My life, my portion of eternity

The Voice at 3:00 A.M.: Selected Late and New Poems
Charles Simic

After hearing Charles Simic named as Poet Laureate, I just had knew I needed to get my hands on his poetry. The small taste I had earlier gleaned did not whet my appetite. I searched online: I hemmed, I hawed, I debated which volume to purchase.

At long last, I settled upon The Voice at 3:00 A.M., a collection of late and new poems ranging from 1986 to the present day. As usual, I sat down to read this collection with my usual stack of post-its, a must whenever reading a book of poetry so that I may flag every poem I like. I am pleased to report that I nearly used them all when reading this collection of Simic’s work. While not every poem resounded with me, I can honestly say his work quite often took my breath away.

For my part, I like poems that appear simple (and are easy to read) yet yield multiple interpretations after some reflection. Most of Simic’s poems meet my criteria, and there are only a few poems that were so long I lost interest in them. Most were about a page in length, and nearly all made me stop and think. Choosing a favorite poem from this collection is damn near impossible, although I seem to have enjoyed the earlier poems in this collection better than the ones from the present.

I could speak more about this volume, but I think I had best allow his poetry to speak for him.

Consider the shortest poem in the collection, entitled “Evening Chess” (1992):

EVENING CHESS

The Black Queen raised high
In my father’s angry hand.


That's it! I just think it's brilliant, and I can't put my finger on why. This next one, from the present day, astounded me with its simple beauty, and I enjoy it more and more with every read:

NEAREST NAMELESS

So damn familiar,
Most of the time,
I don’t even know you are here.
My life,
My portion of eternity,

A little shiver,
As if the chill of the grave
Is already
Catching up with me—
No matter.

Descartes smelled
Witches burning
While he sat thinking
Of a truth so obvious
We keep failing to see it.

I never knew it either
Till today.
When I heard a bird shriek:
The cat is coming,
And I felt myself tremble.


I love that, "my life, my portion of eternity." I'm a little confuzzled as to Decartes' truth, though; is it no more than "I think, therefore I am"? Is that the truth we keep failing to see, that we are? I'd like to hear your thoughts on this.

In a nutshell: A necessity for poetry lovers, Simic’s work will not disappoint.

Bibliolatry Scale: 5 out of 6 stars

Get ready: the gestalt is coming!

More Than Human
Theodore Sturgeon

Have you ever heard of science-fiction master Theodore Sturgeon? One of the leading figures of science-fiction’s Golden Age? What, you haven’t? For shame!

Actually, it’s not much of a surprise if you haven’t heard of Sturgeon. Despite being acclaimed as a science-fiction master, Sturgeon receives little to no attention in America—despite the fact that he was an American writer. (I had assumed he was British until reading his biography on wikipedia. Incidentally, he was a distant relative of Ralph Waldo Emerson, which really isn’t all that interesting I guess.

At any rate, I might have remained ignorant of Sturgeon’s presence in the literary world were it not for Edwin Hesselthwite over at Little Man, What Now?. When he recommended I read some of Sturgeon's work, I was immediately intrigued and I felt instinctively Sturgeon was worth a try. I hunted down a copy of More Than Human and sat back to see what this Sturgeon was all about.

Upon reading the opening of the novel, I was immediately taken with Sturgeon’s style. Unlike many other writers of science-fiction, Sturgeon’s prose is not stark and to the point, like, say, Philip K. Dick. Instead, Sturgeon veers into a poetic prose that competes with his original ideas, and it is difficult to say which of these two characteristics is more important when determining his importance as a science-fiction writer.

And while his prose is definitely beautiful (and rare, for the genre), it was his original ideas set forth in More Than Human that wowed me more. The novel’s focus is the next step in human evolution, and Sturgeon conceives a wildly new human than I’ve ever seen before. Sturgeon’s new human will be Homo Gestalt, a single being composed of individuals who are incomplete alone. As one of the characters remarks, “the I is all of us.”

The novel is composed of three sections; in the first, the group finds one another after being drawn together. The group is made of Lone, a man others believe is an idiot and little better than an animal; Janie, a young girl capable of telekinesis; Bonnie and Beanie, twins who can teleport but who do not speak; and Baby, a severely retarded infant whose mind is like a computer. Alone, these individuals can barely function in society, but together they make a single unit can both survive and finally belong.

