Read A Good Book: The Mermaids Singing by Lisa Carey

This book was a gift from my father simply because my little sister’s name is Lisa. He had no idea what it was about but thought it looked interesting and I am so glad he gave it to me several years ago because it is an incredible story about three generations of Irish women and personal and intertwining lives.

In The Mermaids Singing, Clionna is the grandmother who comes to America to find Grainne, her granddaughter, to take her back to Inis Muruch, Ireland when Grace passes away from cancer. You learn about all three women’s private lives and what makes them who they are. Grace had rebelled against her mother and then fought with the love of her life in Ireland and came to America to make a new life for her and Grainne. Teenage Grainne remembers nothing of Ireland and hardly knew she had a grandmother named Clionna in Ireland when she is summoned to accompany her back “home” to Ireland. Grainne struggles to fit in to a new country and struggles with the idea of meeting her father for the first time. Clionna herself must find a way to share her love and emotion with a young girl she has always desperately wanted to know and can finally reconnect with. We learn about the lives of all three women, their struggle or embrace of their sexuality with the men they fall in love with, the rise and fall of emotions as they struggle to connect to their family members.

The Mermaids Singing by Lisa Carey is an intense and beautiful story that is definitely in my top ten list of books that I enjoy reading over and over again. I highly recommend this to all women who seek and struggle with connection to the female family members in their lives and who struggle with love and relationships. It is all here in an amazing story.

If you enjoyed reading about this book you may find a copy in your local library of purchase a copy for yourself through links on Lisa Carey’s web-site by using the link below:

http://www.lisacarey.net/ms_buy.php


To learn more about the author and her writing, visit her site at:

http://www.lisacarey.net/about_about.php


Thanks always for reading, please stop in again next week…

Steel Toe Review Open Submissions

This is a journal based in Birmingham, Alabama, that enjoys reading poetry, fiction, and more from all over the world. The guidelines specify that you may send your poems elsewhere but please let them know if they are accepted elsewhere. You must submit using their on-line submissions link, make sure you include your personal information when submitting and I would recommend 3-5 poems as that is a typical number to send. To learn more and to use the on-line submissions link, go to:

http://steeltoereview.com/submissions/

Good luck to all who submit, please stop in tomorrow for another good book review…

Poems Found by Poet Hound

https://sites.google.com/site/howiegood2011chap/3-tiny-heart-attacks
“Tiny Heart Attacks” by Howie Good


http://steeltoereview.com/2011/08/13/%e2%80%9cif-i-rise%e2%80%9d-by-amit-parmessur/
“If I Rise” by Amit Parmessur


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The Bulk of the Mailable Universe by Jules Gibbs

The Bulk of the Mailable Universe by Jules Gibbs is published by Dancing Girl Press and contains poems that are layered in meaning. I would recommend reading this through at least twice as you will pick up on more layers the second time around. Jules Gibbs currently lives in Syracuse, New York, and enjoys teaching poetry to adults and children. The title of the collection is what caught my eye as I absolutely love snail mail (not the bills kind, the letters-from-friends-and-family kind) and was delightfully satiated to read the contents. The poems greet you with words you do not see or hear every day yet are familiar such as “concordant, tycoon, slake.” These are words that make me want to reach out and touch them, experience them more in every day life. Then as you read there are layers that peel away as you understand them more with each reading. Below are a few I am happy to share with you:


Tussle

Deep in the jejunum, factory
of post-vertebral reasoning,
a concordant tome
produces a quasar, a nolo
prow for the cocky free speech
of her conceptual A posse.

The historic nonstandard
of her one congratulatory chromosome
says: You’re blocked; he’s Virgo
as any jellyfish, recherché, hopes you’re free.

Volcano at fifteen, she’s a woman
by reprisal, catalyst
doing battle, unashamed
as an evening gazette corrigendum.

It’s like the last rational brain cell
Whispering to a girl gone wild: Tussle,
you got some time—your future depends on it.

