What do you think?
Rate this book
Bonfire Opera: Poems
Winner, 2021 Northern California Book Award
Finalist, 2021 Patterson Poetry Prize
Sometimes the most compelling landscapes are the ones where worlds where a desert meets the sea, a civilization, no-man’s land. Here in Bonfire Opera, grief and Eros grapple in the same domain. A bullet-hole through the heart, a house full of ripe persimmons, a ghost in a garden. Coyotes cry out on the hill, and lovers find themselves kissing, “bee-stung, drunk” in the middle of road. Here, the dust is holy, as is the dark, unknown. These are poems that praise the impossible, wild world, finding beauty in its wake.
Finalist, 2021 Patterson Poetry Prize
Sometimes the most compelling landscapes are the ones where worlds where a desert meets the sea, a civilization, no-man’s land. Here in Bonfire Opera, grief and Eros grapple in the same domain. A bullet-hole through the heart, a house full of ripe persimmons, a ghost in a garden. Coyotes cry out on the hill, and lovers find themselves kissing, “bee-stung, drunk” in the middle of road. Here, the dust is holy, as is the dark, unknown. These are poems that praise the impossible, wild world, finding beauty in its wake.
84 pages, Paperback
First published March 17, 2020
48 people are currently reading
1157 people want to read
Ratings & Reviews
Friends & Following
Create a free account to discover what your friends think of this book!
Community Reviews
Displaying 1 - 30 of 65 reviews
![Profile Image for s.penkevich [hiatus-will return-miss you all].](/_next/image?url=https%3A%2F%2Fi.gr-assets.com%2Fimages%2FS%2Fcompressed.photo.goodreads.com%2Fusers%2F1735525095i%2F6431467._UX200_CR0%2C11%2C200%2C200_.jpg&w=128&q=75)
January 30, 2025
In the rush of life, poetry is a reminder to slow down, drink each line as if you will be nourished by the details, find beauty in the fleeting moments, the tiny joys, the small kindnesses. Bonfire Opera from poet Danusha Laméris dazzles in its ability to refresh and rejuvenate the reader in such a way where even as poems wind through explorations of grief, death, and the struggles of living within a fragile, mortal body full, and even with ‘the earth beneath us, indifferent, busy as it is, making and unmaking,’ even amidst it all we find a tender warmth in her words to nuzzle against. Her prose is a balm for a weary heart. While Bonfire Opera is a brief collection, it reminds me of another of poetry’s great qualities, that of being able to succinctly pack such multitudes of thought and theme into the space of a few short stanzas. To transform the space of a page into a novel’s worth of thought that lingers long beyond the time it takes to read. In this way poetry is itself a small kindness and ever since first reading this poem by Laméris when it went viral in 2020 I can’t think of the word “kindness” without it coming to mind:
Small Kindnesses
I’ve been thinking about the way, when you walk
down a crowded aisle, people pull in their legs
to let you by. Or how strangers still say “bless you”
when someone sneezes, a leftover
from the Bubonic plague. “Don’t die,” we are saying.
And sometimes, when you spill lemons
from your grocery bag, someone else will help you
pick them up. Mostly, we don’t want to harm each other.
We want to be handed our cup of coffee hot,
and to say thank you to the person handing it. To smile
at them and for them to smile back. For the waitress
to call us honey when she sets down the bowl of clam chowder,
and for the driver in the red pick-up truck to let us pass.
We have so little of each other, now. So far
from tribe and fire. Only these brief moments of exchange.
What if they are the true dwelling of the holy, these
fleeting temples we make together when we say, “Here,
have my seat,” “Go ahead—you first,” “I like your hat.”
In a conversation with poet Ellen Bass for an interview in Tupelo Quarterly, Laméris discussed not only how the poem came to be, but how it came to take on a life of its own:
I really love how this poem about small kindnesses became, itself, a small kindness from Laméris to the world in times when people need it most. It is, yet again, another example of poetry’s powers: to connect and unite. ‘In poetry, we get to address the ephemeral. And all things are ephemeral.,’ she told Bass, ‘we are in intimate conversation with the world,’ and the poems here really capture that sense of communication with the world. Many of the poems deal with grief (the suicide of her brother, for instance, casts a long shadow over several poems), but also the tiny moments where grief is relieved, such as a fit of laughter with her sister-in-law over a joke that pauses the days of tears and sorrow while planning her brother’s funeral. There is a tenderness that permeates this collection where even a poem of lovers parting for the day in the rain becomes a moment of kind comfort.
Aubade With a Chance of Rain
There is a bed in each of us—
a bed of memory, bed of damp grass,
of straw, mattress tucked against
the wall, or spread out under the stars.
Bed of the Beloved. Bed of small
deaths—the sheets smoothed just so.
And all around the world, someone
is about to rise from it. To lift
a head from the pillow, slip
into a robe, duck under the low
arched door. Let there be
a faint sun, a cloudy sky.
Let the two lovers linger there
for the time it takes
to write this poem. Let the bed
be soft as down, as the milky
seeds of dandelions. It is almost—
but not quite—time to go.
The sky is dark.
Let no one they love
try to look for them.
Let the children, if there
are children, sleep.
Let the sirens quiet, the guns
rest, poised in their chambers,
the bombing, cease.
And when the lovers rise,
as they must, may the rain fall
and soften their return.
The collection also dives into ideas on being trapped in a failing human body and how we come with that. There is an estrangement at times, such as metaphors that pull us back to gaze at the body almost as something unfamiliar like in Egg where she writes ‘and here it goes, again, the body hauling one out of the ovary like coal from a mine. ’ The imagery as something removed also appears in the many instances where she grapples with the animal instincts within us all, such as in the poem Coyotes:
‘There is an animal inside me that wants to tear
into the body of something soft and luscious, cracking
its small bones. To prowl the church of the dark, ragged
and dangerous, wearing my grief like a fur jacket.
