Category Archives: book reviews

Golden Cacti by Sunil Sharma

 
1 (1)Paperback: 90 pages
Publisher: Authors Press (January 4, 2013)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 9381030235
ISBN-13: 978-9381030233
 
Reviewed by P C K PREM
 
 
In Golden Cacti, a collection of beautiful verses, Sunil Sharma opens up heart of urban life, its dry joys and its continuous struggles for survival, difficulties and sufferings, dreariness and consequent agonies that linger on even when a man stops looking at life as it was. Vivid images, natural metaphors and striking portrayal of feelings and thoughts inspire, excite and question the man trying to find meaning in disturbed times.  Poet in Sunil strikes an optimistic note and finds every moment and every creation superb, a gift of god. Surprisingly, he goes back to past to find roots and looks out for a man of his roots and origin.
He is critical of alien’s domination and language, and does not want that anything should change to please a usurper, a ruler of unethical outlook. When the poet goes to a few lands across the globe, nostalgic memories of colonial life ancestors lived disturb him.  It was not a single impact on the life of natives but it encompassed the country’s culture and heritage and made visible dents. A tenderhearted poet feels emotively about the days, and experiences agonies as a man of history. None can ever stop a man from going to his roots and land. Again, in ‘Let Us Recall’ 26, the poet goes to past to ‘revive lapsed days and lost glories’. Nature of man to find comforts in seemingly happy past is a habit as anxieties and pains of present choke him.
             A Marxist thought emerges in ‘Lunch’ 15, when he talks of a poor hard working stonebreaker, who just manages to fill her belly and keeps a dry chapatti with pickle for her frail husband. He paints a pathetic picture of workers, who live in miseries while the rich always crave for variety in food every time.  Ironical urban sensibility loves to lament on the plight of the poor and miserable but does nothing worthwhile and definite, for it is living in obesity and opulence. Instantly, the poet creates a sad, melancholic and cheerless picture in ‘Urban Existence’ 17, where pigeons perch still on a wire, unhappily reflect on the mental condition of a lonely housewife it appears. Yes, loneliness corrodes finer instincts of urbanites despite glamour and riches. 
                                                   
Inner unexpressed anguish is equally disturbing in ‘The Three Urban Scenes’ 46, where the poet speaks with a restrained voice about a tiny bulbul on a power pole, a vagabond with a plastic bag containing dirty rags and an old man waiting for a warm call from a son living in a distant land. The three living beings have particular areas of pain, hope and hope amidst possible disappointment.
On the other hand, feelings of a displaced person earning livelihood or trying to settle down elsewhere invite compassion, for he lives like a timid pigeon in urban setting. It is painful when one does not live in usual locale. (Migrant Woes 27)  Poet speaks of a truth everyone would accept without apparent nod. A man may live a happy and rich life elsewhere, but at moments of anguish born of nostalgia, he goes back to feel the smell of his land and home where ancestors lived.
            The poet looks into the nature of animate and inanimate, and frames images to define life’s issues. If ‘The strange Walls’ refuse feelings of communion and humanity, ‘Under the Cherry Tree’ and ‘Beauty’ speak of a rich and blessed life. If in ‘Poet Rejected’ and ‘Redundancies’ he talks of the poet, poetry and inherent pangs, in ‘Poetry Calling’ 37, the poet underscores what poetry does for man and humanity.
 