The second section picks up several years later; Lone has died and a new Gestalt leader must be found. This time, Gerry is called to the group, only Gerry has been abused and is filled with anger and hate. The group must cope with his emotional handicap just as they dealt with Lone’s. The third section follows the addition of the group’s final member, Hip, who adds morality and completes the group. Of course, this is the most superficial of summaries and does not come close to touching on the myriad capabilities of humanity's new human. You'll just have to read More Than Human to find out exactly what Homo Gestalt is capable of doing.

More Than Human left me wondering: Is Sturgeon’s importance due to the poetic beauty he brought to science-fiction? Or because he conceived of new directions for humanity, directions never before seen in science-fiction? Hardly an expert on the genre, I’m in no position to say. I can, however, state the obvious, that Sturgeon is unduly ignored in this country. Don’t feel bad for Sturgeon, though; dead since 1985, he isn’t much affected by the American public’s ignorance of his work. Instead, it’s readers who may never enjoy this master who are missing out the most. If you’re a fan of science fiction, you owe it to yourself to read him.

In a nutshell: More Than Human is unlike any science fiction you’ve read before. It’s weird, it’s poetic, it’s unforgettable.

Bibliolatry Scale: 5 out of 6 stars

Some stuff you might want to read

I hate to do another link post again so soon, but I've come across some really interesting things that you might like.

Did I say that Americans weren't reading? Apparently that's a lie.

YES.

This can't be good.

Now this is some pretty dumb shit right here.

One of my favorite sites, Pajiba presents the ten science-fiction films you should see (but probably haven't). Not surprisingly, I haven't seen a single one. I really gotta get Netflix.

Finally, you can view the trailer for Cormac McCarthy's No Country for Old Men. I haven't read it yet, but I better do so before the film comes out. Anyone read this one? I'd like to hear your thoughts.

Barbarella look like she's my dead ringer

I thought a fun listening post would be apropos for a Friday, which happens to be my last day of summer. It is with deepest regret that I announce my return to work on Monday. BOO. (Actually, not really; like all nerds, I'm looking forward to returning to school.)

Anyway, I know I rarely post about music; books are my thing really, but M.I.A.'s (real name: Maya Arulpragasam) new cd Kala is just amazing. I don't care if this is hardly an original opinion: it's undeniably good. Even more wonderful is the fact that you don't even have to buy it; NME is streaming it in its entirety and all you have to do is register (it's free).

At any rate, here are my two favorites, "Jimmy" and "Bamboo Banga." I haven't been able to get either song out of my head for two weeks. If you're interested in learning more about her, you can visit M.I.A.'s myspace page, her wikipedia entry, or her website. And in compiling these links, I myself learned something new: M.I.A. is older than I am. That just makes me love her more. I didn't think it possible.

M.I.A., I ♥ you girl.

Some links for your Thursday

The Telegraph ponders whether this might just mean the end of English literature. Let's hope not.

As I'm sure you've heard by now, ABC News is reporting that one in four Americans read no books last year. "I just get sleepy when I read," says someone I’d wager has no problem sitting through Scary Movies 1-4.

Yay - FINALLY. Stephen King confirms the Dark Tower movie. Now don’t ef it up.

Poetry.org has posted nine poems you should read, complete with links to the poems and commentary. What, no Wislawa?

Alex Remington at The Huffington Post ponders the problem with pricey paperbacks. But they are just so neat looking, especially those with pages "unevenly cut so that the sides form ridges your thumb can rest upon as you turn the page." That's worth a few extra pennies, in my opinion. Okay so it's a lot of extra pennies.

And finally, I hope you're prepared to see a bound and blindfolded Dorothy being victimized by a nasty pair of munchkins on the big screen. Oh, you're not? Tough. (Disturbing pic included.)

The literary equivalent of a Big Mac and fries*

Bag of Bones
Stephen King

As a self-confessed King fan who doesn’t often read him, I was pleased to hear such good things about Bag of Bones. I’ve read the Dark Tower series, but I usually stick to the movie when it comes to his better-known works. After hearing the glories of Bag of Bones extolled by several persons, I felt compelled to read it. I was immediately taken by the tale; it felt good to return to the master of storytelling, and if nothing else, Bag of Bones reminds readers that the man can tell a damn good story. And for a novel that is nearly eight hundred pages long, Bag of Bones didn’t feel longer than three.

