Category Archives: Book Reviews

Poem of the Week: The Cinnamon Peeler’s Wife by Michael Ondaatje

If I were a cinnamon peeler
I would ride your bed
and leave the yellow bark dust
on your pillow.

Your breasts and shoulders would reek
you could never walk through markets
without the profession of my fingers
floating over you. The blind would
stumble certain of whom they approached
though you might bathe
under rain gutters, monsoon.

Here on the upper thigh
at this smooth pasture
neighbor to your hair
or the crease
that cuts your back. This ankle.
You will be known among strangers
as the cinnamon peeler’s wife.

I could hardly glance at you
before marriage
never touch you
– your keen nosed mother, your rough brothers.
I buried my hands
in saffron, disguised them
over smoking tar,
helped the honey gatherers…

When we swam once
I touched you in water
and our bodies remained free,
you could hold me and be blind of smell.
You climbed the bank and said

this is how you touch other women
the grasscutter’s wife, the lime burner’s daughter.
And you searched your arms
for the missing perfume.
and knew
what good is it
to be the lime burner’s daughter
left with no trace
as if not spoken to in an act of love
as if wounded without the pleasure of scar.

You touched
your belly to my hands
in the dry air and said
I am the cinnamon
peeler’s wife. Smell me.

 

Thank you Michael Ondaatje for creating so many beautiful word sculptures.

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Poem of the Week: Overheard by Ross Gay

It’s a beautiful day
the small man said from behind me
and I could tell he had a slight limp
from the rasp of his boot against the sidewalk
and I was slow to look at him
because I’ve learned to close my ears
against the voices of passersby, which is easier than closing
them to my own mind,
and although he said it I did not hear it
until he said it a second or third time
but he did, he said It’s a beautiful day and something
in the way he pointed to the sun unfolding
between two oaks overhanging a basketball court
on 10th Street made me, too
catch hold of that light, opening my hands
to the dream of the soon blooming
and never did he say forget the crick in your neck
nor your bloody dreams; he did not say forget
the multiple shades of your mother’s heartbreak,
nor the father in your city
kneeling over his bloody child,
nor the five species of bird this second become memory,
no, he said only, It’s a beautiful day,
this tiny man
limping past me
with upturned palms
shaking his head
in disbelief.

A big thank you to Alison McGhee for curating these poems.
For more information on Ross Gay, please click here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ross_Gay

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Steve Jobs: Walter Isaacson’s Biography – A Book Commentary

This often critical biography of someone famously known for being difficult draws a portrait of a brilliantly creative man who’s relentless, single-minded obsession with perfection created two of the world’s most successfully branded companies; Pixar Films and Apple Computers.

Revolutions aren’t created by nice people, and Steve Jobs, does not appear to be a ‘people person’ particularly to those who worked for him.  He is a man with an uncanny ability to perceive a need that bridges cultural entertainment with high tech – including a vision for beautiful, simple  design that focuses on anticipating the users every need. While his day-to-day communications skills were legendarily wanting, his ability to anticipate communications on the larger artistic and systemic level is phenomenal.

Steve Jobs sits at the unique intersection of the humanities and technology. Technology without the human element meant nothing to him and his criticism of his largest rival,Microsoft ,was their lack of user friendliness, their open architecture and the ugliness of their product. It simply wasn’t good enough for him.

His accomplishments in such a short life are legendary; the founding of Apple Computers in his parents garage with Steve Wozniak, the launch of the Apple, the Macintosh, iTunesiPhoneiMaciMovie, Apple Stores – his product launches, the commercials -we haven’t even touched on Pixar Films and the Toy Story franchise.

When Jobs realized he was losing his battle against cancer he approached Isaacson to write the story of his life with the promise that he would not interfere with the process or with the story. Lauren Jobs, Steve‘s wife urged Isaacson to be honest, acknowledging that her husband’s life had been ‘messy’ and that not everyone would have kind things to say. Isaacson successfully delivers on the incredible life story of Steve Jobs, a man known to be  a driven, difficult, bad tempered perfectionist. It’s this same man who revolutionized how we as human beings communicate and entertain ourselves with beautifully elegant devices that anticipate our every need.  This is a book that Steve wanted written because he wanted  his children to know who he was.

There is something about his life story that is larger than life and maybe that’s why I couldn’t put the book down. Jobs, was obviously, far from perfect, but his enormous gifts allowed him in  his very short life to bring to fruition a vision that has fundamentally changed how we communicate.

And what drove Steve Jobs? – a generous recognition of all those whose creative contributions fundamentally impacted the world:

“What drove me? I think most creative people want to express appreciation for being able to take advantage of the work that’s been done by others before us. I didn’t invent the language or mathematics I use. I make little of my own food none of my own clothes. Everything I do depends on other members of our species and that shoulders that we stand on. And a lot of us want to contribute something back to our species and to add something to that flow. It’s about trying to express something in the only way that most of us know how – because we can’t write Bob Dylan songs or Tom Stoppard plays. We try to use the talents we do have to express our deep feelings, to show our appreciation of all the contributions that came before us, and to add something to that flow. That is what has driven me.”

