In the dew-saturated foot-high blades of grass, we stand amongst a sea
of foals, mare and foal, mare and foal, all over the soft hillsidFOALING SEASON
1
In the dew-saturated foot-high blades of grass, we stand amongst a sea
of foals, mare and foal, mare and foal, all over the soft hillside there are twos,
small duos ringing harmoniously in the cold, swallows diving in and out, their fabled
forked tail where the story says the fireball hit it as it flew to bring fire to humanity.
Our friend the Irishman drives us in the Gator to sit amongst them. Everywhere doubles
of horses still leaning on each other, still nuzzling and curious with each new image.
2
Two female horses, retired mares, separated by a sliding barn door, nose each other.
Neither of them will get pregnant again, their job is to just be a horse. Sometimes,
though, they cling to one another, find a friend and will whine all night for the friend
to be released. Through the gate, the noses touch, and you can almost hear—
Are you okay? Are you okay?
3
I will never be a mother.
That’s all. That’s the whole thought.
I could say it returns to me, watching the horses.
Which is true.
But also I could say that it came to me
as the swallows circled us over and over,
something about that myth of their tail,
how generosity is punished by the gods.
But isn’t that going too far? I saw a mare
with her foal, and then many mares
with many foals, and I thought, simply:
I will never be a mother.
4
One foal is a biter, and you must watch him as he bares his teeth and goes for the soft spot. He’s brilliant, leggy, and comes right at me, as if directed by some greater gravity, and I stand firm, and put my hand out first, rub the long white marking on his forehead, silence his need for biting with affection. I love his selfishness, our selfishness, the two of us testing each other, swallows all around us. Every now and then, his teeth come at me once again; he wants to teach me something, wants to get me where it hurts.
Still really enjoy Limón's work. I think her poems are quite touching. I also relate to her. Highly recommend this and Bright Dead Things....more
A good book of poetry by the Korean-American author Franny Choi.
Mainly deals with racism, the U.S. bombing of Japan in WWII, the death of Choi's boyfrA good book of poetry by the Korean-American author Franny Choi.
Mainly deals with racism, the U.S. bombing of Japan in WWII, the death of Choi's boyfriend, and the apocalypse.
It's pretty dark and depressing. But good. Compelling.
DISASTER MEANS "WITHOUT A STAR"
Sixty-six million years after the end of the world, I click purchase on an emergency go bag from Amazon. When it arrives, I’ll use my teeth to tear open the plastic, unzip the pack stitched by girls who look like me but for their N95s, half a judgment day away, no evacuation plan in sight.
Another episode of the present tense, and I can’t stop thinking about the timeline where the asteroid misses, Earth ruled eternally by the car-hearted and walnut-brained. Meanwhile, I’m merely gorging on the butterfly effects of ashes, ashes; reaching for the oat milk
while, hundreds of feet below, a chalk line marks the moment we were all doomed. We were done for. We were science fiction before science, or fiction. One billion judgment days later, I’m alive and ashamed of my purchases; I’m afraid of being afraid; I’m the world’s worst mother.
My sister calls, and it’s already too late for things to be better. Every mistake, an asteroid that’s already hit, history already mushroomed into one million species of unfit, their fossilized corpses already forming coastlines, austere offices. This year was a layer cake of catastrophe long before any of us could,
biologically speaking, have been imagined. Human History, a front parlor infinitely painted over with massacre, and into the fray came I, highly allergic, quick to cry, and armed with fat fists of need. I broke everything I touched. I got good grades. I was told nothing was more noble than to ensure
my children would eat. I learned to take a chicken apart with my hands, to fill in a Scantron, cry on cue. Sixty-six million years after the last great extinction, six to eight business days before the next one, I whispered Speak to a fucking agent into the hold music to trigger the system into connecting
me with a “real person.” I avoided coughing in public, though it was too late. I applied for a BIPOC farming intensive, though it was too late for the earth to yield anything but more corpses. New species of horror sequence were already evolving: election bot; cluster bio-bomb; driverless wife.
I muttered curses to keep the deepfakes away, studied the stars for signs of the worlds to come, though they were already here—the extinctions and feudal lords, the dirty blankets, the dissidents tied to stakes or hung from branches, the price gouge, death camp, flood, bombs of liberty, bomb
and bomb and bomb already dropped, already having made me from its dust, already broken and paid for and straddling my crown. What crown? If I’m king of anything, it’s being late. Omw, I type, though I’m still huddled in last year’s mistakes. Asteroid, Alexa corrects, and I say, Five minutes. Just give me five minutes. I’ll be right there....more
Iranian-American Fatemi writes poetry about her experiences going to Iran, learning Farsi, and feeling connected to her roots.
When I speak my Farsi, IIranian-American Fatemi writes poetry about her experiences going to Iran, learning Farsi, and feeling connected to her roots.
When I speak my Farsi, I see gold flakes floating in the pan. I taste the pomegranate-walnut in the sounds of azizam when my great aunt looks at me from her tiny, scarved head. And the mint dressing she makes is summoned by the words she uses to love me when I am young and nervous at a new school that is near the house where she lives. pg. 25
It's okay. Not bad, but nothing particularly powerful or heart-wrenching in my opinion. ...more
Healy is a lesbian poet who suffered from encephalitis. This gave her aphasia, difficult for a poet to forget words and language.