Mike Noonan is our somewhat reluctant hero, and it wouldn’t be too unjust to compare him to King himself. Noonan is a writer too, and a popular one at that -- even if he’s no Tom Clancy. But when his wife suddenly dies, Noonan is faced with something every writer fears: writer’s block. Whenever he tries to write, he is filled with a sudden, blinding panic that leaves no room for creation. Soon, writing becomes nothing more than a long-lost memory.

After a time, it occurs to him that he has long been absent from Sara Laughs, his summer home on the coast of Maine. Thinking this serene locale will at least soothe his spirits (and hopefully inspire him to write), Noonan returns to this summer retreat to make peace with his past.

Enter the Kingishness: Noonan is not alone in his house. Things are going bump in the night, Noonan’s finding strange messages, and something is clearly afoot. He becomes entangled in the lives of a young mother and her daughter, and what begins as a brief act of kindness becomes a cause for which Noonan is prepared do battle. In doing so, Noonan discovers he has been restored to life -- and so has his house. Noonan now has another battle to fight, and both are equally dangerous.

As I mentioned earlier, Bag of Bones is long but never feels tedious. King’s writing style is better than I remembered, although it cannot be denied that his strength lies in the shaping of his story and not the shaping of his sentences. My biggest complaint is with the ending, when some elements veered into a “hokeyness” I could have done without.

There were, however, sufficient surprises that, since I didn’t see them coming, left me feeling pleasantly fulfilled after reading this hefty tome. I’m glad I gave it the time, especially since I've recently learned that the movie rights to Bag of Bones have been optioned with Bruce Willis as producer. Let's see what they do with this one. I'm glad I got to the book first.

In a nutshell: Ghost story, love story, mystery: Bag of Bones has it all. Well worth the read.

Bibliolatry Scale: 4 out of 6 stars


* By the way, the title of this post comes King's own words regarding his work; it's not my opinion. But right about now I'd commit some heinous deeds for a Big Mac and fries. Alas, such temptations are denied to me but for twice a year, when I release my inner grub and chow down on some trans fats and refined carbs. Yummmmmmm.

so good, yet so, so bad

Questions for bookbloggers

I've seen this posted on several bookblogs, so I thought I'd waste some time and do it too. Have fun reading my insightful answers to these questions.

What are you reading right now?
All the books in my sidebar, plus a few more. I'm too lazy to update that sidebar as often as I should. Maybe I ought to just delete that damn thing altogether. It's rarely current.

Do you have any idea what you’ll read when you’re done with that?
Yes, I have a pile of about a dozen books waiting to be read.

What magazines do you have in your bathroom right now?
I don't keep magazines in the bathroom -- it creeps me out. My favorite magazines, though, are Bookmarks, Self, and The Sun.

What’s the worst thing you were ever forced to read?
Probably non-fiction from a boring period, like the Puritans in American Lit or the Restoration/Enlightment period in British Lit. Vico's New Science was pretty damn boring too, as was a bunch of theory I had to read for a graduate course on writing.

Admit it, the librarians at your library know you on a first name basis, don’t they?
No, because I prefer to own my books. In fact, I only use the library located at my work, and the librarians there obviously know my name since we're coworkers. But I'd say the UPS man and my mailwoman know me well. The mailwoman more so, since we chat. Yes, I am actually being sociable. Woot woot.

What’s the one book you always recommend to just about everyone?
Lolita. The Handmaid's Tale. Wuthering Heights. Life of Pi. Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. Ok, so I named several.

Is there a book you absolutely love, but for some reason, people never think it sounds interesting, or maybe they read it and don’t like it at all?
Most people don't get Lolita, even though I think it's one of the most exquisite works ever written. A lot of people aren't as into House of Leaves, but I don't rank that one as highly as Lolita.

Do you read books while you eat? While you bathe? While you watch movies or TV? While you listen to music? While you’re on the computer? While you’re having sex? While you’re driving?
Eat: sometimes, depends on what I'm eating. I love to read while eating a bowl of cereal, a delicacy I haven't allowed myself for a long time. Bathing: No, I shower only. Movies or TV: Yes, since I can rarely sit through an entire program without succumbing to boredom. On the computer: Sometimes. Having sex: Um, no. Driving: Not if I'm the driver, duh. I prefer not to die any time soon.

