From One Book Lover

Translator’s Confession, 3 a.m. Dear C, I dropped your sentence in hot water. I talked to the boil. I said Here is my thumb for you to burn. Here is the soft heart of my hand and my arm and the nape of my wreck. I said vapor, just take me. I’m done burning with these pages. Being invisible doesn’t mean a person won’t blister, doesn’t mean the blisters won’t fill with pockets of water or when lanced the rawest flesh won’t emerge. First the word then the murky leak begins—what another mind may scrape against but never skin. By Idra Novey Courtesy poets.org About this Poem:  “I wrote this poem as a way to settle some unfinished business I had with Clarice Lispector, a Brazilian writer whose work I’d been reading intensely for nearly a decade and whose novel I’d recently translated. As is the natur...

Grief Puppet   In the nearby plaza, musicians would often gather. The eternal flame was fueled by propane tank. An old man sold chive dumplings from a rolling cart, while another grilled skewers of paprika beef. Male turtledoves would puff their breasts, woo-ing, and for a few coins, we each bought an hour with the grief puppet. It had two eyes, enough teeth, a black tangle of something like hair or fur, a flexible spine that ran the length of your arm. Flick your wrist, and at the end of long rods it raised its hands as if conducting the weather. Tilt the other wrist, and it nodded. No effort was ever lost on its waiting face. It never needed a nap or was too hungry to think straight. You could have your conversation over and over, past dusk when old men doused their charcoal, into rising day when they warmed their skillets. The puppet only asked what we could answer. Some towns...

Bill Bryson is right. The summer of 1927 was an amazing year. in One Summer: America, 1927 ,  he convinces his readers in his usual engaging, fascinating and conversational way. Lindbergh? Check. Babe Ruth? Check. Clara Bow, Jack Dempsey, Sacco and Vanzetti? Check, check and double check. He has them all, plus storms and floods, Hoover and Coolidge, a few extra aviators, race relations, gangsters, Prohibition, Broadway musicals and Mount Rushmore. In no time, you're wishing you lived in 1927 (albeit the safer, wealthier lifestyle). (Hint: it wasn't as a baseball player.) Bryson does not skate across the top of his topics. He makes sure you understand clearly why aviation was in its heyday in the United States. He is clear about how Prohibition became, remained, then finally was defeated as law. He does it not only with the Roosevelts, Coolidges, Lindberghs and Capones, but also with the individuals with whom you may not be as familiar: Philo Farnsworth, Bill Tilden, Wi...

I hope you've popped over to Hedgehog Lover, my other blog, for a poem a day during National Poetry Month.  Here is a poem from 365 Days Subway: Poems by New Yorkers. Be sure to visit that website — it's amazing. An Unexpected Poem: Jeremy S 4/5 to 42nd Street from Fulton, Aug. 1st, 2013 My daughter pointed out that he was eating something strange. I could see a food book tucked behind him. What an enthusiastic and kind person — a social worker for World Trade Center workers who have become ill. An unexpected poem In the morning Eating the husk cherries I bought the day before. Reading a book Expecting no one to notice Tuning out the crowds A moment – or a few – Of imagined quiet. Who knows where this will go? An unexpected poem, A chance to think. Courtesy  365 Day Subway: Poems by New Yorkers Note: In 365 Days Subway: Poems by New Yorkers , the blogger Madeliene who, whenever she rides the subway, asks a str...

Welcome to National Poetry Month — and what better way than to start with poetry and cats? Here is an audio recording of T.S. Eliot reading one of his most famous and beloved poems: The Naming of Cats. (Read along with the poem included below.) Be sure to visit my other blog, Hedgehog Lover , for your daily dose of poetry in April.  The Naming of Cats The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter, It isn't just one of your holiday games; You may think at first I'm as mad as a hatter When I tell you, a cat must have THREE DIFFERENT NAMES. First of all, there's the name that the family use daily, Such as Peter, Augustus, Alonzo or James, Such as Victor or Jonathan, George or Bill Bailey— All of them sensible everyday names. There are fancier names if you think they sound sweeter, Some for the gentlemen, some for the dames: Such as Plato, Admetus, Electra, Demeter— But all of them sensible everyday names. But I tell you, a cat needs a name that's pa...

In a few short months, I have encountered more than one a book that was completely mis-titled, and that completely changed my expectations, and enjoyment, of the books. Let's take Caleb's Crossing , which I thought was one of Geraldine Brooks' least successful novels. I couldn't quite understand what was wrong: I thought the narrator brought interesting perspective to the story, which itself was interesting... and yet — My friend Carole suggested the title was misleading, and I wholeheartedly agreed. Had the title included "Martha's Vineyard," "woman" or "Harvard," I would have been better prepared for the lack of Caleb in the story. I can't say I would have liked it better, but I would have approached it differently. Then came Philomena . This book club selection seemed pretty straight-forward: it was about an Irish woman named Philomena and her search for the son she gave up for adoption in Ireland and the British journa...

Poem in your Pocket Day is April 24 — are you ready? Here's a poem that will fit in your pocket — and start looking for others! Long Island Sound I see it as it looked one afternoon In August,—by a fresh soft breeze o’erblown. The swiftness of the tide, the light thereon, A far-off sail, white as a crescent moon. The shining waters with pale currents strewn, The quiet fishing-smacks, the Eastern cove, The semi-circle of its dark, green grove. The luminous grasses, and the merry sun In the grave sky; the sparkle far and wide, Laughter of unseen children, cheerful chirp Of crickets, and low lisp of rippling tide, Light summer clouds fantastical as sleep Changing unnoted while I gazed thereon. All these fair sounds and sights I made my own. — Emma Lazarus  Courtesy poets.org