It was okay. I wasn'tHealy is a lesbian poet who suffered from encephalitis. This gave her aphasia, difficult for a poet to forget words and language.
It was okay. I wasn't particularly impressed. It wasn't bad, but it wasn't great either.
Here's a sample:
MY LIFE BEFORE A slender aphasia altered my brain, bound and zipped, my shape was not my skill. I was the haywire that fuzzed my normality and me empty as a doubt.
So, my goal led me trying to talk, practicing walks, sleeping during the night. I ate all my food but I hardly complained, sometimes I just asked my name again.
It is a big deal now because I was just MISSING words. Even trying to breathe deeply, writing and re-editing again. Loving my words again. My language. My friend.
THE WONDER OF HAVING LIVED HERE A LONG TIME [EXCERPT} While here I am, inhabiting a moment that supposedly was buried In those moments I spent looking tTHE WONDER OF HAVING LIVED HERE A LONG TIME [EXCERPT} While here I am, inhabiting a moment that supposedly was buried In those moments I spent looking through their windows sixty years ago, Although I don't believe it. I'm supposed to be a part of nature too, As subject to its principles as particles and stars. I know time isn't real And everything that happens happened thirteen billion years ago, When all of this somehow "occured." I realize these things, And yet deep down I think they can't be true: I wasn't even real then And in a while I won't be real anymore, like the joke shops and Tempest Storm. As things turn into time and disappear (though she's still here). And while That might be just the way things SEEM, it's the say they seem to ME.
"ELMER GANTRY WAS DRUNK." [EXCERPT] It stayed with me while everything started turning: High school into college, physics to philosophy, marriage And Milwaukee, fatherhood, divorce, the years of settled solitude And the second happiness of marriage, all turning into poetry, For that's what life becomes if you can get it into words.
MURRAY GELL-MANN [EXCERPT] Some things are hidden from us, not because we don't know what they are, But because they're inconceivable until they happen, like the future. The morning light in our dining room has the inevitability Of the ordinary, and yet fifty-seven years ago it was as unreal As I was then, as unimaginable as that life I had is now. Sometimes I think the past is all there is. Sometimes I think It's the other way around, that only now is real. The future though Remains an abstraction, even when we know what's going to happen, like death, Especially death. There was supposed to be a different person in this chair. Where did he go? That universal destination, nowhere? It isn't a real question, Though it sounds like one. It's merely a feeling of perplexity
Here's a sampling.
He also wrote some good poems about sheltering in place during Covid.
He seems obsessed with poetry and physics.
It wasn't my favorite book of poetry, but it's good and he makes some interesting observations.
NAMES IN THIS BOOK (view spoiler)[ Sinclair m Elmer m Burt m Lulu f Sharon f Willard m Amy f Howard m Doug m Benjy m Robert m Murray m Tom m Sylvia f Eric m Susan f Butchie m Diane f Betty f Matt m Rogers m Daisy - cat Diego m Kenny m Carlos m Lanni - dog Mitzi - dog Marvin m John m Peter m Kenward m Jane f Stephen m Samuel m (hide spoiler)]...more
The second third is about a dimension in which Malcolm X rises from the dead aftBook about being a Black American.
The first third is about growing up.
The second third is about a dimension in which Malcolm X rises from the dead after he is killed. This sparks a Black religious movement. A boy who is shot to death by police decades later also rises from the dead.
General consensus has it he was looking for his little cousin, and found him, even before the first cop car ran like a living ram through the people. Before the boys in blue sprang, a spray of navy fléchettes, from behind its doors. Before they were caught in the scuffle, released ten to twenty rounds of ammo into the crowd without warning, bullets glancing off of Cutlass doors and corner store glass built for battle, all but three or four of which entered the boy mid-stride, lifted his six-foot frame from the ground, legs still pumping. For a moment, you would almost swear he was running through the gunfire, preparing for liftoff or something, little cousin held firmly in his arms, shielded from the onslaught. They never would have caught him if he hadn't been holding that child, said no one, though we all thought it during the weeks following that moment we each froze, the moment his body collapsed slow as petals upon the unremarkable cement, and we stared at our champion felled by an outcome so common we don't even have a special name for it. pg. 43
That was about the little Black boy murdered by police who later rises.
Here's some writing on Malcolm X coming back from the dead:
Over the years, I have been asked whether seeing him walk down the street was a Paul on the road to Damascus kind of moment, or more like Doubting Thomas seeing the wounds in Christ's hands. I tend to reply that it wasn't exactly like either of those things. There is nothing quite like seeing a stranger you saw die walk again. Casually at that, down the avenue on a Wednesday, as if on his way to buy a cup of coffee. It shifts something in you that won't ever switch back. Imagine seeing the inner workings of a complex though generally familiar organism - an oak tree, for instance - in real time. The rings, root system, atomic structure, all visible via second sight you never accessed before that moment and could not explain if you tried. That's what I saw. That's what our Manifesto was initially for. I had to capture the sensation of that moment with the same deliberate intensity that inspired it, in the spirit of the very same clarity it gave me. A clarity I have committed to ever since then, every time I am asked to describe what the Second Resurrection means for us all. So that anyone who reads the Manifesto for themselves can get a sense of what exactly it is we are dealing with here; the seriousness with which we must approach the new reality we all share. We ought to rejoice! What other reaction is sensible in the wake of an event such as this? A true, dyed-in-the-wool man of the people, a cultural hero beyond compare, chosen by the One Above All and raised from the dead. The wounds on his body closing no more quickly than they would on any man as a sign of divine imagination.