I loved this book and felt enormously sad when Steve Jobs life journey ended.

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Poem of the Week – June the Horse by Jim Harrison

Sleep is water. I’m an old man surging
upriver on the back of my dream horse
that I haven’t seen since I was ten.
We’re night riders through cities, forests, fields.

I saw Stephanie standing on the steps of Pandora’s Box
on Sheridan Square in 1957. She’d never spoken
to me but this time, as a horse lover, she waved.

I saw the sow bear and two cubs. She growled
at me in 1987 when I tried to leave the cabin while her cubs
were playing with my garbage cans. I needed a drink
but I didn’t need this big girl on my ass.

We swam up the Neva in St. Petersburg in 1972
where a girl sat on the bank hugging a red icon
and Raskolnikov, pissed off and whining, spat on her feet.

On the Rhône in the Camargue fighting bulls
bellowed at us from a marsh and 10,000 flamingos
took flight for Africa.

This night-riding is the finest thing I do at age seventy-two.
On my birthday evening we’ll return to the original
pasture where we met and where she emerged from the pond
draped in lily pads and a coat of green algae.
We were children together and I never expected her return.

One day as a brown boy I shot a wasp nest with bow and arrow,
releasing hell. I mounted her from a stump and without
reins or saddle we rode to a clear lake where the bottom
was covered with my dreams waiting to be born.
One day I’ll ride her as a bone-clacking skeleton.
We’ll ride to Veracruz and Barcelona, then up to Venus.

Thanks to Alison McGhee for her curation of these beautiful poems.
For more information on Jim Harrison, please click here: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/jim-harrison

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Poem of the Week: Ocean Ghazal by Alison Mcghee

Ocean Ghazal

He came spiraling back up the stairs, all four flights, two at a time
Dark coat flying, dark eyes searching, something more to tell her, that last time.

At night by the ocean, salt spray and laughter and a dive in dark water.
Kisses, soft, then silence and her body, alive with longing. It was time.

A stranger on a yellow windsurfer like his, slicing through the northern ocean.
Curving the board back and forth to shore before her, the girl displaced in time.

Memory conjures a face, floating beyond the streaks of the bus window.
Please, please tell her what you didn’t, those last weeks, running out of time.

Pesto is garlic and basil, oil and cheese. Salt. Dip your finger in green,
deep green its taste, green your finger in her mouth, green still seen in time.

When someone dies where do his memories go? Memories only you two know?
You are so much older now than that day he left you behind in time.

 

 

 

Big thank you to Alison McGhee for sharing this beautiful poem.

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Poem of the Week: If thou must love me, let it be for nought by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

If thou must love me, let it be for nought
Except for love’s sake only. Do not say
‘I love her for her smile—her look—her way
Of speaking gently,—for a trick of thought
That falls in well with mine, and certes brought
A sense of pleasant ease on such a day’—
For these things in themselves, Belovèd, may
Be changed, or change for thee,—and love, so wrought,
May be unwrought so. Neither love me for
Thine own dear pity’s wiping my cheeks dry,—
A creature might forget to weep, who bore
Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby!
But love me for love’s sake, that evermore
Thou mayst love on, through love’s eternity.


A big thank you to Alison McGhee for her generous curation of all these beautiful poems.
For more information on Elizabeth Barrett Browning, please click here: http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/152

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Poem of the Week: Roofmen by Patricia Fargnoli

Over my head the roofmen are banging shingles into place
and over them the sky shines with a light that is
almost past autumn, and bright as copper foil.

In the end I will have something to show for their hard labor–
unflappable shingles, dry ceilings, one more measure of things
held safely in a world where safety is impossible.

In another state, a friend tries to keep on living
though his arteries are clogged,
though the operation left a ten-inch scar

and, near his intestines, an aneurysm blossoms
like a deformed flower. His knees and feet
burn with constant pain.

We go on. I don’t know how sometimes.
For a living, I listen eight hours a day to the voices
of the anxious and the sad. I watch their beautiful faces

for some sign that life is more than disaster–
it is always there, the spirit behind the suffering,
the small light that gathers the soul and holds it

beyond the sacrifices of the body. Necessary light.
I bend toward it and blow gently.
And those hammerers above me, bend into the dailiness

of their labor, beneath concentric circles: a roof of sky,
beneath the roof of the universe,
beneath what vaults over it.

And don’t those journeymen
hold a piece of the answer– the way they go on
laying one gray speckled square after another,

nailing each down, firmly, securely.

BIG BIG thank you to Alison McGhee for curating these beautiful poems.
For more information on Patricia Fargnoli, please click here:http://www.joefargnoli.com/

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Half-Blood Blues by Esi Edugyan Book Review

Victoria-based writer Esi Edugyan’s Half-Blood Blues was long listed for the Man Booker Prize and was the winner of the prestigious 2011 Giller Prize. This is a book that makes me grateful for writers like Esi who bring to light stories you didn’t even know existed. History has a way of creating large brush strokes of remembrance, leaving everything else to the dustbin of history.