To test my tongue against the rough spines of blackberry
and prickly pear, feel the barbed prongs in the pit of my gut.
Haven’t I been good long enough?’
It is as if our human feelings, human struggles, human lives are all a costume we wear over our animal selves and in that we find a bit of solace in grief: the fact that we grieve, that we weave memory and emotion and process and hold tight to someone long gone is part of what makes us human. And that is a rather beautiful perspective.
Bonfire Opera
In those days, there was a woman in our circle
who was known, not only for her beauty,
but for taking off all her clothes and singing opera.
And sure enough, as the night wore on and the stars
emerged to stare at their reflections on the sea,
and everyone had drunk a little wine,
she began to disrobe, loose her great bosom,
and the tender belly, pale in the moonlight,
the Viking hips, and to let her torn raiment
fall to the sand as we looked up from the flames.
And then a voice lifted into the dark, high and clear
as a flock of blackbirds. And everything was very still,
the way the congregation quiets when the priest
prays over the incense, and the smoke wafts
up into the rafters. I wanted to be that free
inside the body, the doors of pleasure
opening, one after the next, an arpeggio
climbing the ladder of sky. And all the while
she was singing and wading into the water
until it rose up to her waist and then lapped
at the underside of her breasts, and the aria
drifted over us, her soprano spare and sharp
in the night air. And even though I was young,
somehow, in that moment, I heard it,
the song inside the song, and I knew then
that this was not the hymn of promise
but the body’s bright wailing against its limits.
A bird caught in a cathedral—the way it tries
to escape by throwing itself, again and again,
against the stained glass.
A brief collection, but one filled with such poetic power that reminds us why poetry is such an important and empowering art in the first place, Danusha Laméris’Bonfire Opera makes for an exquisite read and one to revisit again and again.
5/5
Stone
And what am I doing here, in a yurt on the side of a hill
at the ragged edge of the tree line, sheltered by conifer and bay,
watching the wind lift, softly, the dry leaves of bamboo?
I lie on the floor and let the sun fall across my back,
as I have been for the past hour, listening to the distant traffic,
to the calls of birds I cannot name. Once, I had so much
I wanted to accomplish. Now, all I know is that I want
to get closer to it—to the rocky slope, the orange petals
of the nasturtium adorning the fence, the wind’s sudden breath.
Close enough that I can almost feel, at night, the slight pressure
of the stars against my skin. Isn’t this what the mystics meant
when they spoke of forsaking the world? Not to turn our backs to it,
only to its elaborate plots, its complicated pleasures—
in favor of the pine’s long shadow, the slow song of the grass.
I’m always forgetting, and remembering, and forgetting.
I want to leave something here in the rough dirt: a twig,
a small stone—perhaps this poem—a reminder to begin,
again, by listening carefully with the body’s rapt attention
—remember? To this, to this.
Small Kindnesses
I’ve been thinking about the way, when you walk
down a crowded aisle, people pull in their legs
to let you by. Or how strangers still say “bless you”
when someone sneezes, a leftover
from the Bubonic plague. “Don’t die,” we are saying.
And sometimes, when you spill lemons
from your grocery bag, someone else will help you
pick them up. Mostly, we don’t want to harm each other.
We want to be handed our cup of coffee hot,
and to say thank you to the person handing it. To smile
at them and for them to smile back. For the waitress
to call us honey when she sets down the bowl of clam chowder,
and for the driver in the red pick-up truck to let us pass.
We have so little of each other, now. So far
from tribe and fire. Only these brief moments of exchange.
What if they are the true dwelling of the holy, these
fleeting temples we make together when we say, “Here,
have my seat,” “Go ahead—you first,” “I like your hat.”
In a conversation with poet Ellen Bass for an interview in Tupelo Quarterly, Laméris discussed not only how the poem came to be, but how it came to take on a life of its own:
‘I wrote the poem, “Small Kindnesses” in the days surrounding the last inauguration, when there was a heavy sentiment in the air. I dashed it off in maybe ten minutes, and posted it online, thinking we could all use a momentary refuge. From there it has taken on a life of its own. Sometimes people write to let me know that reading the poem is part of their morning practice. Or that, for example, it was being shared in Italy in the early days of lockdown. The idea of the poem is that, despite the greater cruelties, “mostly, we don’t want to harm each other.” I think that assumption of basic goodness is one we need now more than ever. And beyond that, I am moved when readers let me know that they have stepped out of their comfort zone and taken the risk to reach out to a stranger when they otherwise might not have. In many ways, the poem was a gift—one that appeared at the right moment.’
I really love how this poem about small kindnesses became, itself, a small kindness from Laméris to the world in times when people need it most. It is, yet again, another example of poetry’s powers: to connect and unite. ‘In poetry, we get to address the ephemeral. And all things are ephemeral.,’ she told Bass, ‘we are in intimate conversation with the world,’ and the poems here really capture that sense of communication with the world. Many of the poems deal with grief (the suicide of her brother, for instance, casts a long shadow over several poems), but also the tiny moments where grief is relieved, such as a fit of laughter with her sister-in-law over a joke that pauses the days of tears and sorrow while planning her brother’s funeral. There is a tenderness that permeates this collection where even a poem of lovers parting for the day in the rain becomes a moment of kind comfort.
Aubade With a Chance of Rain
There is a bed in each of us—
a bed of memory, bed of damp grass,
of straw, mattress tucked against
the wall, or spread out under the stars.
