadow of her dress spreading out across the wall” as the main character affixes “the daguerreotype to her bedroom wall.” It makes me want to live the scene itself and find the wonder and magic in it all.
If you enjoyed this brief sample, you may purchase a copy of Kristina Marie Darling’s palimpsest for $12.00 at:
http://www.amazon.com/Palimpsest-Kristina-Marie-Darling/dp/0615783988
Thanks always for reading, please click in tomorrow for more Poems Found by Poet Hound…
From Chapter Two:
4. An early twentieth-century stage play, in which the heroine professed to see Zukofsky’s ghost in her intricately embellished teacup.
5. “I had wanted to bottle the cold white light that shone through the kitchen window. Soon every spoon was glittering in the little wooden drawer.”
6. She realized that her desire to entertain, rather than the physical presence of a guest, was the cause of her recurring dream.
Darling mentions Zukofsky, an American poet who pushed the limits of language, in the first line of this page. I imagine his image as being the inspiration to the narrator in Chapter Two and that his ghostly presence watches over her shoulder as she moves about her daily life, such as noticing the spoons glittering in the white light of the kitchen window and the ties to a recurring dream we don’t know about. Darling lets our minds expand to accommodate our own story line and I picture myself in my own kitchen thinking of inspiring writers while pulling open my own kitchen drawers looking for something I cannot find. I always wish to know more of the story that is in her own mind to see how her mind’s inner workings translate to these pages.
From: Notes on the Dagerreotype: Its Appearance and Origins
She remembered that the shutter failed to close. Then music. His cufflink catching on the hem of her blue silk dress.
*
Soon the guests began to arrive. Her sister arranging madeleines on the most intricately embellished plates.
*
The audience grew larger and larger. Yet his presentation of the daguerreotype was marked by unprecedented sincerity. Its lucid glass and painstakingly lettered inscription.
*
Within the room, an uneasy stillness. Her cold white hands. The phonograph spinning beneath a glittering needle.
*
She affixed the daguerreotype to her bedroom wall. Nights she thought of the mercury embedded in its luminous image.
*
That was when the room grew dim. The shadow of her dress spreading out across the wall. His image suspended in an inexplicable light.
The daguerreotype is defined as: “an obsolete photographic process, invented in 1839, in which a picture made on a silver surface sensitized with iodine was developed by exposure to mercury vapor.” I imagine a grand hall with a presenter and all the audience members riveted by this process being explained to them. I love how Darling captures small moments such as “sister arranging madeleines on the most intricately embellished plates” and how this describes the type of people who would come to such a lecture. Darling creates a romantic image with lines such as “the shadow of her dress spreading out across the wall” as the main character affixes “the daguerreotype to her bedroom wall.” It makes me want to live the scene itself and find the wonder and magic in it all.
If you enjoyed this brief sample, you may purchase a copy of Kristina Marie Darling’s palimpsest for $12.00 at:
http://www.amazon.com/Palimpsest-Kristina-Marie-Darling/dp/0615783988
Thanks always for reading, please click in tomorrow for more Poems Found by Poet Hound…
Saturday, May 11, 2013
Sister Blood and Bone by Yours Truly Now Available from Blood Pudding Press
I'm very proud to announce my latest poetry collection inspired by my dear sister, Lisa Cary, titled Sister Blood and Bone. Published by Juliet Cook of Blood Pudding Press, I have ten wonderful poems inside and there is a sample poem on the website below if you'd like to take a look. The cover art is beautiful and a copy costs a mere $7.00 at:
http://www.etsy.com/listing/150775648/sister-blood-and-bone-by-paula-cary-new?ref=shop_home_active
I thank all of you for your support of the blog and for your inspiration to keep me writing. Please drop in later this week for another featured poet...
http://www.etsy.com/listing/150775648/sister-blood-and-bone-by-paula-cary-new?ref=shop_home_active
I thank all of you for your support of the blog and for your inspiration to keep me writing. Please drop in later this week for another featured poet...
Saturday, April 27, 2013
Pledge to Support Alternating Current
Leah Angstman of Alternating Current is seeking support to keep her vital and valuable small press running. I have made my pledge and I urge you to please watch the video on the link below and make a pledge. Stick with the small press, editors like Leah Angstman aren't afraid to take on new writers and that is so vital to all writers' and readers' survival of receiving fresh perspectives, poems, stories, and revelations.
Please click and follow the link below:
http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1484753732/poiesis-6-and-footnote-1
Please click and follow the link below:
http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1484753732/poiesis-6-and-footnote-1
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