As many other girls have discovered
the hard way,
there’s nothing worse than creating
an expectation — then failing to deliver.

This poem makes me think of teenage girls coming into their own. The “congratulatory chromosome” that makes them female instead of male, “Volcano at fifteen” that describes their energy and feelings as they learn how to present themselves and strive to become what they hope to become. The ending stanza is a perfect way to encapsulate the experience of a girl trying to find herself: trying to become a particular someone or something and then being unable to fulfill it in other people’s eyes and/or their own. It’s an excellent poem that uses layers and imagery rather than direct language. Beautiful.



Ones and Ohs

Our system is supported by Mom
and another girl photo coming
soon. You need the most recent version of Flash
to get Catwoman, Gwen, D.C. comics—
everything comes with a rating: hottest
hotties stuffing age between biography—
Natalia, Jessica, Pamela, Beyonce’—
even Sharon Stone was saved
by post-sitcom success.

A girl named Ellora was born
on the 22nd of June in a hospital
just outside Paris. Already
she cries in four languages,
ones and ohs while a storm
marvels the beach in L.A.,
covers the sand that beat
Britney’s jailbait in the face,
Broadcast to the world. And still
she out-charts Christina.

I interpret this poem to mean that all women can become a star thanks to the internet, thanks to the ones and ohs of computers that can place in our faces the stars of every-day life on television, music, and now our own lives. While we may recognize the names in the first stanza there is background provided for Ellora: a baby girl born to parents who apparently speak four languages between them if you see the reference about crying in four languages. The first lines in the first stanza I interpret to mean that the Mom will be posting photos of her new daughter soon and post them on the internet just as so many starlets are found, whether they deserve the fame or not, on-line. In an era like ours, everyone’s pictures and daily lives are broadcast to the world, it’s a poem that high-lights the closing gap between everyday people, celebrities, and pop-culture.



If you enjoyed this short sample of poems as much as I enjoyed its entire collection you may purchase a copy of The Bulk of the Mailable Universe by Jules Gibbs at Dancing Girl Press for $7.00 using the link below:

http://dulcetshop.ecrater.com/p/11517243/jules-gibbs-bulk-of-the-mailable

Thanks always for reading, please click in tomorrow for more Poems Found by Poet Hound

Very Like A Whale Site

Nic Sebastian has wonderful commentary on making video poems, insights into other people’s inspirations, provides opportunities for you to send your own, and much more at this delightful blog, check it out at: http://verylikeawhale.wordpress.com/ Thanks for clicking in, please stop by tomorrow for another featured poet…

Read A Good Book: The Diving Pool by Yoko Ogawa and translated by Stephen Snyder

If you like mysterious story-telling this is a wonderful book. Written originally in 1990 and 1991 by Yoko Ogawa there are three novellas titled: The Diving Pool, Pregnancy Diary, and Dormitory. Stephen Snyder translated these stories in 2008 and the book in my hand is the result of his work. My father in law sent this collection to us and each story is gripping, fantastical, and they will crawl inside your head and stay there.

The Diving Pool is my favorite of the collection. The main character is a young girl whose parents run an orphanage and tend to leave their biological daughter to her own devices. The girl herself has a fascination and secret crush on one of the boys living there, his name is Jun, and he is a diver on the swim team at school. The girl constantly observes Jun’s good behavior and admires him deeply while she herself feels she is not well-behaved and acts accordingly. The twist at the end, which I will not give away, is startling and heartbreaking. The story has crawled inside my head and has stayed there coming to the front of my mind with startling clarity at the oddest moments in time.

The second story, the Pregnancy Diary, is about a woman keeping a diary about her sister’s pregnancy. She catalogs her sister’s comments about food and smells, the clinic she visits, and recounts memories of going into an abandoned clinic and poking around. The sisters had seen the instruments, the tables, they had snuck around inside and all of these memories influence the diary. There is a twist at the end that leaves you wondering what is real and what is imagination.