Poets
Should become
Heralds of harmony and solidarity,
Resisting forces of hate
And mongers of war
Through a
Kinetic art
           
Poetry brings only peace, compassion, harmony and happiness to humankind. In a similar way, through ‘The Flower Sermon’ 41, the poet conveys another positive message and tells that ‘Each one of us, /If we try, /Can become a Buddha,’ and live at peace. Poet is tender and soft at heart and speaks eloquently about the wretched and contemptible condition of man. Life in urban areas despite seeming joys and comforts does not offer an encouraging testimony of happiness because a man suffocates and aspires for clean air and open space for stretching arms and legs.
In manmade sky-touching structures, if he brags of attainments, he also feels restricted, and so inhales polluted air and survives smilingly, and hopes for a free life where even relations feel the pressure of loneliness in awful living conditions. Neither a man in a towering building living in a specified area of an apartment is happy within, nor does he enjoy life in a slum because certain scarcities in life give constant troubles. Such thoughts form the outline of many lyrics.  Amidst, inner turmoil and outer glitter, a man aspires for happiness and peace.
                                       
            Wide spread violence tortures. The poet appears quite upset. Acts of man endanger humanity notwithstanding his determined struggle for bringing peace and harmony. He looks around and feels tormented within as terrorism and mindless killing of innocent people all over the world destabilize everyone. Racial and ethnic hate disturb noble creations on earth. Distortion and unjust ways in societies do not provide comforts to man. It is not only hatred and terror-filled inclinations of man that bring disharmony in life of a man, but social evils also bring anguish and disturbance.
Man ought to work for peace of man and society, and if he does not, he brings acrimony, violence and war. He rightly observes –
 
Let us unite, then
And make it
The latest credo
for the new century
of hope and belief
And trash the forces
Of scepticism,
Cynicism
And disbelief
Via this simple anthem
Of love and faith.’
(For Peace, Let Us All Stand 70).
 
He repeats intensity of anxiety for peace in another powerful poem ‘Let Peace Prevail –Lines from a Graffiti Artist’s Work on the Wall’ 71. He looks like a high priest of peace, who oversees violence everywhere in the world and asks man to live in peace, not a very tall demand. Sunil loves to reflect on private matters and in the process, he adds authenticity to the verse and indirectly, establishes poetic relationship with the reader. In personal poems, he speaks for many. A woman plays many roles in life, and with a few exceptions, she carries the family and societal obligation in a dignified manner as a daughter, sister, wife and mother. After marriage, she looks after two families with entirely different setups and habits. However, the change is wonderful. After she comes back from maternal home, she -
 
Instantly morphed into a homemaker, a teacher
Journalist, mom and wife.
The different personas …
(Transformations 74)
           
One finds the poet at ease and quite comfortable, for truth moves the pen so effortlessly. Again, the poet’s emotionality becomes obvious in ‘A Grass Widower/Lover Writes’ where he talks of momentary separation, starlit nights, bangles, silver anklets, lingering laughter, and scented presence in summer nights, perfume, smiles sweet and angelic, and fragrant Raatrani flowers when he thinks  lovingly of his wife Sangeeta. He is passionately true when he says -
 
 You are,
Therefore,
The smiling Muse
To my poet within,
Dearest Sangeeta,
And
The best-ever Valentine.
And this –
 An ode dictated by Cupid,
On this sleepless night.’
            (Ibid. 90)
 
Sure, a reader ought to value a husband’s sentimental love for a wife.
At another level, the poet sensitively talks of an Indian, a victim of apartheid and opens a poignant page from the history of South Africa. He reveals many truths and facts in simple words -
 
When the prison officers become prisoners
And the political prisoners
Are treated as new leaders,
And
A just society
Finally
Comes out fine.
 (Tempering of the Steel 82)
           
His lyrics are engaging. He is a passionate advocate of peace and harmony. Human relationships form the basis of his philosophy. Man lives in illusions and rarely admits, for a subtle fantasy determines the march of man the poet asserts. Urban living fires ambitions but the efforts remain incommensurate and therefore, consequent failures paint a dismal picture. Urban in theme, the poetry attracts and disturbs. At times, he relates experiences to history and co-relates everything to personal life. He is best when he speaks about the truth of experiences. He does not permit experience to distort truth or at times, he cannot visualize a situation where truth appears fragmentary but then, he is forced to live within the parameters of language to give shape and structure to truth, experiences and facts but he does it with conviction.   He is authentic, compelling and forceful and never for a moment forgets that he has an objective to attain as a poet of man and humanity. 
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pckpremA trilingual author of more than forty books in English and Hindi, P C K Prem (p c katoch)   post-graduated in English literature from Punjab University, Chandigarh in 1970, taught English in various colleges of Punjab and Himachal before shifting to civil services and then, served as Member, HP Public Service Commission. He has brought out nine volumes of poetry besides books on criticism in Hindi and English.  Katoch Prem (a winner of several awards) is a poet, novelist, short story writer and critic in English from Himachal Pradesh.