Yes, he was our Messiah returned. But he was also one of us. He bled and healed like us. But he did not die like us. He did not pass on the way we were told that we would. King Malcolm triumphed over death, and in doing so modeled for oppressed peoples all over the world what can happen when one is willing to give their life over to the cause of collective revolt against the forces of capitalism and global white supremacy. You may already know where I'm going with this. My message for the past several decades hasn't moved all that much. There are battles to win in the name of human freedom, human dignity, and we will win them. We have on our side a man who dueled with death, and won, and came back that we might have heaven here on Earth. No pie in the sky. No paradise later and famine where you stand. No diabetes, hypertension, heart disease, pneumonia, lung cancer, PTSD, while you work your 9-5 for a man who doesn't know your name, or that of the woman you love, and then you die. pg. 68
The last third of the book is about Bennett's son being born. It's touching.
moment. It's Thursday. In the spot where I'm writing I'm thinking about the worst things anyone ever said to me or your uncles, Grandpa, for no reason other than meanings they map the moment we enter the frame. No prelude. No conflict or probable cause. And I actually, openly, weep, son. In front of Mom. I don't want people to treat him like that, I say, entirely in earnest, as if I am the first person to have the idea. There is nothing I would not do to shield you. My trepidation is nothing if not an introduction to a new and previously unthinkable vision of myself. A starship destroyer in orbit; orchards atop ashes; a castle of falcons lifting you up and through the available expanse, your laughter like the arguments of angels, giving texture to the atmosphere. pg. 114
TL;DR Is this something I would re-read and quote? Probably not. But it's quite good, and Bennett makes some amazing points in here. I think poetry can beautifully encapsulate some concepts. This is in the new form, it's not rhyming (I've been told by my poetic friends that rhyming poems are considered old-fashioned and silly). Read it if you want a poetic view of Black life in America, if you think a universe in which Malcolm X was resurrected from the dead and a religious order sprung up in response to this occurrence is interesting, or if you or a loved one have recently had a Black male baby. I think his thoughts on being a parent to a Black male baby are quite accurate and depressing. He talks a lot in this book about the short life expectancy of Black men....more
But everyone else just wants me to do: Mami wants me to be her proper young lady. Papi wants me to ignorable and silent. Twin and Caridad want me to be gBut everyone else just wants me to do: Mami wants me to be her proper young lady. Papi wants me to ignorable and silent. Twin and Caridad want me to be good so I don't attract attention. God just wants me to behave so I can earn being alive.
And what about me? What about Xiomara? When has anyone ever told me I had the right to stop it all without my knuckles, or my anger, with just some simple words. pg. 333
Well, this book wasn't what I was expected at all. It was actually good.
I don't enjoy YA, so that made me hesitant to read it.
I REALLY don't enjoy books written in verse. They usually make me rabid. Even ones that are lauded like Another Brooklyn and Brown Girl Dreaming get on my nerves a lot. I don't even like novels or memoirs written by poets, because even though they are not novels-in-verse, usually they are full of poetic crap that I hate.
I love poetry. I just don't like when people write a novel using verse. I find it annoying.
However, this was actually good and I enjoyed it.
You'd better be careful, Carmen. After giving this a high rating and enjoying The Hate U Give, people are going to think you actually like YA.
Shut up. *glares*
SUMMARY
Really did not know what this book was about. I went in blind. Turns out it is about a sophomore girl who is the child of two immigrants from the Dominican Republic. She secretly keeps a notebook where she writes poetry about her life. Her mother is a strict Catholic.
MAIN POINTS
So there are a few main points of this book:
-Rape culture. Men in this book are shit. Both adult men and teenage boys harass Xiomara daily. She's touched without her permission constantly, dirty things are said to her constantly, she's dealing with daily, constant, unending sexual harassment and what is considered sexual assault (men grabbing her ass, grabbing her thigh) etc. etc.
I was sickened. I put this on my will-put-you-off-men shelf. It definitely scars girls for life growing up in a culture like this. It has horrible, terrifying consequences. I can tell you I have witnessed the lifelong scarring and trauma that results from raising girls up in a culture like this. It starts at puberty (even if that's 11 years old! They will still sexually harass and assault, you. Even grown-ass men.) This can have HUGE, sometimes unexpected and unseen consequences for women. It's SO disgusting and SO damaging. I could tell you some stories.
So, anyway, Xiomara is a scrapper who gets in fights and uses her fists to solve problems. Her mother criticizes her for this because she's not acting 'proper' but I mean, a.) men are putting their hands on her without her permission or consent constantly and b.) (view spoiler)[her brother is gay and she has to protect him. (hide spoiler)]
She has no one to protect her. Her brother won't protect her. (Or can't?) Her new boyfriend won't protect her, in a shocking and saddening part of the book.