The last story called Dormitory is one that has crawled inside my father-in-law’s head and stayed there. This one is about a woman visiting an old college dormitory that her young, male cousin is interested in living in. The woman visits the dormitory’s Manager who explains that this particular dormitory has changed and may be deteriorating but welcomes the cousin to move in. Mysterious things begin when the Manager admits a boy disappeared without a trace and the Manager becomes increasingly strange himself with each visit by our main character. I cannot give much more away but it is a strange ending that gives no relief yet will stay indelibly inked in your memory.



If you enjoyed this review, I urge you to find a copy of The Diving Pool by Yoko Ogawa, translated by Stepehn Snyder, at your local library. To purchase a copy of this book you can visit your local book-store or visit Amazon.com using the link below:

http://www.amazon.com/Diving-Pool-Three-Novellas/dp/0312426836/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1314454809&sr=8-1

Thanks always for reading, please drop in again next week...

Typo Magazine Open Submissions

You may send up to six poems all in a single document through their on-line submissions manager. Please be sure to include your contact information within the document of the poems you send and while they don’t request a bio it is always a good idea to include at least a short one.

For more details, go to:

http://typo.submishmash.com/submit/1038/account

Good luck to all who submit, please stop in tomorrow for a featured good book…

Poems Found by Poet Hound

http://juked.com/2011/06/florida.asp
“Florida” by William Stephenson


http://www.alicebluereview.org/main.html
“Dear Lillian” by Colleen McCarthy


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Nerve Cowboy Issue 31

I always enjoy reading Nerve Cowboy and this issue is packed with stories, poems, and art meant to shake up your attention span. There are always poems that are shocking and this issue has some real stunners. One poem in particular is about a man and how he handles his father’s ashes. You’ll have to snag an issue for yourself to read that particular poem. In the meantime, here are several that also piqued my interest:


Kerouac Spodiodi, Bukowski Wine

At age 15 I began to write stories on my father’s
1942 Underwood, hunt and pecked up to 5 pages
long starring a perky protagonist resembling Debbie
Reynolds in love with heroes wise as Abe Lincoln.
Mailed them off to Saturday Evening Post, McCall’s,
Collier’s, Redbook, Ladies Home Journal, Seventeen
magazine and waited for the $1000 check to arrive,
enough for a year’s rent, a trip to New York City to
sip Spodiodi with Jack Kerouac and by age 20 my
rejection slip pile stood high enough for a game of
Old Maid and when my life turned crazy, my days
ran away and I became a vegetarian holding on to
the wheel of a quivering meat conception, at age 35,
I learned to type up to 100 wpm on my IBM Selectric,
so I wrote 20-page stories and sold my first for $50,
barely enough for a week’s rent and a bus ride to L.A.
to chug wine with Charles Bukowski. Age 40, at last
I sold a story to Paris Review for $275, only 2 week’s
rent by then. And now I’ve got a computer, can blab
blog a story or more a day, but publishers can barely
pay their own rent anymore so they send me instead
of money comp copies of their magazines containing
my stories I tuck away neatly into boxes beneath the
coffee table, my impecunious stories, my millions of
words, clever idioms, hyperbole and denouements
starring perky Debbie Reynolds and brave Honest Abe
Free Rent, mere cheeseburgers and beer- for silverfish.

By: Joan Jobe Smith of Long Beach, CA

When you are a writer of any kind I believe you go through very similar experiences above. You send out your work and dream of bigger things and when success comes it is not quite as large as your runaway imagination had you believe yet you keep on sending and dreaming, sending and accepting reality.




The Last Time My Mother Read Me Jack and the Beanstalk
--for E. W., 1925-2010

There should have been a harp playing
to honor the singing one Jack stole.
There should have been a glass of milk

to celebrate the cow Jack swapped for beans,
and a ladder to symbolize upward mobility.
There should have been a glow to simulate

the giant’s stolen gold, and pancakes
to commemorate his wife, who fed Jack breakfast,
and saved him from her husband’s appetite.