In Half-Blood Blues she focuses her attention on the plight of mixed race Germans during the rise of Nazi power. Hieronymous Falk is an exquisitely talented mixed-race trumpeter born and raised in Germany who escapes with his fellow black american musicians Chip and Sidney to Paris when it’s clear that they are no longer safe in an increasingly ‘ethnically pure’ Germany.

While in Paris they meet Louis Armstrong and soon return to doing what they do best – making great music. It’s not long, however, that the spectre of a German occupation of Paris looms and they are once again rendered ‘stateless’ and unsafe. It is while they’re waiting for their exit visas to return to America that Hiero disappears.  Sid watches from behind a closed door as his friend is taken into custody by the ‘boots’ and is never heard from again.

The book flashes back and forth between the present where both Chip and Sidney return to Europe as elderly men to take part in the launch of a film on the incredible jazz musician – their old friend Hieronymous Falk.

It’s clear as the story unfolds from the present to the past that the relationships between the men were fraught with personal and professional jealousies and betrayal. As Sid and Chip journey back to Germany to celebrate their old lost friend – Sid is forced to confront his own demons and duplicity.

What did I like about this book? Well I liked the exploration of what it means to be ‘stateless’ which these men are. Sid and Chip left America for Europe to enjoy greater cultural freedom and acceptance – only to have the spectre of the world’s ultimate white crazy man rise to power and Hiero, as a black German national, belongs nowhere. In Half-Blood Blues art is your heart, it’s your country.When nothing else sustains you, it will.

There is also a beautiful scene captured when the Germans are marching in Paris. Knowing that there is nothing to hope for, the young men find a cellar and make music. Because there is nothing else and creating beauty and living in that single moment is the only thing left that matters. I loved that moment.

I also thought the scenes in the book that dealt with the early days of the German occupation were well done. There’s a haunting scene where Chip and Sid are wandering through a government building when they realize it has been abandoned except for one man. It sent chills down my spine.

What I didn’t like about the book was the main character Sid. I found him wooden, uninteresting and frequently irritating. The person I was most interested in, Hiero, was written instead as a bit character – the character around which everything revolved but around whom we know very little.

A lot of reviewers also made mention of Edugyan’s ‘voice’ – the vernacular used by the characters. A friend of mine who recommended this book also loved Londonstani which I didn’t like either. There was something about it that didn’t quite ring true or seemed to somehow get in the way. I know a lot of people loved this aspect of the book but it didn’t really work for me.

All in all though, I found this a worthwhile read. I have a soft spot for books that deal with this time period and this one certainly does it justice.

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Poem of the Week: The Woman Who Shoveled the Sidewalk by Stanley Plumly


She clearly needed more than money,
which, anyway, wasn’t much.
Her dog, one of those outlawed fighting breeds,
black-and-white and eyes too far apart,
kept snapping at the leash, the cash
I placed as simply as I could into her open hand.
Her small stalled car was what she lived in,
the death seat and backseat all-purposed into piles.
She was desperate so she blessed me.
I could almost feel my mother standing there,
the way she’d greet the lost after the war.
A woman vulnerable is powerful.
Poverty in all the texts grants grace
to the raveled and unwashed,
just as the soul we assign to what is singing
in the trees, even in winter, lives
in the face and voice of the least.
You could see the random child in her,
who had got, today, this far.
You could hear, under her words, silence.
There wasn’t that much snow, enough
to take its picture if you left it untouched.
Her companionable, hostile dog was what she had,
who stayed in the car while she started in earnest,
as if the work were wages. Young, off
or still on drugs—I couldn’t tell—
she was alone in every hard detail.
Each day is lifted, then put back down.
Tomorrow’s snow turns back into the rain.
I had to be somewhere but knew when
I got home she’d be gone. And the walk,
from start to finish, would be clean.

Big thank you to Alison McGhee who curates these beautiful poems.
For more information on Stanley Plumly, please click here: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/stanley-plumly

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Poem of the Week: Then I Walked Through the World by Leah Goldberg

Then I walked through the world
as though someone adored me.
Laughter unfurled through heaps of stones,
and a wind through fathomless skies.

Then I walked through the world
as though someone dreamed me fair.
Across the night abysses bloomed
and the sea’s mirrors painted my face,
as though someone were writing poems about me.

I walked, until I reached an utter stillness within:
then, it seemed, something might begin.

A million thanks to Alison McGhee as always for curating these beauties.
For more information on Annie Kantar, please click here: http://www.smartishpace.com/poet_index/?alpha=k

For more information on Leah Goldberg, please click here: http://israel.poetryinternationalweb.org/piw_cms/cms/cms_module/index.php?obj_id=3170

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