Bed of the Beloved. Bed of small
deaths—the sheets smoothed just so.
And all around the world, someone
is about to rise from it. To lift
a head from the pillow, slip
into a robe, duck under the low
arched door. Let there be
a faint sun, a cloudy sky.
Let the two lovers linger there
for the time it takes
to write this poem. Let the bed
be soft as down, as the milky
seeds of dandelions. It is almost—
but not quite—time to go.
The sky is dark.
Let no one they love
try to look for them.
Let the children, if there
are children, sleep.
Let the sirens quiet, the guns
rest, poised in their chambers,
the bombing, cease.
And when the lovers rise,
as they must, may the rain fall
and soften their return.
The collection also dives into ideas on being trapped in a failing human body and how we come with that. There is an estrangement at times, such as metaphors that pull us back to gaze at the body almost as something unfamiliar like in Egg where she writes ‘and here it goes, again, the body hauling one out of the ovary like coal from a mine. ’ The imagery as something removed also appears in the many instances where she grapples with the animal instincts within us all, such as in the poem Coyotes:
‘There is an animal inside me that wants to tear
into the body of something soft and luscious, cracking
its small bones. To prowl the church of the dark, ragged
and dangerous, wearing my grief like a fur jacket.
To test my tongue against the rough spines of blackberry
and prickly pear, feel the barbed prongs in the pit of my gut.
Haven’t I been good long enough?’
It is as if our human feelings, human struggles, human lives are all a costume we wear over our animal selves and in that we find a bit of solace in grief: the fact that we grieve, that we weave memory and emotion and process and hold tight to someone long gone is part of what makes us human. And that is a rather beautiful perspective.
Bonfire Opera
In those days, there was a woman in our circle
who was known, not only for her beauty,
but for taking off all her clothes and singing opera.
And sure enough, as the night wore on and the stars
emerged to stare at their reflections on the sea,
and everyone had drunk a little wine,
she began to disrobe, loose her great bosom,
and the tender belly, pale in the moonlight,
the Viking hips, and to let her torn raiment
fall to the sand as we looked up from the flames.
And then a voice lifted into the dark, high and clear
as a flock of blackbirds. And everything was very still,
the way the congregation quiets when the priest
prays over the incense, and the smoke wafts
up into the rafters. I wanted to be that free
inside the body, the doors of pleasure
opening, one after the next, an arpeggio
climbing the ladder of sky. And all the while
she was singing and wading into the water
until it rose up to her waist and then lapped
at the underside of her breasts, and the aria
drifted over us, her soprano spare and sharp
in the night air. And even though I was young,
somehow, in that moment, I heard it,
the song inside the song, and I knew then
that this was not the hymn of promise
but the body’s bright wailing against its limits.
A bird caught in a cathedral—the way it tries
to escape by throwing itself, again and again,
against the stained glass.
A brief collection, but one filled with such poetic power that reminds us why poetry is such an important and empowering art in the first place, Danusha Laméris’Bonfire Opera makes for an exquisite read and one to revisit again and again.
5/5
Stone
And what am I doing here, in a yurt on the side of a hill
at the ragged edge of the tree line, sheltered by conifer and bay,
watching the wind lift, softly, the dry leaves of bamboo?
I lie on the floor and let the sun fall across my back,
as I have been for the past hour, listening to the distant traffic,
to the calls of birds I cannot name. Once, I had so much
I wanted to accomplish. Now, all I know is that I want
to get closer to it—to the rocky slope, the orange petals
of the nasturtium adorning the fence, the wind’s sudden breath.
Close enough that I can almost feel, at night, the slight pressure
of the stars against my skin. Isn’t this what the mystics meant
when they spoke of forsaking the world? Not to turn our backs to it,
only to its elaborate plots, its complicated pleasures—
in favor of the pine’s long shadow, the slow song of the grass.
I’m always forgetting, and remembering, and forgetting.
I want to leave something here in the rough dirt: a twig,
a small stone—perhaps this poem—a reminder to begin,
again, by listening carefully with the body’s rapt attention
—remember? To this, to this.
Read
February 18, 2025As poetry collections go, this one's pretty good. If you're unsure about poetry, it serves as a green light because it's what's known as "accessible." In the Church of Lyric Poetry, the pew you're in is confessional. (Or should I say the "box" followed by the Act of Contrition?)
Divided into five sections as collections often are, we find some themes therein. Most outstanding is a set of poem's where the speaker is dealing with the death of a brother and a son. We're not supposed to confuse authors with speakers in literature, but with poetry, you often find writers who are inspired by personal tragedies. The Muse wears a black veil, in other words.
Here's an example poem:
Dressing for the Burial
No one wants to talk about the hilarity after death--
the way the week my brother shot himself,
his wife and I fell on the bed laughing
because she couldn't decide what to wear for the big day,
and asked me, "Do I go for sexy or Amish?" I told her sexy.
And we rolled around on the mattress they'd shared
for eighteen years, clutching our sides.
Meanwhile, he lay in a narrow refrigerated drawer,
soft brown curls spring from his scalp,
framing his handsome face. This was back when
he still had a face, and we were going to get to see it.
"Hold up the black skirt again," I said. She said, "Which one?"
And then she said, "You look so Mafia Chic," and I said, "Thank you,"
and it went on until we both got tired and our ribs hurt and now
I don't even remember what we wore. Only that we both looked fabulous
weeping over that open hole in the ground.
You get the picture. It reminds, a bit, of brides. Some giggle while taking the vows. Others cry. Humans are tragicomedies waiting to surprise you, often at the strangest moments.