The Woman on the Bridge over the Chicago River by Allen Grossman

theWomanOntheBridgeOverTheChicagoRiverByAllenGrossmanHardcover: 90 pages

Publisher: W W Norton & Co Inc; First Edition edition (June 1979)

Language: English

ISBN-10: 0811207145

ISBN-13: 978-0811207140

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Reviewed by Stephen Page

When I picked up Allen Grossman’s The Woman on the Bridge over the Chicago River and began to read, I felt like Grossman had turned out the lights and I was going through a series of dreams and nightmares.  I tried several times to come out of the dream-nightmare-state but the poetry was too riveting, too compelling, even when the scenes became dark—so I remained lucid with them until culmination.  I was happy I did.  It’s a superb book even if a demanding read.  Grossman’s philosophy of poetry seems different from anyone I have ever read.  The narrative thread is not easy to follow, like your own dreams or nightmares where scenes change rapidly without reason.  Not that this disqualifies the poetry from accessibility, for it doesn’t.  The poems are works of a genius yet generous mind.  The reader just has to put him or herself in a different reality—one where details move emotion and the whole is synthesized only through contemplation, like the process of interpreting a dream upon wakening.  “The Department” is one of the nightmare poems where the narrator is driving a motor vehicle with the reader in the passenger seat through the land of the dead.  The scenery changes rapidly with each non-living person met.  In the end of the poem, Boime, the All-seer and self-appointed head philosopher character, demands the narrator to get off the road—meaning it is not time for the narrator to die yet.  But this is also meant to criticize the writer as narrator—in other words, Grossman’s method and thought of how poetry should be arrived at—the vehicle the metaphorical technique, the road the metaphorical path to result.  That is a Grossman self-effacing, or self-doubting, statement well said.  There are numerous poems of outstanding quality in this collection, too many to mention, but I particularly liked “Pat’s Poem,” a love poem, and “Alcestis,” a sonnet sequence written as a hymn.

 

Buy the book here: http://www.amazon.com/Woman-Bridge-Chicago-River-Poems/dp/0811207145

 

stephen-page-in-front-of-wheat-photoStephen Page is from Detroit, Michigan.  There he worked in factories, gasoline stations, and steel-cutting shops.  He always longed for a vocation associated with nature.  He now lives in Argentina, teaches literature, ranches, and spends time with his family. http://stephenmpage.wordpress.com/

 

I Ate the Cosmos for Breakfast by Melissa Studdard

I ATEHardcover: 82 pages

Publisher: Saint Julian Press, Inc.; 1st edition (September 15, 2014)

Language: English

ISBN-10: 0988944758

ISBN-13: 978-0988944756

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Reviewed by g emil reutter

Melissa Studdard writes of God as female birthing the universe, of what God could be, our reactions and creations. She writes in the poem, Naming Sky:

Kneel to the temple of wind. Listen to the voices
lingering in trees. When they moan,
it is your name they call. You can answer
with touch. You can call them God or sky or self.
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Studdard writes of truck drivers, Neruda, Van Gogh, of trees, animals and gatekeepers. She lives in the sunsets and stars, knows of shadows and lights. The opening of the poem, Those who See in The Dark, pulses with energy and images.
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So freedom would rain
In the ballrooms of their chests,
They entered sideways through the pulse
Of hands on imaginary dreams. One
Wore a wing beat in her eye,
The other, groves of laughter in her thumbs,
And all the while, they called it dancing.
.
From Everything is so Delicious:
 
Sometimes
I feel so hungry, so thirsty,
I don’t want to die.
This desire to butter and eat the stars.
This desire to pack the sunset in my bag
and run home with her, to make
a terrarium for the moon.
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I Ate the Cosmos for Breakfast is a fast paced creation of stars and sunsets of God and the images of the mind of Melissa Studdard. She is a poet of vison and sensitivity, of the perfect and imperfect, absorbing all around her.

