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On Every Stone
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Displaying 1 - 2 of 2 reviews
July 26, 2016
Well, I don't exactly have an unbiased view (the author happens to be my mother) but trying to speak objectively? It's brilliant.
Here's how I see it: there are three types of poetry. One is Shel Silverstein or Jack Prelutsky type stuff- witty rhymes that make you laugh out loud. Then there are these flowery ballads; folktales about maidens and minstrels in language lavishly decorated with twirls and flourishes.
And then there's this: the heart of it all. Just hard, lean, language with all the ruffles and lace cut away. That kind of poetry is the hardest to write because it's not a game, it's a message. And that kind of poetry is what my mother is a master of.
I would definitely absolutely positively recommend it.
Here's how I see it: there are three types of poetry. One is Shel Silverstein or Jack Prelutsky type stuff- witty rhymes that make you laugh out loud. Then there are these flowery ballads; folktales about maidens and minstrels in language lavishly decorated with twirls and flourishes.
And then there's this: the heart of it all. Just hard, lean, language with all the ruffles and lace cut away. That kind of poetry is the hardest to write because it's not a game, it's a message. And that kind of poetry is what my mother is a master of.
I would definitely absolutely positively recommend it.
January 28, 2022
It starts with a faraway sun
and burnished leaves
skittering across
a gravel road. I ask you
to take my hand
and stay. Tell me
how long will it take
to come back
from the sharp inhale
of rotted leaves,
the stubbled fields,
the garden of empty stalks?
* * *
It used to be
the body went
to the graveyard.
Now the body
stays where it's piloted
and the prayers
waft overhead
with the ashes
of one and all.
* * *
When I think of the field
in winter, I feel lost.
I feel the first full moon
of the new year sharpen its light
against the cold. Razor-edged
metallic blue, it's everywhere.
Even in the warm room
where I dream of escape,
flailing in snow up to my hips.
* * *
and with great care
of the mind
crawling through dust
wanting a piece
of solid ground
just one step
in a crumbling staircase
and burnished leaves
skittering across
a gravel road. I ask you
to take my hand
and stay. Tell me
how long will it take
to come back
from the sharp inhale
of rotted leaves,
the stubbled fields,
the garden of empty stalks?
- October, pg. 19
* * *
It used to be
the body went
to the graveyard.
Now the body
stays where it's piloted
and the prayers
waft overhead
with the ashes
of one and all.
- Kaddish on the Spot, pg. 32
* * *
When I think of the field
in winter, I feel lost.
I feel the first full moon
of the new year sharpen its light
against the cold. Razor-edged
metallic blue, it's everywhere.
Even in the warm room
where I dream of escape,
flailing in snow up to my hips.
- The Field in Winter, pg. 59
* * *
and with great care
of the mind
crawling through dust
wanting a piece
of solid ground
just one step
in a crumbling staircase
- Think Slowly, pg. 73
Displaying 1 - 2 of 2 reviews