Acevedo never resolves this. Initially, (view spoiler)[ Xiomara kicks Aman to the curb for not coming to her defense. But then by the end of the book she forgives him (without them ever discussing it or talking about it or tackling this humongous issue) and has sex with him. o.O I was distraught. (hide spoiler)]
So it's never resolved. I guess the book is saying, "Too bad. No one will help you. You have to defend yourself and fend off groping hands every single day." No recourse? I'm not sure. Acevedo obviously likes Aman and is trying to paint him as a 'good guy' but I need more than what she's offering here. Sure, Aman doesn't ever pressure Xiamara to smoke weed or have sex. He's supportive of her poetry.
But the whole thing seems completely incongruous. All men are total pieces of shit except for Aman? Why? What was it about his background or his upraising or his moral compass that makes him NOT see Xiomara's body as public property? Never addressed. How can Xiomara, who has been sexually assaulted on the daily and verbally harassed as well, be psychologically okay enough to (view spoiler)[have consensual sex with Aman? (hide spoiler)] Never addressed. It was weird, IMO. I understand Acevedo wanted to give Xiomara a romantic-sexual relationship so that she could have huge fights with her mom and huge secrets from her mom but it actually didn't make much sense to me. Why was Aman special? Is this simply because he was the first male she ever met who didn't sexually harass her? It seems that way, and in that case, it makes me very sad. I wanted her to have higher standards. The whole book I was just waiting for Aman to turn on her. I didn't trust him. I really thought he was going to reveal himself to be a fuckwad at any moment. Can't imagine Xiomara WOULDN'T have that anxiety.
- Catholicism. Acevedo plays with the idea that Catholics and the Catholic religion is woman-hating, but doesn't really follow through on this. She has Xiomara be a firebrand who sees clearly the misogyny in the church. She is refusing to take Communion. She doesn't want to be confirmed. When forced to take Communion by her mother, she spits it out after getting back to the pew.
I was like, "OK, I see you. Let's rock this." But then Acevedo makes Xiomara's priest - Father Sean - a great guy and a help. He's supportive, understanding, and smart. So... Yeah, I don't know.
Part of the reason Xiomara's mother is so fucked up is because she really, really wanted to be a nun but was 'forced' by her family to marry Xiomara's father, who was a mujeriego before his twins were born. We are supposed to believe that now he is fine, but before his kids were born he was one of the sexual harassers Xiomara hates and fears, the kind who frequently puts his hands on women's bodies without permission like they exist for his personal pleasure.
Acevedo never discusses this. She never has a part where Xiomara and her dad discuss rape culture (they don't have to call it rape culture, but you know), or his past as a man who feels fine sexually harassing and assaulting women, or what kind of effect that behavior has on women/girls, or if he feels regret and shame about it because he has a daughter now.
We're also supposed to believe he does a 180. Goes from being a sleazeball to being un hombre serio immediately after his kids are born. ??? This isn't really discussed. He's married to an angry, bitter, extremely religious women who has every right to hate him. That's never talked about. I don't know.
Xiomara's mother probably wanted to go into the church because men are trash and she was being (like her daughter) constantly leered at, groped, and told disgusting things by men every single day. She probably thought being a nun would be a safe haven where she wouldn't have to deal with disgusting men and their disgusting way of treating women. Little did she know nuns are raped by priests and that there is literally no safe place for a woman. She probably would have entered convent and been raped on the daily or weekly by whatever dirty priest was around to prey on women who wanted to serve Christ. So. Who knows if getting married or becoming a nun was the better option? But she doesn't like her husband.
So Acevedo isn't really giving us a clear answer on Catholicism. Nor does she truly explore the issue, which seems to be a theme of this book. On the one hand, you could say it is like real life. Nothing is clear. Things are muddled. There are good and bad people in the population of males, in the population of priests. On the other hand, I wanted more analysis of this, damn it. Not some half-hearted attempt to rebel from the Church and then a half-hearted reconciliation with it.
- Evil mother. I truly, truly was upset when (view spoiler)[Xiomara's mother burns her book of poetry. (hide spoiler)] Acevedo wasn't really pulling any punches with this mother. She was so terrible. She really hurt her daughter over and over and over again. Even when her daughter tried to talk to her, she wouldn't listen. She had no interest in getting Xiomara's side of anything. She had no interest in what Xiomara thought about any aspect of life. She had no hesitation in meting out horrible punishments to keep Xiomara in line.
Altagracia views Xiomara as nothing but a plastic mold. Many, many parents act like this. They act like children are blank slates to bend and mold to your will. But they are not. Children are individual people. They are people. They have their own thoughts, opinions, ideas, views. They have their own PERSONALITY. You, the parent, do not get to hand your child the personality you want her to have. You do not get to force her to take the job you want her to work, date and marry the person you want her to date and marry, determine when she has first-time sex and with whom. Children are not your slaves, nor are they soft plastic with no will and desires of their own.
Altagracia is a terrible parent. She has no interest in her child as a person. Knowing her child as a fellow human being. Asking her child how she sees the world and comparing notes. Taking an interest in what her child is interested in. Caring for her child's emotional wellbeing. She simply sees Xiomara as su premio, her prize. She has planned out how Xiomara will behave and what acts Xiomara will take and what Xiomara will do with her life, and she doesn't give one single fuck if it is in line with what Xiomara wants and needs. Because Xiomara is not a real person to her.