 

You can check out the book here: http://www.amazon.com/Ate-Cosmos-Breakfast-Melissa-Studdard/dp/0988944758/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1411651757&sr=1-1&keywords=i+ate+the+cosmos+for+breakfast+by+Melissa+Studdard

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g-emil-reutter-g emil reutter lives and writes in the Fox Chase neighborhood of Philadelphia, Pa. (USA) https://gereutter.wordpress.com/

Red Seeps – Droplets of Doubt, Destiny and Devotion in Verse by Sadia Riaz Sehole

a16284Publisher:    Authorspress, New Delhi, India
Language: English
ISBN- 978-81-7273-932-4
 
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Reviewed by Shernaz Wadia
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Here I am, getting acquainted with Sadia Riaz Sehole’s maiden book of poems Red Seeps, Droplets of Doubt, Destiny and Devotion in Verse. The airy blue of the cover, with the title oozing red, belies the monochromatic visuals on the inside, both, together with the layout by Geetali Baruah. Striking! Will the 3Ds (Doubt, Destiny and Devotion) turn the readers into oysters that will nurture the pearl shown on the cover page? To find the answer, I obviously had to read the poems. 
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Poetry, to be good, should blend craft and magic; it should flow from the union of head and heart. All emotions can make a poem mushy…only hard-headed thoughts, without the mellowing edges of feeling and a poem can sound harsh and abrasive. 
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The back cover says, “For Sadia, writing is an outlet for a plethora of feelings, agony, dilemmas, chaos, evens and odds in life.” 
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Here’s what I found in Red Seeps.
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The poems are short, some of only four lines and simply crafted. They spew angst, screams, dumbed-down dreams, smothered passions, hidden trauma –   the exploration and revelation of the trajectory of a tempestuous emotional journey. A raw vein aches and pulsates through the book, interjected here and there by hope, prayer and courage. These try to balance the unnerving, unexpected harshness of the world with mature thinking. Each black and white image too is startlingly perfect…a stark reflection of the poem it illustrates, one complementing the other and making the book a visual delight despite its disturbing darkness.
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One could easily say the poems are ‘I-centric’ because almost every verse is in the first person but that would be over-simplifying and undermining their universal impact.  Though she is a woman and I can identify with her, let me clarify here that this is by no means a diatribe against men. Nor does Sadia whine in self-pity. Her quiet words give voice to all silent sufferers – male or female.
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One poem that haunts is ‘Silent Screams’.  
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“Alone and exiled/Disdained and assailed…..
…Soundless ache like boundless sands/and emptiness all around/Simply because I am too big to cry.”
That last line is a forceful lamentation on society’s collective conditioning where often we don’t let even children cry saying ‘Grown up boys/girls don’t cry.’
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‘Lament’ is another very relatable poem.
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“Mourning for the long-since-washed-away/Sand castles I had built on the beach/Eternally ephemeral/Evanescent/Ever-ending”
Hope, courage and self respect peep through ‘Torn Yet Not Worn’.
Yet little by little/A brave, relentless struggle/Regaining my pride/Carving my way…”.
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and again in ‘Courage’.
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The title poem ‘Red Seeps’ is about the cathartic value of writing – Inconsolable and insane/I picked up the pen/And here red seeps….
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Yes, the red of welts on the spirit, the red of passion, the red of open wounds and suppressed anger seeps on the pages of this anthology but there is also the incandescent colour of faith and devotion – “To the One and Only Invisible Being”, “Glory Unto You God, The Gracious”; if there is the blue of gloom there is also the glowing crimson of love – “Paean To My Parents”, “That’s What I’ll Be Without You”, “Dear Unseen Friend Across The Border”, “Brother, Brother, Oh My Brother”, “A Friend Like You”, “Nectar if Love”, “Absent”. 
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We also see the grey of doubt “Bewildered”; and the ambiguous hue of fatalism – “Me”, “I Wish To Die”, “This World”, “Time Ticks”.
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There are many more tinges and colours here, splashed from the spectrum that is life. I feel tempted to reveal them but I think it is only fair that I leave it to the readers to find those that blend/merge with/clash against the colours on their individual palettes, trickling through the vignettes of their life experiences.
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This is a fare bridled with the complexities and paradoxes of life. It is not so much Freud’s ‘play of childhood’ flowing into her creativity; it is the angst of youth. As Sadia weighs and processes her experiences and feelings we get glimpses into the twilight of a tormented soul; we see the ferret of fear gnawing; with her we also realise that there is hope – In my lonely world/Yet dawns a hope benign/An oyster may come/And make me its pearls. This is the complete   poem titled ‘Ray’.
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The preface by Vinita Agarwal is very sensitively discerning.
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A little more tightness of editing would not have left those hardly noticeable blemishes in an otherwise beautifully published work. Kudos to the publishers – Authorspress
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Before I end, a little about Sadia Riaz Sehole. She is a teacher and researcher, born and brought up in Lahore, Pakistan. After an early education in Science, she pursued Literature and is currently working on her PhD dissertation..
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Now  try and get to know her better, through her impressive book. 
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Shernaz-Wadia3- Shernaz Wadia, a retired teacher, lives in Pune, India. A free-lance writer, her articles, short stories and poems have been published in many online journals and literary magazines like Muse India, Boloji, Kritya and The Enchanting Verses etc. Her poems have been anthologised in Poets International, Roots and Wings and Caring Moments. Shernaz is in the process of publishing her poems in a book titled Whispers of the Soul.. She has also co-authored a book of poems titled “Tapestry”, with Israeli poetess Avril Meallem. It is an innovative form of collaborative poetry writing developed by the two of them.
 