Other themes in the book are love, nature, memory, family, and other such usual culprits found in this thing we call life.
Curious for more? A second, more grounded outing from this poetry collection (the poem's about earthworms, people!) is shared in this post on my website: Feeding the Earthworms
Divided into five sections as collections often are, we find some themes therein. Most outstanding is a set of poem's where the speaker is dealing with the death of a brother and a son. We're not supposed to confuse authors with speakers in literature, but with poetry, you often find writers who are inspired by personal tragedies. The Muse wears a black veil, in other words.
Here's an example poem:
Dressing for the Burial
No one wants to talk about the hilarity after death--
the way the week my brother shot himself,
his wife and I fell on the bed laughing
because she couldn't decide what to wear for the big day,
and asked me, "Do I go for sexy or Amish?" I told her sexy.
And we rolled around on the mattress they'd shared
for eighteen years, clutching our sides.
Meanwhile, he lay in a narrow refrigerated drawer,
soft brown curls spring from his scalp,
framing his handsome face. This was back when
he still had a face, and we were going to get to see it.
"Hold up the black skirt again," I said. She said, "Which one?"
And then she said, "You look so Mafia Chic," and I said, "Thank you,"
and it went on until we both got tired and our ribs hurt and now
I don't even remember what we wore. Only that we both looked fabulous
weeping over that open hole in the ground.
You get the picture. It reminds, a bit, of brides. Some giggle while taking the vows. Others cry. Humans are tragicomedies waiting to surprise you, often at the strangest moments.
Other themes in the book are love, nature, memory, family, and other such usual culprits found in this thing we call life.
Curious for more? A second, more grounded outing from this poetry collection (the poem's about earthworms, people!) is shared in this post on my website: Feeding the Earthworms
March 19, 2021
In March 2020, just a handful of weeks into lockdown from a newly terrifying world, I read the poem "Small Kindnesses" and cried. I still cry, or at least get misty-eyed, every time I read it. It wasn't written about these strange times but it easily could have been.
In this book of poetry, there is a strong theme throughout of yearning and desire, of loss and remembrance, of wanting to experience all of the beauty and pain that life has to offer, but being keenly aware of how fleeting it all is.
This is easily among my favorite poetic works, something I see myself returning to again and again. The imagery and stories are often hyper-specific, but have a satisfying turn into the universal. It's bittersweet without being cloying, lofty without being overly pretentious. A dazzling volume.
In this book of poetry, there is a strong theme throughout of yearning and desire, of loss and remembrance, of wanting to experience all of the beauty and pain that life has to offer, but being keenly aware of how fleeting it all is.
This is easily among my favorite poetic works, something I see myself returning to again and again. The imagery and stories are often hyper-specific, but have a satisfying turn into the universal. It's bittersweet without being cloying, lofty without being overly pretentious. A dazzling volume.
May 19, 2021
The best book of poetry, by a contemporary author, I have read in quite some time.
A miracle of intimacy.
A miracle of intimacy.
February 11, 2025
I’ll be the first to admit I’m not the most critical or analytical poetry reader; I just kind of go based on how lovely I thought the writing was and how much the poems moved me emotionally. This collection delivered on both fronts. There are some really beautiful, touching pieces in here and I really enjoyed reading it.
August 18, 2021
Wow and Wow. This may be one of the best poetry books I've read all year. Don't miss it!
The poems and the language itself are full, gently emotional, intimate and luscious, a solid narrative grounded in the sensual body, the earth, and all the being on it, like dust, earthworms, mosquitoes, stars & dragonflies but with profound lyrical moments to flipping die for.
There's not a topic she doesn't cover from grief, sex, beauty, heartbreak, the earth's suffering, subtle politics, social ills, racism, the esoteric, gratitude, kindness, the mystical...all painted accessibly and so beautifully. Some poems are very Levis-like, "Palm Trees,"or "Passion Fish" and, indeed, Laméris gives a large nod to Larry Levis (one of my favorite poets) in, "Elegy in an Orchard."
I found almost every poem remarkable from this 'new-to-me' poet and here are a few I adore:
-Dust
-Feeding the Worms
-Small Kindnesses
-Palm Trees
-Surfer Girl
-Edible
-Service Station
-The Cat
-Passion Fish
-Stone
...and I could go on as a gorgeous surprise twist of wording resides in every poem. I suggest you savor each one and pause as these exposed beauties find new pathways in your system.
I can't wait to read more from Danusha Laméris.
From "Stone": [formatting not correct on GR]
"Close enough that I can almost feel, at night, the slight pressure
of the stars against my skin. Isn't this what the mystics meant
when they spoke of forsaking the world? Not to turn our backs to it,
only to its elaborate plots, its complicated pleasures--
in favor of the pine's long shadow, the song of the grass,
I'm always forgetting, and remembering, and forgetting."
The poems and the language itself are full, gently emotional, intimate and luscious, a solid narrative grounded in the sensual body, the earth, and all the being on it, like dust, earthworms, mosquitoes, stars & dragonflies but with profound lyrical moments to flipping die for.
There's not a topic she doesn't cover from grief, sex, beauty, heartbreak, the earth's suffering, subtle politics, social ills, racism, the esoteric, gratitude, kindness, the mystical...all painted accessibly and so beautifully. Some poems are very Levis-like, "Palm Trees,"or "Passion Fish" and, indeed, Laméris gives a large nod to Larry Levis (one of my favorite poets) in, "Elegy in an Orchard."