The book points out that Xiomara is just going to have to learn how to deal with her horrible mother, at least until she moves out or can support herself. But it's a heartbreaking, abusive relationship. It really killed me when (view spoiler)[Xiomara's mom burns her poetry. (hide spoiler)] I could more understand her objections to finding out Xiomara had a boyfriend (if not her cruel physical punishment for it) but the (view spoiler)[burning of Xiomara's poetry (hide spoiler)] was a totally cruel, evil, inhumane blow IMO. Really shows you what a heartless monster Xiomara's mom is.
I'm sure on some level Altagracia loves Xiomara, and "wants what's best for her" (hate that phrase!), but it's an ugly, distorted love that manifests in hurting Xiomara both emotionally and physically over and over and over and over and over and over again.
TL;DR - Very engaging book. Definitely a pageturner, and for me to be saying that about a novel written in verse is huge. I really was invested in what happened to Xiomara. I liked her.
The complaints I have about this book are about Acevedo's kind of wishy-washy way of never resolving anything. You could make a case that this is 'true to life,' but it's unsatisfying. I wanted to delve deeper into the issues Acevedo was raising here. Others may not have a problem with this.
I would recommend this book. It was good. I was very put off by a YA novel written in verse. I fully expected to hate this. So... it deserves praise.
RE-READ 01/03/2023 - Still good. An emotional and powerful book. ...more
your inaccessible orbit fills me with such gravity;
in the constellation of our sky, our love is written in the pulsating ((emanations))
of a hundred thouyour inaccessible orbit fills me with such gravity;
in the constellation of our sky, our love is written in the pulsating ((emanations))
of a hundred thousand neutron stars*
will my love for you collapse or will it explode? my heart, - it weighs so heavily:
a bloodred pulsar bleeding dry.
Nenia Campbell has decided to publish a poetry book, let's discuss this!
sorrows fall lightly upon me, like snowflakes. i stick out my tongue and taste them, salty as tears.
Nenia Campbell is my friend on GR. Don't think that means I am going to give her any quarter, because... fuck that shit. And I already told her no quarter would be given. So.
I wasn't quite sure what to expect, I've been avoided Nenia's fiction because she likes dark themes, and I hate dark themes, and reading about some dark romance is not my idea of a good time. But then I heard she was publishing poetry and giving it out for free, so I was like, "Hmmmmm."
Well, I am happy to report that there is no bad poetry in here. There may be poetry you don't enjoy in here, but it's not bad. Which is a relief. Bad poetry is poetry that is written abysmally. Poetry you don't enjoy is just poetry you don't enjoy. I hope I'm explaining this clearly.
I love poetry; probably not a lot of people on GR realize this except for certain GR friends who will remain unnamed. So Campbell had a fair shot here, I've read the reviews on this book and realize a lot of people picked this up despite the fact that they did not enjoy poetry. Not the case with me.
Nenia Campbell appears to love nature, seasons, and space. Color me surprised, I didn't really see that coming from her. Huh, who knew? I expected more on art, women, and food - and there is some of that in here, but not as much as I had expected.
Another thing I liked about this poetry (and Campbell herself) is her use of big words. I jones on her extensive vocabulary.
There's some stuff in here I really like. The two poems quoted above, and:
when i am dead i shall be no more i shall be no more forever the eyes that are my eyes shall close they will see no more forever the lips that are my lips will shut they will speak no more forever the heart that was my heart will stop it will beat no more forever the spark that lit my skull shall die i shall be no more forever
Simple yet effective. And it's about death, I'm weak for poems about death.
I think it is Campbell's galaxy poems I enjoy the most, though.
i feel the breath of stars on my neck from the mouth of the heavens to the base of my skull shivering atoms i feel the pulse of quasars in my blood clockwork of the universe winding my helices spinning in space internal, eternal external i am a storm of molecules that lit the heavens i am the vibration of a hundred suns i am dark matter and light i am ma i
Yes, this sounds good to me. Her nature poetry is also nothing to sneeze at:
i cannot see the thread from which she hangs against the sun stained curtains' gold red fire one leg points upward like a bony finger or apex of a shiny gothic spire
her other legs lie curled against her web intimate with the twitches of her lines she waits, an astral figure in midair seeking the flotsam that the breeze may find wafting into her net: the wayward moth, or vagrant fly, and wandering lacewing lost
in a moment's blink she has them cast in ties of finest silk, she makes them fast what is their future now but her repast?
I mean, just look at that last stanza. Just look at it - what is she doing here? It's amazing. Fast! Future! Repast! Are you fucking kidding me right now. The skillz.
I didn't enjoy the human/relationship/women poems as much, but she had certain gems.
i lied to you when I said "i love you" i am more ambiguous than these simple words i devour you, at times, with my affection dreams of your absence wake me, crying but i have hated you in anger imagined you dead and smiled. so i lied to you when i said "i love you" but what else could i have said?
I mean, this feels very true to me. It feels like a very true poem. She has another great one about growing up and being an adult which is very astute.
Well, I can't quote every good poem in here. You are going to have to see for yourself. But let's talk about ones that are not to my taste.
congratulations you have won this beautiful life there are some small imperfections looked at with a loupe some damage here and there but it wears well no one will notice you may pay you will pay everyone does eventually
This means nothing to me.
i thought i saw america slipping by as if a page ripped out of some great atlas had fallen free sweeping upon the currents of the air like some great fluttering leaf lacking a firm direction
yet suspiciously it always seems to us in time and place with what we see that things float freer than they truly are and do not men in almost any time lament lack of a firm direction?
perhaps the future is firm in infirmity in seeming weakness lying greatest strength the force applied to freedoms of degree is force applied to pliant resiliency
I don't understand this poem. At all. Although "perhaps the future is firm in infirmity" is rather charming.