 

City of Eternal Spring by Afaa Michael Weaver

citySeries: Pitt Poetry Series

Paperback: 96 pages

Publisher: University of Pittsburgh Press; 1 edition (September 17, 2014)

Language: English

ISBN-10: 0822963256

ISBN-13: 978-0822963257

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Reviewed by g emil reutter 

Afaa Michael Weaver, son of a sharecropper, soldier, factory worker, professor. He has traveled a unique road, a road carved out and built by Weaver himself.  He presents us with poetry that is grounded yet spiritual. City of Eternal Spring is the concluding book of a trilogy that includes The Plum Flower Dance and The Government of Nature.
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The poems in this collection present the reader with a blending of American rearing and Chinese spiritualism.
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From the 2nd stanza of the poem Recognition:
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I am you sitting in chairs, memories coming back
to fill my bones with you, inform the way I get about,
growing old little by little, trying to enlarge the circles
of mother and father and son, the circles my mother made
for me in the pain of bringing me back from breakdowns
so I can see my birth…
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A beautiful stanza reflecting life itself in Weaver’s view. In the chair, memories filling bones, growing old little by little, enlarging circles, freed from breakdowns, born again.
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Weaver’s poem MRT about trains and subways and travel gently brings us to another place, unexpected, our arrival not physical at all.
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From the 2nd stanza of the poem MRT:
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Being is filling the sack of something, knowing
yourself as a space, having mind take over
everything, ignoring the tubes and liquids
that give it something to drive, the mind driving,
stopped only by pain, and the train keeps pain
away from us, as perfect a machine as Chinese
genius can make, no undue slap against the rails
like Boston’s T, or the horror of underground
cities in New York. This is the Swiss ticking
of time in a life where I hide in the language,
bury myself in memorizing a writing that is
the opposite of abc, an American born color
like blackness, a curtain holding itself over me
a talking mirror that lets these staring eyes believe
what American hatred would teach them with
it disciples living here, the white minds who
spread the sickness of the place where I was born.
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City of Eternal Spring is a bold collection from Afaa Michael Weaver. As he embraces spiritualism, Weaver always has two feet firmly planted in the American experience as he has lived it.