I found almost every poem remarkable from this 'new-to-me' poet and here are a few I adore:
-Dust
-Feeding the Worms
-Small Kindnesses
-Palm Trees
-Surfer Girl
-Edible
-Service Station
-The Cat
-Passion Fish
-Stone
...and I could go on as a gorgeous surprise twist of wording resides in every poem. I suggest you savor each one and pause as these exposed beauties find new pathways in your system.
I can't wait to read more from Danusha Laméris.
From "Stone": [formatting not correct on GR]
"Close enough that I can almost feel, at night, the slight pressure
of the stars against my skin. Isn't this what the mystics meant
when they spoke of forsaking the world? Not to turn our backs to it,
only to its elaborate plots, its complicated pleasures--
in favor of the pine's long shadow, the song of the grass,
I'm always forgetting, and remembering, and forgetting."
May 19, 2023
Another five star poetry collection. After reading a poem by Danusha Laméris in The American Poetry Review I knew I needed to wrap my hands around everything she’d written. Bonfire Opera is exquisite. Lush, erotic, lyrical—-revelations that touch on the simple pleasures of life and our shared grief. Each poem is an instrument culminating in a symphony that is bliss to the ears, the mind, and soul.
June 17, 2022
Rich, beautiful, thought-provoking poetry. I was unfamiliar with this poet, aside from one poem in Best American Poetry a few years back. The book captivated me. Highly recommended.
March 21, 2023
i read this on the beach and loved every bit of it. laméris writes about nature, time, and most of all, love. her writing is exquisite—sensual, romantic, descriptive, and original. an absolute treat to read.
April 2, 2021
So, so good. I need more stars.
July 18, 2023
I saw an excerpt of one of Laméris' poems in another book and I fell in love immediately. I quickly requested the book from the library and was just as pleased with the rest of the book as with that initial piece.
Her poetry is stunningly beautiful; the language somewhat imaginative but not to the point of being over-dramatic. She does not use sexual content or brash, erotic, intense language simply to shock as many poets seem to do--in fact, she hardly uses any of this type of language at all. Every intimate moment in her poetry feels exactly that: Intimate. Like walking past a doorway and happening to spot a couple enjoying a moment together when they thought they were unobserved. Sweet, heartwarming, adorably uncomfortable and yet absolutely perfect simultaneously.
As with any good collection of poems, Laméris has explored all aspects of human life in this book: Birth, love, loss, grief, joy, pain, contemplation, exploration, appreciation, and death, to name a few.
This collection of art pieces reminded me that poetry can be enjoyable, stories can be told effectively through media other than prose, and the way others view the world is fascinating and beautiful.
Her poetry is stunningly beautiful; the language somewhat imaginative but not to the point of being over-dramatic. She does not use sexual content or brash, erotic, intense language simply to shock as many poets seem to do--in fact, she hardly uses any of this type of language at all. Every intimate moment in her poetry feels exactly that: Intimate. Like walking past a doorway and happening to spot a couple enjoying a moment together when they thought they were unobserved. Sweet, heartwarming, adorably uncomfortable and yet absolutely perfect simultaneously.
As with any good collection of poems, Laméris has explored all aspects of human life in this book: Birth, love, loss, grief, joy, pain, contemplation, exploration, appreciation, and death, to name a few.
This collection of art pieces reminded me that poetry can be enjoyable, stories can be told effectively through media other than prose, and the way others view the world is fascinating and beautiful.
July 18, 2021
This is one of those books, you keep on your desk when you need a poem to help you make it through the day. The book should be owned just for the poem "Small Kindnesses," but every poem in this book is a thoughtful look at life and the world around us. Her poems are narrative and accessible, but well-crafted and complex in thought and images and all invite the reader in. One of my favorite collections of the year AND I just learned it won the Northern California Book Prize for Poetry, so there's that too! Highly recommend! (Oh and this title, BONFIRE OPERA, is also one of my favorite titles of poetry collections!)
August 14, 2023
Honestly, I think this is my favorite book of poetry I’ve read in years. I’ve seen the odd poem of Lameris’s over the last several years online, enough that I knew to order this, but I’m gobsmacked now that I’ve finally read a full collection. It is exquisite, with literally every page bringing something new and gorgeous into the world. It’s the kind of book that makes poets want to attempt their own transcendence on the page. I’m immediately going to find and purchase her other work. I’m also posting a second set of her poems from the book after this one, because goddamn.
August 28, 2020
I really loved the way Laméris told stories with her poetry--every poet does, but Laméris has a unique quality to her writing where she enfolds the reader in the story without the language taking on a purple prose quality. It took me a while to get through this volume because I wanted to savor her poems individually, and I was not disappointed. Beautiful!
March 8, 2022
Laméris has a way of making something ordinary meaningful in a conversational way. She notices little moments and encourages her reader to take note of life happening around us. I’m excited to read more of her work.
January 1, 2023
There are a couple poems and many more lines I really love but not enough for more than ⭐️⭐️⭐️
June 8, 2024
I have already ordered the new one due out in September. That should tell.
March 15, 2025
I adored practically every poem in this collection. I was highlighting them furiously. Danusha Laméris has that fundamental trait that I look for in a poet: a love of life. She writes beautifully about the profound pleasure of having a body, of being able to see the sky and touch the grass and kiss somebody's shoulder. Even the way she describes sadness, grief, and longing feel tender, hopeful, and deeply empathetic. Her poems aren't ornate, but neither are they spare. Lovely, lovely stuff.