When you were little, did other children tease you about your reading habits?
I don't think so, but I tend to forget unpleasant things. My husband teases me though.

What’s the last thing you stayed up half the night reading because it was so good you couldn’t put it down?
It's been awhile since I've done that. Doesn't matter how good the book is, past a certain time and I'm falling asleep. I'm a morning person.

Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast; for it is the number of a man; and his number is 666.

We Need to Talk About Kevin
Lionel Shriver

Like everything I review, I finished We Need to Talk About Kevin awhile ago, and have been pondering the book ever since. Usually this delay allows me to understand what I really think about a book and gives me a clear idea on the review I want to write.

In this case, I am still as bewildered by this book as I was after immediately finishing it, so this review will be somewhat of an adventure as I learn my thoughts along with you. At different times during my reading of it, I hated each and every character (save one) and I vacillated between hating what might be deemed the “feminism” of the book and nodding my head in agreement. After having read it, I no longer want to murder anyone, mostly because I find them too unbelievable to merit any strong emotions whatsoever.

We Need to Talk About Kevin is told through a series of letters from Eva to her estranged husband, Franklin. Eva is cosmopolitan, loves traveling, hates America, and is a bleeding-heart liberal. Franklin (his name suggests that stolid forefather known for pithy statements about fish and visitors and other important stuff) is just like good ol’ Ben: he truly adores America (the idea of it, anyway) and he is as stereotypically American as Eva is not. Franklin sees no reason to explore other countries when there is so much of his own nation he’s yet to discover. He’s a staunch Republican, and, in a novel that takes place in the wake of the Gore/Bush election, the two find much to debate.

For some ungodly reason, these two kindred spirits are married. Even though neither want children, as time passes, they think, “Well, what the hell else are we going to do?” and have a child. Never mind that not having anything better to do is hardly a reason to procreate, but whatever. Let’s not worry about our exploding population. We can cram as many humans as possible on this rock.

no worries!

So, even though they are hardly spring chickens anymore, and despite not even really wanting a child herself, Eva gets pregnant. As CEO of her own company, Eva hardly believes that having a child will have a major effect on her career. DUH. We Need to Talk About Kevin illustrates how much a woman must sacrifice when it comes to motherhood, which is perhaps what earned it its “feminist” label. Of course, Eva is dismayed to realize that she cannot just run off and wander the globe now that she’s a mother to Kevin.

And that’s why you don’t have a child just because there isn’t anything better to do with your spare time.

And now we get to Kevin. For his part, Kevin is painted as The Omen’s Damien from day one. He’s evil, I tell you. He won’t breastfeed. Of course, many women have this problem but NO. Kevin is EVIL. And as he gets older, he won’t shit in the toilet. Why? Kevin is at war with his mother. And so on, and so on. Of course it’s no surprise that Kevin will one day kill eleven people in a Columbine-like rampage.

What could be wrong with our child?
We're the beautiful people, aren't we?

This rampage, of which we’re aware from page one, would be much more believable if Kevin were not Damien, for if he were, aren’t the tell-tale signs OBVIOUS??? Of course, Eva sees them since the breastfeeding days, not that she does anything. In her favor, she can’t, since Franklin is so convinced of his son’s angelic qualities that he refuses to believe anything bad about his son, believing instead that Eva is jealous and resentful of her son. But if Eva were so truly convinced her son was the devil and her husband a blind asshole who denies the obvious truth, DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT, dammit. At the very least, pick up and leave (abandoning her family would make more sense to those who read more about Kevin’s “evilness”).

Eva’s letters, then, attempt to trace Kevin’s development and his reason for killing his peers in school. Again, this development would be more believable if Kevin weren’t evil from birth. Of course, it is possible our narrator is highly unreliable, and perceives normal actions as evil. But I don’t think that’s Shriver’s intent here.

Gripes aside, I still enjoyed We Need to Talk About Kevin. It sucked me in and kept me interested. But I wouldn’t allow this book to persuade me on anything, since every character is so far-fetched that any relevance to my life is safely impossible. There were, however, several surprises that I didn’t see coming and which made for an interesting read.

In a nutshell: An introspective look into what turns a child into a murderer. Interesting, if not wholly believable.