I’d never read Carl Jung, or dreamed
that Jack’s life-themes would be my own:
valuing beans others despise; being small

but lethal (in my mind); clever (but shallow?);
less concerned with Right than right-for-me
and-mine; always trying to shine for women-

each a version of my mom, who’d sit me
in her lap and read Jack any time I liked.
Today, I wish I’d liked more often.

Sure as hens laid golden eggs, harps
Screamed, and giants thundered
between earth and sky, I thought happily

ever after (which should have tolled
as bagpipes keened) meant, and always would,
my mom and me.

By: Charles Harper Webb of Glendale, CA

This one definitely tugged at my heart-strings, what can I say? A man paying tribute to his mother is a wonderful thing to read. A timeless tale that almost everyone I know has either heard because it was read to them or because they read it to someone else is romanticized by the poet above and shared with us. Comparing the story of Jack to his own life, the poet shares his new perspective on the tale of Jack and of the time shared with his mother. I love this poem and now I want the tale of Jack and the Beanstalk read to me again.



Repeating Myself

Repetition in poetry is beautiful
but at the reference desk
it is painful.

Computer lab?
Go straight back past the stairs.
You’ll see glass doors on your left.
Go through them into the computer lab.

Change for a dollar?
Checkout desk.

Can I use your phone?
No. There are pay phones down the hallway to your right.

Stapler? Scissors? Tape? 3-Hole Punch?
Chained to the table behind me.

I know I have beautiful eyes.
The ring on my left hand indicates that I’m married.
No, I will not go out with you.

Between these interactions
I think of Ron Padgett’s poem “Nothing In That Drawer”
where every repeated line comes out slightly different.

Or Gary Snyder’s “is this our body?...this is our body”
from his poem “The Bath”
where repetition transforms question
into mythic proclamation.

Or Diane Wakoski’s
“it is blue
it is blue
it is blue”
in “Blue Monday”

Pencil?
Pencil?
Pencil?
Unfortunately, our budget doesn’t allow us to buy pencils for patron use.
There is a pen
chained to my desk
that you can use.

By: Heather Abner of Brighton, MI

This poem makes me grin wide. I like seeing things from the other side. While I approach reference desks for directions it is nice to catch a glimpse of the reference desk worker’s perspective. I can picture the poet rolling her eyes with each repetition, the constant and unchanging needs of the patrons and I am curious to know which library or building she works in and why absolutely everything is chained down. The stapler, three hole punch, even the pen, all chained to her desk so that no one, not even the reference desk worker, can borrow them outside of that very desk.




If you enjoyed these sample poems, each issue of Nerve Cowboy is $6.00 or you can subscribe for two years for the more than reasonable price of $22.00. I have been a subscriber for four years now and I highly recommend them. The editors are also the type of editors who look for new and unpublished poets so I feel that reader support is vital for this particular journal. For more details, visit their website at:

http://www.jwhagins.com/nervecowboy.html

Thanks always for reading, please click in tomorrow for more Poems Found by Poet Hound…

Mann Library's Daily Haiku

Posted from Cornell there is new haiku posted by Tom Clausen each and every day. Check out the daily inspiring poems at:

http://haiku.mannlib.cornell.edu/


Thanks for clicking in, please stop in tomorrow for another featured journal…

Read A Good Book: The Millionaire Next Door by Thomas Stanley and William Danko

This may seem an odd choice for a poetry blog but we all read more than just poetry, right? I have grown up reading finance books since I was 12 thanks to my father who was always learning how to invest and save on his own. He also sought advice from people smarter than himself. This book was given to me in the 1990’s when I was a young teenager, my father wanted to show me who truly wealthy people are.

Truly wealthy people are not the ones you see on television driving fancy cars, wearing the latest designer clothes, in fact, the people you see spending money like crazy are not wealthy. They just spend.