December 10, 2021
Like many, Laméris came to my attention after I read "Small Kindnesses," an ode to the simple, ordinary moments of grace that stream unnoticed through our lives, heralding them as "fleeting temples" of the holy. It's the highlight of the collection, which is worth owning for that poem alone. However, it's certainly not the only gem to be found in this dazzling compilation. With lush language, Laméris writes with a deeply sensuous, almost startling intimacy; some of them even inspired a bashfulness in me (funny enough, she describes this feeling herself in "Threshold," which is one of the poems where I felt it most). There are some interesting tonal shifts, with many of the poems serving as meditations on the natural world alongside some that are more lusty and others still that grieve the death of her brother and son. Surprisingly, it manages to still feel quite cohesive as a single collection, but some different sections have a notably distinct focus (e.g. many in II emphasize death and grief, III love, lust, bodies, and beauty).
I tend to like my poetry melancholic, so I really loved "The Grass," "Coyote," and "Ghost Child." "O Darkness!" is a beautiful celebration of the beauty of darkness, "Stone" is an exhortation of the practice (or desire to practice) devoting our attention to the simple beauties of this world, and "Aubade with a Chance of Rain" an excellent example of her expertise at writing about the quiet, tender moments of life. There are more I really enjoyed too, but those (and, of course, "Small Kindnesses" are most of the standouts.
I tend to like my poetry melancholic, so I really loved "The Grass," "Coyote," and "Ghost Child." "O Darkness!" is a beautiful celebration of the beauty of darkness, "Stone" is an exhortation of the practice (or desire to practice) devoting our attention to the simple beauties of this world, and "Aubade with a Chance of Rain" an excellent example of her expertise at writing about the quiet, tender moments of life. There are more I really enjoyed too, but those (and, of course, "Small Kindnesses" are most of the standouts.
read-in-2021
June 10, 2021Favorites:
And sometimes
I want to win. And sometimes I want to lose so badly
I can taste it. To surrender everything I’m made of:
the neat, fenced acres of my separateness—
that little plot of land I’ve spent a life defending—
to let go until there’s nothing left of me
but that great vault we spoke of,
its endless dark, its pitiless silence.
— from “Worlds in Worlds”
Haven’t I been good long enough?—kept my sorrows
tucked in a back pocket, folded like a Swiss blade.
But now, I want to lie down, press my spine to the pocked earth,
tear off my shirt and writhe ‘til I loosen something at the back
of my throat, make my own, terrible noise, hear it slip
into the iced air—is this how they do it?—when they open
their trick jaws, tilt their heads up.
— from “Coyote”
I’m always forgetting, and remembering, and forgetting.
I want to leave something here in the rough dirt. A twig,
a small stone—perhaps this poem—a reminder to begin,
again, by listening carefully with the body’s rapt attention
—remember? To this, to this.
— from “Stone”
And sometimes
I want to win. And sometimes I want to lose so badly
I can taste it. To surrender everything I’m made of:
the neat, fenced acres of my separateness—
that little plot of land I’ve spent a life defending—
to let go until there’s nothing left of me
but that great vault we spoke of,
its endless dark, its pitiless silence.
— from “Worlds in Worlds”
Haven’t I been good long enough?—kept my sorrows
tucked in a back pocket, folded like a Swiss blade.
But now, I want to lie down, press my spine to the pocked earth,
tear off my shirt and writhe ‘til I loosen something at the back
of my throat, make my own, terrible noise, hear it slip
into the iced air—is this how they do it?—when they open
their trick jaws, tilt their heads up.
— from “Coyote”
I’m always forgetting, and remembering, and forgetting.
I want to leave something here in the rough dirt. A twig,
a small stone—perhaps this poem—a reminder to begin,
again, by listening carefully with the body’s rapt attention
—remember? To this, to this.
— from “Stone”
March 17, 2020
The comfort of such warm-hearted poems is just what I needed right now. “Social distancing” is a misnomer. Let’s call it “physical distancing,” because we need to draw close to each other’s hearts and souls right now.
I came to know Danusha Laméris’ work through Tracy K. Smith’s poetry podcast, The Slowdown, so my gateway was Danusha’s exquisite reflection on humans at our best, entitles “Small Kindnesses,” which presciently mentions a past plague. This poem is in this collection and is not an outlier in terms of the comfort it provides. Danusha is no doomsday poet; she is one of the helpers, for she sees the helper in all of us, she bears witness to the aspects of humanity which are crucial for me to focus on today and every day. But particularly now.
I came to know Danusha Laméris’ work through Tracy K. Smith’s poetry podcast, The Slowdown, so my gateway was Danusha’s exquisite reflection on humans at our best, entitles “Small Kindnesses,” which presciently mentions a past plague. This poem is in this collection and is not an outlier in terms of the comfort it provides. Danusha is no doomsday poet; she is one of the helpers, for she sees the helper in all of us, she bears witness to the aspects of humanity which are crucial for me to focus on today and every day. But particularly now.
November 7, 2023
Rereading. So good. Some of it is like the blues. It takes listening to the blues to get over the blues.
March 2, 2025
Bonefire Opera
This is a wonderful volume of poetry. There is a straightforwardness to it that makes it wildly accessible. Yet, that accessibility is like gaining admission through a beautiful gate. A gate into a landscape conveying something deep, primal, and empathic in simple moments that resonate with lyricism and movement—essential arpeggios. This book is like a banquet serving little courses that highlight the connectedness of all things. What I love most about this collection is that Laméris’ practical language teeters on the edge of something almost mystical with powerful imagery into day-to-day emotions and experiences that are common to all of us. I could say more but this is enough. Of a book’s worth of examples, here’s a few. Enjoy!
From Worlds in Worlds:
I was surprised when he leaned in to kiss me,
to cross the threshold that forever marks before, and after in the heart’s guest book,
a portal you can open and find nothing—or there might be nebula, comets, whole galaxies.
I said let’s not, we could hurt each other.