Bibliolatry Scale: 3.5 out of 6 stars

Making sense of the inexplicable -- or just ignoring it entirely

Come Closer
Sara Gran

Well, I’m back. I’ve put quite a few books behind me, and I suppose I can delay reviewing them no longer. I’m lucky to have read a lot of good books recently, which makes reading fun but reviewing hard.

So, anyway, awhile ago I thought I might cook some Indian food. (God, I just loooove Indian food. SO. GOOD.) Like any idiot, I thought I could easily cook what I so easily devour at my favorite restaurant. Browsing cookbooks on Amazon.com, I realized that I needed only one more small purchase to qualify for free shipping. It made sense at the time, even though shipping was only five dollars and so was Come Closer. It makes even more sense now, after I have cooked zero Indian dishes. The cookbooks may not be getting used, but Come Closer was really effing good.

easier to eat than to make, sadly

To be fair, I’m not sure Come Closer qualifies as a novel, or even as a novella. It’s more like a short story, and once I started reading it, I couldn’t put it down. That wasn’t a problem, though, since it only took me about an hour to read. It would have been better if I waited until closer to Halloween to read this tale, as it would have fit the atmosphere better, but it was enjoyable nonetheless.

The story revolves around Amanda, who starts to hear strange noises in her apartment. Her husband hears them too, but they are never more persistent than when she is alone. Soon other inexplicable events start occurring; is someone messing with her, or is she going crazy? She chooses to ignore these early signs, noting, “We could devote our lives to making sense of the odd, the inexplicable, the coincidental. But most of us don’t, and I didn’t either.” What seems like a smart move slowly becomes her undoing, for by the time she takes these signs seriously, it might be too late.

As examples of “the inexplicable” increase, Amanda’s behavior starts to change. It starts innocuously enough: she resumes smoking after quitting to please her husband. This in itself is not necessarily a big deal; one should change for oneself, not another person. But then her behavior takes a decidedly more insidious turn, and soon her relationships start to suffer. As her marriage takes a turn for the worse, it becomes clear that Amanda must make a concerted effort to help herself or else lose herself entirely.

Come Closer is gratifying to read because such a short work achieves what most take 200 pages to do: the characters of Amanda and her husband are fully developed, and Amanda’s progression from disbelief, to terror, and finally to her final state (omitted to prevent spoilers) is believable and developed. And, once you realize what is happening to her (which you learn fairly early on, but it’s such a fun read that I don’t want to spoil anything for you), you’ll find sufficient surprises that prevent Come Closer from being predictable.

True, the novel has its flaws, but in my opinion they are minor and do not prevent one from enjoying the book. You won’t find philosophical digressions or even any illuminating answers, but if you aren’t expecting such depth, you’ll enjoy this book. By the way, avoid reading the reviews on Amazon if you wish to be surprised by what is happening to her. I’m glad I didn’t; I found the beginning of the novel quite enjoyable for being able to discover the source of her problems along with the protagonist.

In a nutshell: Come Closer is fast, fun, and creepy. Just be warned: it’s a really fast read, so keep a backup book for an extended trip or a long spell in a waiting room.

Bibliolatry Scale: 4 out of 6 stars

Bibliolatrist (quasi) revealed!

Plenty to review, but I'm raging against the dying of the summer and spending time at my computer just does not sound good to me now. Instead, I dicked around aimlessly and created a virtual self (thanks, Stefanie).

Do I actually look like this? Kinda sorta not really. My face is a little off, although my hair's pretty good (needs some highlights, though). I dress like this (when I leave my house) and I suppose my figure is the same, although I didn't really have a say in that.

So yes, this is a cop-out of a post. Oh well.

It just keeps getting weirder

I'm being lazy this week. Reading plenty, but saving my reviews for another time. The bad news is that I probably won't have another review this week (never say never, though), but next week should be chock full of 'em, so check back often. In the meantime, enjoy this selection of random links that I scrounged together to justify a post. Shameless, really.

Speaking of shameless, this guy has to be the dumbest man ever born. Nevertheless, I love a good sensational story! We all go a little crazy sometimes.

Speaking of crazy, I give you an update on this story from last week. And yes, it's only getting better.

I hate linking to MTv, so I beg your forgiveness in advance. But it IS about "the most relevant piece of literature ever written". True, I haven't read it. I know, I know.