 

Check out the book here: http://www.amazon.com/City-Eternal-Spring-Pitt-Poetry/dp/0822963256/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1411581449&sr=1-1&keywords=city+of+eternal+spring+by+afaa+michael+weaver

 

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g-g emil reutter lives and writes in the Fox Chase neighborhood of Philadelphia, Pa. (USA) https://gereutter.wordpress.com/

She Had Some Horses by Jay Harjo

SheHadSomeHorsesPbkbig

  • Paperback: 80 pages
  • Publisher: W. W. Norton & Company (December 17, 2008)
  • Language: English
  • ISBN-10: 039333421X
  • ISBN-13: 978-0393334210
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Reviewed by Stephen Page 
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Friday afternoon.  I take a taxi to the Buenos Aires Airpark.  On my flight to Uruguay I read She Had Some Horses, by Jay Harjo. The poems seem somehow familiar, something . . . I am trying to put my finger on it . . . yes . . . they remind me of poems I have read in workshops at university—there is nothing technically wrong with them, but there is nothing outstanding about them either.  They evoke some imagery, but little emotion.   My friend meets me at the airport and drives me to his home.  That evening, after eating grilled lamb on a patio in back of his house, I gaze over what he calls a “backyard”, which is a hundred acres of rolling land surrounded by barbwire fence with a small herd of horses that graze on the grass.  Once in a while one of the horses will take off running, and two or three will follow its lead, running, jumping in the air, kicking their hooves about, neighing like they are laughing, manes and tails flowing.  Running about, it seems, just to run about—to have fun—to be happy to be alive.  I note how gracefully horses move. How proud they stand when they stick their heads up from grazing to look about.  That night, I read the book again.  I begin to notice a subtle tugging from the poems, an evasive yet imperative beckoning.  The next morning, I read the book a third time.  The poems stun me. Each one dazzles me, has my full attention—like the way I notice a woman is beautiful and interesting in a way I did not on a first meeting with her, but upon a second and third encounter, moves me, enters me, will not leave me.  One of the better poems in the book is ‘The Woman Hanging From the Thirteenth Floor Window’:
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She is the woman hanging from the 13th floor
 window. Her hands are pressed white against the
 concrete molding of the tenement building. She
 hangs from the 13th floor window in east Chicago.
 with a swirl of birds over her head. They could
 be a halo, or a storm of glass waiting to crush her . . .
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The woman hanging from the 13th floor window
 on the east side of Chicago is not alone.
 She is a woman of children, of the baby, Carlos,
 and of Margaret, and of Jimmy who is the oldest.
 She is her mother’s daughter and her father’s son.
 She is several pieces between the two husbands
 she has had. She is all the women of the apartment
 building who stand watching her, watching themselves. . .
 .
She is the woman hanging from the 13th floor window
 on the Indian side of town. Her belly is soft from
 her children’s births, her worn Levi’s swing down below
 her waist, and then her feet, and then her heart.
 She is dangling.
 .
The woman hanging from the 13th floor hears voices.
 They come to her in the night when the lights have gone
 dim. Sometimes they are little cats mewing and scratching
 at the door, sometimes they are her grandmother’s voice,
 and sometimes they are gigantic men of light whispering
 to her to get up, to get up, to get up. That’s when she wants
 to have another child to hold onto in the night, to be able to fall back into dreams.
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And the woman hanging from the 13th floor window
 hears other voices. Some of them scream out from below
 for her to jump, they would push her over. Others cry softly
 from the sidewalks, pull their children up like flowers and gather
 them into their arms. They would help her, like themselves.
 .
But she is the woman hanging from the 13th floor window,
 and she knows she is hanging by her own fingers, her
 own skin, her own thread of indecision . . .
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The woman hangs from the thirteenth floor window crying for
 the lost beauty of her own life. She sees the
 sun falling west over the gray plane of Chicago.
 She think she remembers listening to her own life
 break loose, as she falls from the 13th floor
 window on the east side of Chicago, or as she
 climbs back up to claim herself again.
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The image of the woman hanging by her fingertips on the window ledge is vivid.  She is depicted metaphorically as EveryIndianWoman, but she could just as easily be EveryWoman, the poem is written that well. Every reader feels empathy with The Women, as do the spectators on the street below.  Thusly, EveryOne is up on the ledge with The Woman, right beside her, or as her.  The poem begins tragically but ends victoriously.  There is hope to escape the fall from the ledge in the sense of self-reclamation.  After all, hasn’t everyone been hanging from a ledge at least once in his or her life—at least some sort of a metaphoric ledge?
The rest of the poems are just as vivid as they are emotional.
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stephen-in-the-countryStephen Page is from Detroit, Michigan.  There he worked in factories, gasoline stations, and steel-cutting shops.  He always longed for a vocation associated with nature.  He now lives in Argentina, teaches literature, ranches, and spends time with his family. http://stephenmpage.wordpress.com/