Isn’t it better, sometimes, to enjoy the fragrance of the blossom, than to eat the flower?
Which is when he lowered his face pressed his ear to the thunder beneath my sternum and asked like this…………………?
Some holy books say there are twenty-two levels of heaven,
ascending in pleasure to the most sublime,
and of them, this must be the 26th:
the faint stars, salty whiff of ocean, the purple outline of the Pines.
And a man I loved grazing my breast
with his stubbled cheek, pausing to sink his teeth
into the thin scrim of skin over my jugular.
I want many things in this life,
but have failed to want anything more than this—
to stand here at the battle lines of desire, the troops, armed and ready
with their sharpened arrows.
And sometimes I want to win.
And sometimes I want to lose so badly I can taste it.
To surrender everything I made of:
the neat, fenced acres of my separateness—
that little plot of land I’ve spent a life defending—
to let go until there’s nothing left of me but that great vault we spoke of,
it’s endless dark. It’s pitiless silence.
Hawks
It was late afternoon, and we were standing
on the deck overlooking the gray swath
of the Pacific, when my friend’s daughter,
then four, turned to me and pointed at the hawks
flying in the distance. I can call them if I want,
she said, tilting back her head to let out a long,
fierce caw, which floated up over the marsh
and above the trees. At first, nothing. Then—
a slash in the distance. And in the next moment
there it was—nearly above us, wings spread wide,
the color of rust. And then, another, the two floating
in silent circles while she sounded her cries.
The primal cry of the human, raw and plain.
The call to prayer, the weeping at the wall,
the singer’s highest, most broken, note.
Whatever it is we send up into oblivion, waiting.
Haven’t I, too, called out? Haven’t I beseeched
something winged to do my bidding?
And there she was, calling, and here they came,
in answer, this hinged assembly, hovering
towards us on the wind. Ten? Twenty?
Enough to darken the heavens above
where we stood, weighed in place, pinned
by a cover of raptors. Bone-swallowers,
snake-eaters, sharp-sighted angels of prey,
their scaled feet clutching the empty sky.
Small Kindness
I’ve been thinking about the way, when you walk
down a crowded aisle, people pull in their legs
to let you by. Or how strangers still say “bless you”
when someone sneezes, a leftover
from the Bubonic plague. “Don’t die,” we are saying.
And sometimes, when you spill lemons
from your grocery bag, someone else will help you
pick them up. Mostly, we don’t want to harm each other.
We want to be handed our cup of coffee hot,
and to say thank you to the person handing it. To smile
at them and for them to smile back. For the waitress
to call us honey when she sets down the bowl of clam chowder,
and for the driver in the red pick-up truck to let us pass.
We have so little of each other, now. So far
from tribe and fire. Only these brief moments of exchange.
What if they are the true dwelling of the holy, these
fleeting temples we make together when we say, “Here,
have my seat,” “Go ahead — you first,” “I like your hat.”
This is a wonderful volume of poetry. There is a straightforwardness to it that makes it wildly accessible. Yet, that accessibility is like gaining admission through a beautiful gate. A gate into a landscape conveying something deep, primal, and empathic in simple moments that resonate with lyricism and movement—essential arpeggios. This book is like a banquet serving little courses that highlight the connectedness of all things. What I love most about this collection is that Laméris’ practical language teeters on the edge of something almost mystical with powerful imagery into day-to-day emotions and experiences that are common to all of us. I could say more but this is enough. Of a book’s worth of examples, here’s a few. Enjoy!
From Worlds in Worlds:
I was surprised when he leaned in to kiss me,
to cross the threshold that forever marks before, and after in the heart’s guest book,
a portal you can open and find nothing—or there might be nebula, comets, whole galaxies.
I said let’s not, we could hurt each other.
Isn’t it better, sometimes, to enjoy the fragrance of the blossom, than to eat the flower?
Which is when he lowered his face pressed his ear to the thunder beneath my sternum and asked like this…………………?
Some holy books say there are twenty-two levels of heaven,
ascending in pleasure to the most sublime,
and of them, this must be the 26th:
the faint stars, salty whiff of ocean, the purple outline of the Pines.
And a man I loved grazing my breast
with his stubbled cheek, pausing to sink his teeth
into the thin scrim of skin over my jugular.
I want many things in this life,
but have failed to want anything more than this—
to stand here at the battle lines of desire, the troops, armed and ready
with their sharpened arrows.
And sometimes I want to win.
And sometimes I want to lose so badly I can taste it.
To surrender everything I made of:
the neat, fenced acres of my separateness—
that little plot of land I’ve spent a life defending—
to let go until there’s nothing left of me but that great vault we spoke of,
it’s endless dark. It’s pitiless silence.
Hawks
It was late afternoon, and we were standing
on the deck overlooking the gray swath
of the Pacific, when my friend’s daughter,
then four, turned to me and pointed at the hawks
flying in the distance. I can call them if I want,
she said, tilting back her head to let out a long,
fierce caw, which floated up over the marsh
and above the trees. At first, nothing. Then—
a slash in the distance. And in the next moment
there it was—nearly above us, wings spread wide,
the color of rust. And then, another, the two floating
in silent circles while she sounded her cries.
The primal cry of the human, raw and plain.
The call to prayer, the weeping at the wall,
the singer’s highest, most broken, note.
Whatever it is we send up into oblivion, waiting.
Haven’t I, too, called out? Haven’t I beseeched
something winged to do my bidding?
And there she was, calling, and here they came,
in answer, this hinged assembly, hovering
towards us on the wind. Ten? Twenty?