Speaking of books I haven't read, this year's nominees for the Man Booker Prize have been announced. The only one I'm really interested in is Ian McEwan; anyone else read anything else on this list?

This is for those who share my obsession for outer space. (A space book is on tap for next week.) Good to know this stuff, I guess.

I think the best response to this is, without a doubt, this. If the kitties take your soul, the terrorists have won. Sorry for passing this infection on to you.

you really CAN buy anything

Sharp objects and phallic toys

Sharp Objects
Gillian Flynn

Camille Preaker has all the makings of a great reporter, except she just can’t get past, well, her past. Were it not for the pain she endured as a child, she might be a better functioning adult, one who doesn’t cut herself when stressed and one who doesn’t hide from anything and everything that reminds her of her childhood. Of course, it’s not easy to hide from one’s memories. Oh, those pesky childhood memories, always coming back to haunt us when we least expect it, unexpectedly flooding us with shameful moments in Thrift Drugs and Center-City parking lots.

It’s true, though, that Camille has had a worse childhood than most. When they were still little girls, her younger sister died, leaving a hole in her mother’s heart that Camille could simply never fill. (You might think this is simply Camille’s own feelings of inadequacy, but no; her mother tells her not long after the novel begins that she doesn’t love her, not that you couldn’t tell from the moment the bitch first walks on page. And, as much as the mother deserves a good c-bomb more than any other fictional character I’ve encountered recently, her name is Adora, which I kinda really dig, so I have to give her points for that. It has a nice ring to it: Adora. Adora. Adora the Explora. Nah, forget it.)

wow, dora's a whora

With a mother like that, Camille would do well to stay away from her childhood town of Wind Gap, and she does, never visiting or speaking to her mother until she is forced to return to that awful little town when a murderer begins plucking off girls. Camille’s editor, smelling a scoop, sends Camille down to report on the monster killing these children – killing them and pulling out their teeth. Who could do such an awful thing?

As Camille struggles to dig up some facts despite a police force resistant to speak to her, she is filled with awful memories of her childhood in Wind Gap. Contact with her mother causes painful memories to resurface, and Camille is forced to relive high school all over again when the cattiness of narrow-minded townsfolk continues to thrive on any weakness a person is fool enough to show. A recently rehabbed cutter, Camille once again feels the urge to cut.

Camille must overcome inner demons, a family full of assholes, and the petty behavior of every person in town, all who seem to be jealous of a small-town girl done good. Meanwhile, the killer's identity can be any one of several people, and finding whodunit seems to be damn near impossible for both Camille and the police. Unfortunately, the longer Camille stays in Wind Gap, the closer she comes to losing her mind.

Let me stop here and call a spade a spade: while this book is certainly a thriller, it’s not so much a mystery. Any reader of any great depth will guess the killer’s identity well before Camille does – but that’s not to say that the journey to her revelation isn’t a fun ride. I tore through this book in less than a day, unable to stop until I had finished it all. It's this riveting quality that saves Sharp Objects from falling prey to its flaws and turns what would be a mundane novel into an exciting and fun trip.

In a nutshell: Disturbing and fun at the same time. As long as you aren't expecting anything more than a good, gruesome time, you should enjoy yourself.

Bibliolatry Scale: 4 out of 6 stars

Five by Charles Simic

In honor of Charles Simic being named as Poet Laureate, I thought since I won't have a review today I'd instead post a few poems of his.

Oh, and this is totally friggin awesome.

Enjoy.

The Bather

Where the path to the lake twists out of sight,
A puff of dust, the kind bare feet make running,
Is what I saw in the dying light,
Night swooping down everywhere else.

A low branch heavy with leaves
Swaying momentarily where the shade
Lay thickest, some late bather
Disrobing right there for a quick dip--

(Or my solitude playing a trick on me?)
Pinned hair coming undone, soon to float
As she turns on her back, letting
The dozy current take her as it wishes

Beyond the last drooping branch
To where the sky opens
Black as the water under her white arms,
In the deepening night, deepening hush,

The treetops like charred paper edges,
Even the insects oddly reclusive
While I strained to hear a splash,
Or glimpse her running back to her clothes . . .

And when I did not; I just sat there.
The rare rush of wind in the leaves
Still fooling me now and then,
Until the chill made me go in.