This book shows you the real side of wealth: the people who buy sensible cars, homes, clothes, who often own their own business and/or work in a place that does not require fancy attire such as plumbing businesses or factories. They compare families who have similar professions (doctors, for example) yet they have different spending habits and the results are enlightening. The moral of the story is to live below your means and steadily build your savings and wealth for retirement. Flashy things only indicate spending, not true wealth. True millionaires clip coupons; that is why they have a million or more in the bank instead of in their house or vehicles. The dollar holds real value and is the key to a bright future.

As a teenager this had a huge impact on the way I looked at other people. I stopped begging my parents for the latest clothes and saved up my own money towards things I really wanted in the future or for a rainy day. I learned to value money the way it should be valued: As a means to achieving your dreams and providing security in the lean times or old age. I also had fewer fits of jealousy over friends and families that I knew who had nicer things than us in our neighborhood. When it came time to go to college quite a few of the students who had flashy clothes and cars could not go to college without student loans and eventual debt. My parents were able to provide for my college and trust me, my parents did not wear designer clothes, and our fanciest car was a Firehawk that was six years old by the time I left for college. Otherwise we had Chevys and Jeeps, not Jaguars and Lexus. Saving their money for my college education was a much better investment to them than buying the latest cars, clothes, or techno-gadgets.

I highly recommend this book in these troubled times to gain perspective on money itself. There will always be the Joneses but what you don’t realize is how the Joneses handicap their abilities for a secure future. How many 65-80 year olds do you know that are working because they can’t afford to retire? If you start paying attention, you will realize that people are often not what they seem. Most spend everything they have as a way to impress others or because they do not understand the concept that one day they need money saved up for when they are frail and/or sick.

I could go on for pages about this book. I re-read it whenever I am in despair over my own spending/saving habits. It is always refreshing and eye-opening. If you would like a copy for yourself The Millionaire Next Door by Thomas Stanley and William Danko may be in your local library, book-store, or you can buy it on-line here:

http://www.amazon.com/Millionaire-Next-Door-Surprising-Americas/dp/1589795474/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1313851073&sr=8-1

Thanks always for reading, please stop by again next week…

Dancing Girl Press Open Chapbook Submissions

This may be a bit short notice unless you have a chapbook ready to go: The contest ends August 31st to submit a chapbook to Dancing Girl Press’ Chapbook contest!

You may submit manuscripts between 12 and 32 pages, numbered accordingly, with one poem per page as a Microsoft Word attachment via e-mail to editor Kristy Bowen at:

dancinggirlpressATyahooDOTcom

No simultaneous submissions, I also recommend titling your e-mail in the subject line as “Chapbook Submission/Your Last Name.”

Good luck to all who submit, please stop in tomorrow for another Read A Good Book feature…

Poems Found by Poet Hound

https://sites.google.com/site/43brhp/nm-ivan-offski
“New Mexico” by Jay Passer

https://sites.google.com/site/43brhp/tx-karen-greenbaum-maya
“Texas” by Karen Greenbaum-Maya


Thanks for clicking in, please stop by tomorrow for more Open Submissions…

The Madre Bones by Amy Fetzer Larakers

The Madres Bones by Amy Fetzer Larakers is published by Dancing Girl Press and is a lively collection of poems that encompass the every day life of the suburbs to the whimsical lives of children finding adventure. The poems embrace the ordinary every day and the magical unknown. Amy Fetzer Larakers poems have appeared in blossombones and Near South, she has an MA in English from the University of Illinois at Chicago and lives in Wheaton, Illinois. Below I am happy to share a few poems:

It begins in Anise
and ends in Asheville

these things we call homes skins & plywood, insignificant fabric
minor tones that sing inside our heads. Paper bags filled
with artichoke, papaya a loud humming. The beginning was
small of failed namings forget-me-knots splashing
petals down our throats. The weeds grow in thicker
next to the highway a warning or a slow growing. Mornings
seem like ours, quiet quiet white nothings. We push strollers
loaded down with cans of black-eyed peas. The road keeps being
black. A strip of licorice. A long lonely taste.