Poems I liked: 15 Poems I disliked: 10 Poems I felt 'meh' about: 28
How's that for a rundown? It's actually a pretty good ratio for a poetry book. There's always going to be poems that you like more than others in a poetry collection, even a poetry collection by a single author.
TL;DR: If you enjoy poetry and don't believe it has to rhyme, there's no reason not to check it out. Especially when Campbell offers it for free. Usually I believe it is ninety-nine cents. If you don't enjoy poetry or only like rhyming poems, avoid this. Some of her poems are better than others - I especially enjoyed her nature and space poems - but none of it is crap, I'm relieved to say. There are poems I don't like or even disagree with in here, but it's not garbage.
Nenia Campbell has a fascinating mind, I'm glad I read this.
P.S. Read this five times in order to write a fair and accurate review. Next time I read it, it will be my sixth....more
Ada Limón is an amazing poet, with a strong distinctive voice. A feminist, rough-edged, American Latina, Kentucky/NYC/California/Nebraska/Tennessee voAda Limón is an amazing poet, with a strong distinctive voice. A feminist, rough-edged, American Latina, Kentucky/NYC/California/Nebraska/Tennessee voice. It's very good.
I'll show you some examples. I'll hide them under spoilers because I know some people don't like poetry. So, you can only read the ones that interest you or none at all.
Feminist/womanhood (view spoiler)[ HOW TO TRIUMPH LIKE A GIRL
I like the lady horses best, how they make it all look easy, like running 40 miles per hour is as fun as taking a nap, or grass. I like their lady horse swagger, after winning. Ears up, girls, ears up! But mainly, let's be honest, I like that they're ladies. As if this big dangerous animal is also a part of me, that somewhere inside the delicate skin of my body, there pumps an 8-pound female horse heart, giant with power, heavy with blood. Don't you want to believe it? Don't you want to lift my shirt and see the huge beating genius machine that thinks, no, it knows, it's going to come in first. (hide spoiler)]
Appreciating the little things in life: (view spoiler)[ THE TREE OF FIRE
The tree comes to me for the first time in weeks. When did all its colors, like some commercial for dying, start shooting out of its skin? This morning, we fucked each other into a regular backyard bonfire - cold wood turned to coal in the fine, fine flame. And now, this tree breaks into view, lurid red leaves that demand a clanging, screaming alarm, and I think - this tree has been here all this time, and I didn't notice. I swear, I'll try harder not to miss as much: the tree, or how your fingers under still sleep-stunned sheets coaxed all my colors back. (hide spoiler)]
I used to pretend to believe in God. Mainly, I liked so much to talk to someone in the dark. Think of how far a voice must have to travel to go beyond the universe. How powerful that voice must be to get there. Once in a small chapel in Chimayo, New Mexico, I knelt in the dirt because I thought that's what you were supposed to do. That was before I learned to harness that upward motion inside me, before I nested my head in the blood of my body. There was a sign and it said, This earth is blessed. Do not play in it. But I swear I will play on this blessed earth until I die. I relied on a Miracle Fish, once, in New York City, to tell me my fortune. That was before I knew it was my body's water that moved it, that the massive ocean inside me was what made the fish swim. (hide spoiler)]
She writes A LOT of poems about death and watching her stepmother die of cancer. They're brutal, and very good reading. There's a whole chapter of the book dealing with poems on death and watching someone you love slowly die.
I'll just put one of those in this review:
Dealing with the death of a loved one (view spoiler)[ COWER
I'm cold in my heart, coal-hard knot in the mountain buried deep in the boarded-up mine. So, I let death in, learn to prospect the between-dreams of the dying, the one dream that tells you when to throw up, the other, when you're in pain. I tell you I will love someone that you will never meet, death's warm breath at the mouth of the body's holler. You are crying in the shower. I am crying near the shower. Your body a welcomed-red fire-starter in steam and I think, How scared I would be if I were death. How could I come to this house, come to this loved being, see the mountains power and dare blast you down. I dry you off and think, if I were death come to take you, your real-earth explosives, I would be terrified. (hide spoiler)]
She writes a lot about men, her exes, and her sexual experiences.