Country Fair

for Hayden Carruth

If you didn't see the six-legged dog,
It doesn't matter.
We did, and he mostly lay in the corner.
As for the extra legs,

One got used to them quickly
And thought of other things.
Like, what a cold, dark night
To be out at the fair.

Then the keeper threw a stick
And the dog went after it
On four legs, the other two flapping behind,
Which made one girl shriek with laughter.

She was drunk and so was the man
Who kept kissing her neck.
The dog got the stick and looked back at us.
And that was the whole show.



Private Eye

To find clues where there are none,
That's my job now, I said to the
Dictionary on my desk. The world beyond
My window has grown illegible,
And so has the clock on the wall.
I may strike a match to orient myself

In the meantime, there's the heart
Stopping hush as the building
Empties, the elevators stop running,
The grains of dust stay put.
Hours of quiescent sleuthing
Before the Madonna with the mop

Shuffles down the long corridor
Trying doorknobs, turning mine.
That's just little old me sweating
In the customer's chair, I'll say.
Keep your nose out of it.
I'm not closing up till he breaks.



The School Of Metaphysics

Executioner happy to explain
How his wristwatch works
As he shadows me on the street.
I call him that because he is grim and officious
And wears black.

The clock on the church tower
Had stopped at five to eleven.
The morning newspapers had no date.
The gray building on the corner
Could've been a state pen,

And then he showed up with his watch,
Whose Gothic numerals
And the absence of hands
He wanted me to understand
Right then and there.



Eyes Fastened With Pins

How much death works,
No one knows what a long
Day he puts in. The little
Wife always alone
Ironing death's laundry.
The beautiful daughters
Setting death's supper table.
The neighbors playing
Pinochle in the backyard
Or just sitting on the steps
Drinking beer. Death,
Meanwhile, in a strange
Part of town looking for
Someone with a bad cough,
But the address somehow wrong,
Even death can't figure it out
Among all the locked doors...
And the rain beginning to fall.
Long windy night ahead.
Death with not even a newspaper
To cover his head, not even
A dime to call the one pining away,
Undressing slowly, sleepily,
And stretching naked
On death's side of the bed.

Breaking News!

Remember this guy?

Well here is a shocking article about a little domestic problem he's having. OUCH.

You have to feel for the guy. Of course, he doesn't seem to have a problem with her so much as "petty, mean-spirited people making fun of personal tragedy."

With that in mind, I bring you another poll adventure. Hey, when I hear an author's getting divorced, I automatically think poll. (For the record, the Olsen twins won the last one.)

Vote away!

more at twiigs.com...

The weekly bookish roundup

What bookish news has piqued my interest this week? Not much, as EVERYTHING still seems to be revolving around Harry Potter. When will it end? Thankfully, I've managed to glean a few non-Potter articles that you might also find interesting. If not, I tried.


Hooray! A new Poet Laureate will be announced today. Ted Kooser is my all-time favorite Poet Laureate, but I'll give Charles Simic a go, especially since he has a new collection coming out next year. Simic is the fifteenth poet to be named to the position, and he "has published more than 20 volumes of poetry, as well as essay collections, translations and a memoir."


Now we turn from good writing to bad: if you suck at writing, you can still be a winner -- at least, next year you can, because this year's winner of the worst writing contest has already been announced. The Texas Pages BookBlog covers more samples of this bad writing here, if you care to read more.


Moving from bad writing to bad covers (and some good ones also), it seems book covers were all the rage this week, as I found more than a few articles focusing on them.

• First, PaperCuts examines the best covers of the year, or you can go right to the source for many more.
  
  
• This blog, however, is a funner (yeah, I said it, funner) place to go for bad book covers.
  
  
• And, last but not least, The Guardian has an interesting article on musicians designing covers.

What about a book without a cover? Is it still a book? What if the "cover" only exists online? Jacket Copy ponders whether a book is still a book if it’s online. What do you think? (I say no. Well, maybe. Aw, hell.)


Finally, his? her? whatever's book Sarah was aiight (except I gave it away, which tells you something), but who knew a stunt would cause an author this much trouble? This will teach you to be dishonest. Or avant-garde. Or insane, whatever the case may be.

Rhymin and stealin (well, not so much rhymin)

Klepto
Jenny Pollack

Allow me to set the scene for you.