Enough to darken the heavens above
where we stood, weighed in place, pinned
by a cover of raptors. Bone-swallowers,
snake-eaters, sharp-sighted angels of prey,
their scaled feet clutching the empty sky.
Small Kindness
I’ve been thinking about the way, when you walk
down a crowded aisle, people pull in their legs
to let you by. Or how strangers still say “bless you”
when someone sneezes, a leftover
from the Bubonic plague. “Don’t die,” we are saying.
And sometimes, when you spill lemons
from your grocery bag, someone else will help you
pick them up. Mostly, we don’t want to harm each other.
We want to be handed our cup of coffee hot,
and to say thank you to the person handing it. To smile
at them and for them to smile back. For the waitress
to call us honey when she sets down the bowl of clam chowder,
and for the driver in the red pick-up truck to let us pass.
We have so little of each other, now. So far
from tribe and fire. Only these brief moments of exchange.
What if they are the true dwelling of the holy, these
fleeting temples we make together when we say, “Here,
have my seat,” “Go ahead — you first,” “I like your hat.”
August 20, 2022
This collection was absolutely stunning. Sometimes when I read a collection of poetry some poems hit and some miss, but each one of Danusha's poems touched me in some way. Mad shoutout to my friend Michael for introducing me to her.
I think this poem deserves to be highlighted, although there are so many that are worthy.
Small Kindnesses
I've been thinking about the way, when you walk
down a crowded aisle, people pull in their legs
to let you by. Or how strangers still say "bless you"
when someone sneezes, a leftover
from the Bubonic plague. "Don't die", we are saying.
And sometimes, when you spill lemons
from your grocery bag, someone else with help you
pick them up. Mostly, we don't want to harm each other.
We want to be handed our cup of coffee hot,
and to say thank you to the person handing it. To smile
at them and for them to smile back. For the waitress
to call us honey when she sets down the bowl of clam chowder,
and for the driver in the red pick-up truck to let us pass.
We have so little of each other, now. So far
from tribe and fire. Only these brief moments of exchange.
What if they are the true dwelling of the holy, these
fleeting temples we make together when we say, "Here,
have my seat," Go ahead- you first," "I like your hat."
I think this poem deserves to be highlighted, although there are so many that are worthy.
Small Kindnesses
I've been thinking about the way, when you walk
down a crowded aisle, people pull in their legs
to let you by. Or how strangers still say "bless you"
when someone sneezes, a leftover
from the Bubonic plague. "Don't die", we are saying.
And sometimes, when you spill lemons
from your grocery bag, someone else with help you
pick them up. Mostly, we don't want to harm each other.
We want to be handed our cup of coffee hot,
and to say thank you to the person handing it. To smile
at them and for them to smile back. For the waitress
to call us honey when she sets down the bowl of clam chowder,
and for the driver in the red pick-up truck to let us pass.
We have so little of each other, now. So far
from tribe and fire. Only these brief moments of exchange.
What if they are the true dwelling of the holy, these
fleeting temples we make together when we say, "Here,
have my seat," Go ahead- you first," "I like your hat."
June 20, 2021
I purchased this book after hearing Small Kindnesses read on It’s Been a Minute with Sam Sanders. I thought the poem was so moving, so small and beautiful, that I wanted to read the rest of the collection. I’m so glad I did - that wasn’t even my favorite of the bunch! Besides, it’s always nice to have a good collection of poems to turn back to. As a Northern California native, she really captures the feeling of the natural world here. And the way she weaves in and writes about her family and tragedy in a way that is so open and relatable floored me. Laméris has a gift for writing to the beautiful soul of things, from dust to death.
June 18, 2020
Usually, when I read a book of poems by a single author, I find at most one or two poems I really like. This book consumed me from cover to cover. Laméris’ verse is exquisite in its joining of meaning with sound. I particularly appreciate how she glides from the concrete to the abstract and back again seamlessly, bringing out the universal in the specific. Read “Small kindnesses” to renew your hope for humanity. I cannot recommend this book highly enough. I plan to return to it often. Possibly the best whole book of poems I’ve read by a living author.
August 16, 2020
Luminous Ms. Laméris is her own muse. She calls upon memory; each poem in this collection tells a story, one of self, or other, of observations & revelations. Bonfire Opera is a tapestry of perfectly crafted words-declarations of love & loss, beauty & nature, revealing, yet also reserving. Danusha writes from her heart's core, & this is evident in her poems. Her story-telling is testimony to the resilience of human spirit-alive & thriving, fragile & fierce. Highly recommended reading!
September 24, 2021
Everything about this book is magical and luscious. Even the poems about rot and grief have something sacred at their core. Many poems about identifying with animals or finding omens in their behavior. Poems that discuss pregnancy loss, loss of a child, loss of a brother. Evocative memories. I devoured this in a night after loving "Feeding the Worms" and "Small Kindnesses." It is a book I hope to return to each autumn, something cozy and chilling all at once as the days turn cold.
April 28, 2022
Each poem reads like a short story with much depth. There is such a variety of topics: the impact of the gas station attendant's words, the new red tights, the kind strangers on public transit, the loss of a loved one, the scent of a past lover, etc. Poems that are easy to read, to comprehend, to absorb, to relate to. Bravo Danusha! You made me love English poetry. (French poetry being easy to love, English not so much - except for now.)
August 16, 2024
Nature, love, loss, what it means to be alive on this earth, Lameris covers a lot of ground in these poems, doesn’t shy away from grief and racism and intimacy, and does it with lush language and keen observation. These poems range from the deeply personal to moments that are so richly human and universal the reader just has to stop and read those images and observations over and over because they say so much about humanity the self, and the ways we interact with each other and the earth
Displaying 1 - 30 of 65 reviews