In the black illegible moment of foolish want, there is also a neon sign flashing, the sign above the strip joint where my second big love worked as a bouncer and saved the girls from unwanted hands, unpaid-for hands. Thin-lipped ladies with a lot on their minds and more on their backs, loaded for bear, and for the long winter's rain, loaded for real, and I've always been a jealous girl, but when he'd come home with a 4 a.m. stomp in his boots and undress to bed, he was fully there, fully in the room, my sleeping body made awake, awake, and there was a gentleness to this, a long opening that seemed to join us in the saddest hour. Before now, I don't know if I have ever loved anyone, or if I have ever been loved, but men have been very good to me, have seen my absurd out-of-place-ness, my bent grin and un-called-for loud laugh and have wanted to love me for it, have been so warm in their wanting that sometimes I wanted to love them, too. And I think that must be worth something, that it should be a celebrated thing, that though I have not stood on a mountain under the usual false archway of tradition and chosen one person forever, what I have done is risked everything for that hour, that hour in the black night, where one flashing light looks like love, I have pulled over my body's car and let myself believe that the dance was only for me, that this gift of a breathing one-who-wants was always a gift, was the only sign worth stopping for, that the neon glow was a real star, gleaming in its dying, like us all, like us all. (hide spoiler)]
My older brother says he doesn't consider himself Latino anymore and I understand what he means, but I stare at the weird fruit in my hand and wonder what it is to lose a spiny layer. He's explaining how white and lower-middle-class we grew up and how we don't know anything about any culture except maybe Northern California culture, which means we get stoned more often and frown on super stores. I want to do whatever he says. I want to be something entirely without words. I want to be without tongue or temper. Two days ago in Tennessee someone said, Stop it, Ada's Mexican. And I didn't know what they were talking about until one of them said, At least I didn't say wetback. And everyone laughed. Honestly, another drink and I could have hit someone. Started the night's final fight. And I don't care what he says. My brother would have gone down swinging and fought off every redneck whitey in the room. (hide spoiler)]
She also has a great poem about her ex getting hit by a bus, and a great one about peeing outside like the pit bull bitch she was with at a car show with an inattentive boyfriend.... oh, there's so much good stuff in here but I can't transcribe the whole book for you! LOL LOL Much as I want to.
Tl;dr - Sometimes I get the urge to read poetry. Perhaps you do, too? It's hard to know what's going on in the modern poetry world (MODERN) because it's not really discussed or paid attention to in everyday life by everyday people. So, I'm here to tell you that this is good stuff and you might want to give her poems a try if you are curious. Take a look below my review for some quotes of hers I added to GR, as well - they can offer you a glimpse of some poems I didn't share here.
I'll definitely pick up another volume of hers. Insightful, slightly funny, feminist, and able to tackle the hard stuff without being maudlin or preachy. Excellent. I think I'm actually going to purchase this one.
... EDIT: 07/17/2022 Ada Limón Is Named the Next Poet Laureate "Poetry, she said, can help the nation “become whole again” in a fraught, divided moment." When Ada Limón quit her marketing job to try writing full time, she assumed that would mean writing fiction. So she spent her working hours imagining the lives of other people. Then, she said, she would plunge into poetry, where she could be herself.
She never published a novel. But as a poet, she has been awarded the highest honor in her field: On Tuesday, the Library of Congress announced she will become the next poet laureate of the United States.
Limón, who has published six books, will begin her tenure this fall as the 24th poet laureate, a position that has been held by some of the country’s most celebrated poets, including Louise Glück, Juan Felipe Herrera, Robert Hass and Tracy K. Smith.... Link to full article: https://www.nytimes.com/2022/07/12/bo......more
Gwendolyn Brooks is one of the best poets ever born. She's amazing! I'm probably so enamored of her writing because she was my mother's absolute favorGwendolyn Brooks is one of the best poets ever born. She's amazing! I'm probably so enamored of her writing because she was my mother's absolute favorite poet and we children grew up reading all her poems over and over. I think, actually, that this is the best way to be introduced to poetry - in the home instead of in school. That way you love it instead of thinking of it as an intellectual chore.
Here's my favorite poem by her:
MY DREAMS, MY WORKS, MUST WAIT TILL AFTER HELL By Gwendolyn Brooks
I hold my honey and I store my bread In little jars and cabinets of my will. I label clearly, and each latch and lid I bid, Be firm till I return from hell. I am very hungry. I am incomplete. And none can tell when I may dine again. No man can give me any word but Wait, The puny light. I keep eyes pointed in; Hoping that, when the devil days of my hurt Drag out to their last dregs and I resume On such legs as are left me, in such heart As I can manage, remember to go home, My taste will not have turned insensitive To honey and bread old purity could love.
And, of course, little pieces of her poems that I quote all the time, such as
My last defense Is the present tense.
And
We are each other's harvest: we are each other's business: We are each other's magnitude and bond.
Tl;dr - A wonderful collection of poems by an amazing woman....more
This book was very enjoyable. The reason it's getting only 3 stars from me is that while half of the book contains hilarious and funny poems, half of This book was very enjoyable. The reason it's getting only 3 stars from me is that while half of the book contains hilarious and funny poems, half of the poems just elicited no response from me. So it's a mixed bag.
But overall I love good poetry and I love to laugh, so this would be (overall) a winner, in my mind.
It includes the work of Robert Frost, Ezra Pound, T.S. Eliot, Dorothy Parker, e.e. cummings, F. Scott Fitzgerald, E.B. White, Ogden Nash, and Edward Gorey among many others. :)
Some Highlights:
EVERYTHING IN ITS PLACE by Arthur Guiterman The skeleton is hiding in the closet as it should, The needle's in the haystack and the trees are in the wood, The fly is in the ointment and the froth is on the beer, The bee is in the bonnet and the flea is in the ear.
The meat is in the coconut, the cat is in the bag, The dog is in the manger and the goat is on the crag, The worm is in the apple and the clam is on the shore, The birds are in the bushes and the wolf is at the door.
The Embarrassing Episode of Little Miss Muffet by Guy Wetmore Carryl - which is too long to post here, but I recommend looking it up!