The when is a cold night in 1988. The place is Thrift Drug, your typical retail pharmacy, and I’m with my mom. I’m nine years old. It’s a school night. I can’t dress for shit, my hair falls desperately short of the teased heights everyone else manages to achieve, and I like to read. Like everyone else, I am desperately in love with New Kids on the Block. Joey, to be precise. I believe with every fiber of my being that if only the stars would align in such a way as to effect our meeting, the result could only be our immediate and forever falling in love.

New kids on the block, let’s rock!

Back to Thrift Drug. My mom wanders the aisles. Not surprisingly, I’m in the book and magazine aisle. Uh-oh. Tiger Beat. And what do I find within these magical, glossy pages?

A JOEY MCINTYRE SPECIAL PULL-OUT POSTER.

I must have it.

I’m irrational; why don’t I just ask my mother to buy it for me? Thinking of her assured refusal I fear asking would mean the kiss of death, causing me to have no Joey, no Joey at all. No, I decide. I must have it. And have it I. WILL.

With a stealth I never imagined myself capable of having, I tear the poster out of the magazine and slip it into my coat pocket. Thankfully I’m the shortest ten year old within five miles, and my height renders me invisible as I stand next to a stationary display case. No one sees. No one suspects.

Joey is mine.

Exiting the store, I burst with pride. I am the James Bond of fifth graders. Wouldn’t mom be proud too? Foolishly, I pull the poster out of my pocket.

Here is where the adult in me takes over, as I can only shake my head in shame and wonder, WHAT THE HELL WAS I THINKING??? Now, years later, I can only think I was motivated by hubris so blinding that I truly believed my mom would be proud of me for lifting a Joey McIntyre poster out of the store.

What happened remains seared into my memory to this day. Without even waiting to get in the car, my mom delivered such a diatribe unto my ears that I still have not recovered. It was all I could do to persuade her that forcing me to return the poster would scar me forever. No, I sobbed, I quaked, I shook. Facing the teenage clerk in the store was not necessary. (ohmygod could you imagine???) I had learned my lesson.

And learn it I did. Years later, upon finding I had accidentally not paid for an eyeliner from CVS (why are retail pharmacies the scenes of my dishonor??) I was seized by a guilt so eclipsing that I locked the doors to my apartment and closed the blinds, certain they would use my Extra Care points to track me down and throw me in some desperate prison to atone for my thieving ways.

And so, my mother nipped in the bud what might have become a very long and lucrative career as a kleptomaniac. Unfortunately Julie Prodsky, the star of Jenny Pollack’s Klepto, wasn’t so lucky.

Julie and my fifth-grade self are similar in many ways. Both wanted desperately to be popular. Both have a best friend they’d do anything to be like. Both thought stealing was no big deal. Julie, however, wasn’t dumb enough to gloat to her mom, and so her career as a klepto was much longer than mine.

Klepto, based on the author's experiences as a teen growing up in the 80s, describes Julie's freshman year at the High School of Performing Arts. It's New York City, where things are a bit more intense than the mean streets of Northeast Philly, the scene of my upbringing. And NYC is a bit more expensive. So when Julie starts stealing (or getting, as she euphemistically calls her actions) fashionable clothes, it's somewhat understandable.

(Well, not for me. Reading about Julie's kleptomania brought flashbacks of Thrift Drug to my mind, causing my heart to race and my stomach to churn as I anticipated the beating Julie would get when inevitably caught.) And yet...she doesn't get caught, really. Julie thieves for months and months, stealing pants, jewelry, crap she doesn't even need or want -- and gets away with it for longer than I thought she would. Sure, her conscience tugs at her, and for awhile she's able to ignore it. Soon, however, her conscience wins the battle, and Julie must decide between her best friend and stealing.

But stealing has, whether directly or indirectly, blessed Julie in many ways: a cool best friend, status and popularity, a boyfriend. Will Julie lose everything if she gives up stealing? Will high school be ruined as a result? And can she even give up her kleptomania?

Jenny Pollack's Klepto is a great teen read that entertains as it teaches (which it does without ever getting preachy or trite).

In a nutshell: A fun read for young adults that older adults can also enjoy. And with a "splashproof" cover, Klepto is perfect for the beach or the pool!

Bibliolatry Scale: 5 out of 6 stars