Best Bones by Sarah Rose Nordgren

best bonesSeries: Pitt Poetry Series

Paperback: 88 pages

Publisher: University of Pittsburgh Press; 1 edition (September 4, 2014)

Language: English

ISBN-10: 0822963175

ISBN-13: 978-0822963172

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Reviewed by g emil reutter

There is a strange feeling as you turn the pages of Best Bones by Sarah Rose Nordgren. Something is out of kilter, unorthodox may be the proper term but I do believe original best describes the poetry of Nordgren. She is a narrative poet dwelling equally in the shadows and light of life.
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In the haunting poem, Exhumation, Nordgren contrasts shadows and light throughout the poem. A gray face, greasy windows, railroad ditch, sun rise. “When the lights die you disappear”. In this terrifying poem, Nordgren’s controlled use of images is remarkable. Wrapped by I am the woman lying on her side, to the last, My Face is an aluminum dish.
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Exhumation
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I am the woman lying on her side across the van seat,
wearing a gray face, apparitional through greasy
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windows as you walk past the railroad ditch
early morning on a whim, wanting to watch the sun
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rise like you haven’t in years. My life is under yours: in-
consolable, bathed in drainage, a midden of cracked
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bottles, swollen tampons, rusted metal sheets cast
from the clamor. You flasher of future, your liver and lung
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are fleshier, pinker. When they excavate me they will find
my many napkin writings, twenty rooms I built
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from twine, dictionary of waste in which I define
your failure. Meanwhile: I’ll retire to my atrium, washing
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my perpetually warm body, liquid touching liquid
as it cools. The pipes are beginning to freeze. The all-night
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factory shuts down at five. When the lights die you
disappear into a wooden structure and wonder
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what you’ve done. Even if you’d brought your camera,
you couldn’t click me. My face is an aluminum dish.
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Best Bones is a collection of poetry that is an intimate collection of gently dramatic poems that will alarm and haunt you.

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You can check out the book here: http://www.amazon.com/Best-Bones-Poetry-Sarah-Nordgren/dp/0822963175/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1410785016&sr=1-1&keywords=best+bones+by+Sarah+Rose+Nordgren

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g-emil-reutter-g emil reutter lives and writes in the Fox Chase neighborhood of Philadelphia, Pa. (USA)  https://gereutter.wordpress.com/