This poem reminds me of suburbia. The poet gazes up and down her neighborhood for inspiration and writes what she sees and feels. I love the line “these things we call homes skins & plywood.” Skins could imply the outer layer of the building or the human element. The paper bags filled with fruits I picture on kitchen counter tops all through the neighborhood. The world outside is quiet save for the mothers pushing strollers “loaded down with cans of black-eyed peas” which makes me wonder if there is a nearby grocery or corner store? It’s a painting of words to me about the suburbs and I very much enjoyed it.



Heading South

Renegade the highway. We sprout iridescent fins, shedding
bones. Breathe.

Inching through back yards on pinched streets. Sheets on
gossamer grass, wings in our eyes.

Are we (you and I, them) real? Amid cumuli and trailer parks,
bee’s wax and post offices,

voices, blue as rain, fall on juniper branches. Can you feel the
cracks in the window leaking moon.

Skin of sycamore, white smell of weddings. I wrap my legs around
your bowed trunk.

The dogwoods have us dancing shapes. Rosepoint vines climb
up your inky ankle.

When the birds chirp “morning” it means lemons mounded round.
We walk paths bending into pine cones, forget our secrets.

Songs in B flat hopscotch the pavement. Cerulean crayons stain
glass. Whose fingers on my alabaster thigh.

The ending goes like this: we consume each other, reckless and
Lovely as springtime kudzu.

This poem is a kaleidoscope of sights, sounds, and smells in the midst of love-making in Spring time. I love the idea of back yards on pinched streets, as though the idea of hiding yourself in the folds of love was difficult in a small world, a small neighborhood. The trees and vines are earthy and are compared to the warm bodies intertwined showcasing the natural allure of love. The line that struck me hardest was “Are we (you and I, them) real?” because when love is intense it feels like a dream, and this is exactly the phrase for it. Ms. Larakers poem strikes all the right chords in this poem.



7.

The river girls have legs as brown
as mud. They wear short shorts and eat
baked beans for breakfast. On the Ogle County
freeway, they gaze at the No Passing Zone,
imagine the beautiful yellow sign in their arms.
They smile as men in pick-ups drive by
and make trails in the cornstalks that lead
to each other. On their way home they stop
by the Rock River Christian Camp
and steal bibles from the chapel.

This is one of a series of poems about “the river girls.” This one makes me smile wide as I imagine a group of young friends traipsing far beyond the safety of their yards to the freeway, their mothers hardly knowing what antics their girls are up to. I especially love the fact that the girls return to steal bibles, it is portrayed in such a casual and innocent way, just like the girls themselves. It reminds me of my own young girlhood days of summers spent wandering far beyond where parents would know to look and of days of going to church groups (often against my will) and I think I would have liked to steal bibles as a way to rebel against the adults in my life. The entire series of river girls poems are wonderful, this one struck a particular memory of mine and so I chose to reveal this one in the series.



I hope you enjoy these poems as much as I do. To purchase a copy for yourself, The Madre Bones by Amy Fetzer Larakers is a mere $7.00, available by this link with the convenience of PayPal through Dancing Girl Press at:

http://dulcetshop.ecrater.com/p/9529903/amy-fetzer-larakers-the-madre


To visit and learn more about Dancing Girl Press go to:

http://www.dancinggirlpress.com/


Thanks always for reading, please click in tomorrow for more Poems Found by Poet Hound…

Forgotten Bookmarks Site

If this doesn’t inspire you to write poetry I don’t know what will! All I know is a man named Michael runs this blog and works in a used book-store sorting through books and plucking out all the interesting finds inside and posts them on his web-site. From post cards to book marks to scrawled recipes, it is all here. Check it out at:

http://www.forgottenbookmarks.com/

Thanks for clicking in, please drop by tomorrow for another featured poet…