THE RICH MAN by Franklin P. Adams THE rich man has his motor-car, His country and his town estate. He smokes a fifty-cent cigar And jeers at Fate.
He frivols through the livelong day, He knows not Poverty, her pinch. His lot seems light, his heart seems gay; He has a cinch.
Yet though my lamp burns low and dim, Though I must slave for livelihood— Think you that I would change with him? You bet I would!
...
FRUSTRATION by Dorothy Parker If I had a shiny gun, I could have a world of fun Speeding bullets through the brains Of the folk who give me pains;
Or had I some poison gas, I could make the moments pass Bumping off a number of People whom I do not love.
But I have no lethal weapon- Thus does Fate our pleasure step on! So they still are quick and well Who should be, by rights, in hell.
...
THE PRINCESS AND THE PEA by Helen Bevington The Princess slept uneasily Upon a small offending pea
And twenty mattresses that were Between the vegetable and her.
Her royal person, rather plump, was agitated by a lump
That we, more hardy, would have said Was never bothersome in bed.
Some people mind, and she was one. The simple moral is, my son,
Avoid a Princess, shun a palace, And pick a wife more lean and callous.
...
Tl;dr - Despite some duds and some slogs, overall a charming book that's worth reading....more
Absolutely essential for any child's library. I was raised on this book since before I knew how to speak. Nursery rhymes are so incredibly powerful. YAbsolutely essential for any child's library. I was raised on this book since before I knew how to speak. Nursery rhymes are so incredibly powerful. You can walk up to almost any American and say,
"Little Jack Horner sat in a corner," and they will immediately respond, "Eating a Christmas pie." It's automatic.
It's a very universal thing in the U.S.A. (Can't make any comments about other countries re: Mother Goose.) I love it. And this collection (published in 1915) is the "real" version, in my mind. I grew up listening to these over and over and over and over again. Some are not as well known as others, but all are fun and catchy. I think nursery rhymes help children learn and grow, and I think nursery rhymes (the repetition, rhyming, easy memorization, and nonsense) helps their brains develop - not to mention their imagination!
Old women are a main feature in nursery rhymes, and I would almost say I like the poems about old women best. We have the old woman who lived in a shoe, the old woman who lived under the hill, the old woman tossed in a blanket (OMG one of my all-time favorites), Old Mother Hubbard, the old woman who sold puddings and pies, the deaf old woman, and the old woman who lived on victuals and drink.
I have this entire book memorized. Say any opening line to me from any nursery rhyme in this collection, and I can complete it for you. And the great thing is, so can everyone else - at least the familiar ones like Hickory Dickory Dock, Little Bo Peep, Jack Sprat, Little Miss Muffet, Old King Cole, etc. etc.
There's also the more obscure ones, but I love them just as much.
Bat, bat Come under my hat, And I'll give you a slice of bacon; And when I bake I'll give you a cake, If I am not mistaken.
Or
Pretty John Watts, We are troubled with rats, Will you drive them out of the house? We have mice, too, in plenty, That feast in the pantry, But let them stay And nibble away, What harm in a little brown mouse?
The old-fashioned illustrations in this volume are wonderful, but of course I'm biased. My copy of this is duct-taped together and many pages are scotch-taped because it is so old and so well-loved.
Absolutely one of the best books ever "written" - really it's more of an oral tradition passed down from generation to generation, but I think it's something that binds English-speakers together in a wonderful way. And it's not religious, nor political - anyone and everyone can learn and enjoy these poems.
P.S. Even now (as adults!) my friends and family will quote nursery rhymes to each other in daily life. Whether children are present or not. And I love meeting child and being able to create an instant bond with her (or him) by reciting nursery rhymes at each other! This has helped me create an instant rapport with children who might otherwise be shy or scared around a new adult. :) Everyone loves nursery rhymes!...more
This is a collection of poems from Caroline Kennedy. Each 'chapter' includes an introduction by her, and then a smattering of poems covering a single This is a collection of poems from Caroline Kennedy. Each 'chapter' includes an introduction by her, and then a smattering of poems covering a single topic. They are: Falling in Love; Making Love; Breaking Up; Marriage; Love Itself; Work; Beauty, Clothes and Things of This World; Motherhood; Silence and Solitude; Growing Up and Growing Old; Death and Grief; Friendship; and How to Live. It was a very good collection of poems. Some were familiar classics, and some I had never heard before. All were pleasing. Just because this book is called 'A Woman's Journey Through Poems' does not mean a man could not enjoy it, although it is geared towards women. The poems are written by both men and women, and there is old poetry and new. I was disappointed she did not include a chapter on education. It seemed neglectful. Also, Ms. Kennedy has a somewhat traditional outlook on the world and the lives of women, and that comes through here. I was hoping for at least one or two poems that were 'edgy' or more non-conformist. Overall, an enchanting collection, and one I would highly recommend....more
A wonderful, amazing selection of poems for teens. I didn't listen to the accompanying CD. A wonderful, amazing selection of poems for teens. I didn't listen to the accompanying CD. ...more
44 sonnets by the famous poet, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, chronicling her love for her husband, Robert Browning, from the time they met to their marr44 sonnets by the famous poet, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, chronicling her love for her husband, Robert Browning, from the time they met to their marriage. Of course, the most famous one is #43: “How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. Etc.” But there is much more than this often quoted sonnet here. A great collection to read and re-read. ...more
