A poem and note from the author
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A poem and note from the author:

King David knew all the stones of the earth
The Queen's womb grew and honed a pure birth
Reading in pews, the bones of a church
Singing a tune, the tone of her mirth
True Karat heart with eyes of chartreuse
Used merit and smarts, lies and part truths
Purged all her meals, witty words went concealed
She learned at will, turned urges to nil
A dark moor came at the sight of a torch
Hark. Cores changed in the light of her porch
Ark furred wolves on the eve they fell
Barked as she pulled and weaved him in her spell
Left the citadel to kiss and not tell
A quest to rebel with trysts and black veils
Unlucky plays gave her Rathgaber road
Snuck away and stayed near paths paved alone
King read and spied the size of the truth
She fled to divine the shrines of Peru
A spring full of song and a fall in love
Careening along the call from above
Chose a pet for a child of their own
Golden and pepper with a smile that shone
Tossed her farther into Summertime sadness
Lost his father and wandered the badlands
Spoke Holy rites on a senseless date
Chose to roll the dice against fate
Pills and potions prevented him to forgive
Sealed in notions, the division, the split
Above he waits behind high iron gates
Love they say will bend and not break

For more poetry and stories, email DevonRobertson171672@gmail.com. I'd like to update anyone who wants to hear. It's great hearing from people who've enjoyed my book. I also am in need of an editor.
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Charles Simic's NEW AND SELECTED POEMS: 1962-2012, offers a considerable body of work marking a long writing career. Aside from selected pieces from every stage of his development as writer, this volume contains seventeen new poems. Many of them offer his characteristic insight, such as "Note," in which a children's Nativity play is disrupted by a rat, where Simic subtly suggests that even in a moment where children supposedly participate in an act of faith, their immediate earthly concerns overwhelm them, and the later "The Absentee Landlord," where the faithful yearn for more overt, active involvement from God. Often in these poems, we see the spiritual potential infinite lassoed by the worldly, personal finite, and I find in Simic's reliance on concrete description a disarming analysis of this contrast. The newest poems preserve this theme in a resigned, if not darker, manner, especially in their suggestions that our society lacks preparation to interpret the ominous signs around us. It is a pleasure to read these poems.

My main reservations about this volume is its lack of information. I would have liked it to include a foreword to offer a overview of Simic's career and his contributions to literature. I would also would have liked to have seen some prose by Simic himself. Finally, it would have been useful if this volume noted which poems are part of the "nearly three dozen revisions" mentioned on the back cover copy. Such additional material would have made this volume a more welcome addition to a scholar's bookshelf.
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Former poet laureate of the United States Donald Hall has made a final selection in these seventy-nine poems of what he considers his best work. Although now in his 80s, he no longer writes poetry, only nonfiction; and his excellent book ESSAYS AFTER EIGHTY was published recently. He has written a lovely afterword that I read first and then again. He says that he told someone years ago that he only writes about love, death and New Hampshire. Many of these poems certainly have to do with death. (The poet Billy Collins has said that death is really all that poets ever write about as I recall.) The book opens with My Son, My Executioner, a poem that I discovered in an anthology many years ago. The message is clear: as we have a child, we are reminded that as he grows up, we grow older and die. We twenty-five and twenty-two,/who seemed to live forever.  (We have to admit, however, that the executioner is taking his time this time since the poet has lived a very long life indeed.)

Several of the poemsand some of my favorites have to do with the illness and death of Mr. Halls wife the poet Jane Kenyon, nineteen years younger than he,  who died of leukemia at the age of 47, and Mr. Halls grief afterwards. He has written whole volumes of poetry on that subject as well as a book of nonfiction.

Letter with No Address, a poem Mr. Hall wrote four weeks after his wifes death, will break your heart. The poet talks to his wife, telling her of the flowers that are blooming, the friends he visits, the fresh irises he takes to her grave.  He tells her of his daily routine. And then there is this: You know now/whether the soul survives death or you dont. And Your presence in this house/is almost as enormous/and painful as your absence. Hall ends the poem with a cryptic image of two cars. That is not where I thought he would go in ending this heart-wrenching poem to his wife.  The next poem included, After Three Years, is in the same vein with another ending that slips up on you:

You think that their
dying is the worst
thing that could happen.

Then they stay dead.

In a week or ten days
the snow and ice will melt
from Graveyard Road.

Im coming! Dont move.

Affirmation reminds us that we are oblivious while young to our losses associated with old age: Then we row for years on the midsummer pond, ignorant and content (a deadly image) but To grow old is to lose everything/Aging, everybody knows it.  We lose friends to death but also when friendships splinter: Another friend of decades estranges himself/in words that pollute thirty years. (That line goes to the bone.)

In The Porcelain Couple, Hall remembers cleaning out his mothers house, having the decisions of what to keep and what to throw awaysurely he touches on the universal here since most of what we accumulate over a lifetime no one else on the planet wants. His mother feared that her treasures would one day be sold for a nickel on the lawn. Then the poet notices the things he and his wife have accumulated over twenty years including the porcelain couple.

Finally in the humorous To a Waterfowl Mr. Hall, gets a bit sardonic and nails the womenat least some of themwho come to his readings and their dull husbands. Here are the first few lines:

Women in hats like the rear ends of pink ducks
applauded you, my poems.
These are the women whose husbands I met on airplanes
who close their briefcases and ask, What are you in?
I look into their eyes, I tell them I am in poetry,

And their eyes feel with anxiety, and with little tears
Oh yeah? they say, developing an interest in clouds.
My wife, she likes that sort of thing? Hah-hah?
I guess maybe Id better watch my grammar, huh?
I leave them in airports, watching their grammar.

Surely many of Mr. Halls poems will endure.
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These poems are written by someone who has felt pain. She talks about that pain in her poetry, but then surprises the reader with her positive spin.
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This book is collection of poems throughout the writer's life.  The first part is a collection of poems mostly about life and the pain it can cause.  Thus, Broken Windows. It emits a great deal of emotion and some of the poems are real tear jerkes.  The next part is about the chapter headings of his books, short, but beautifully written.  Mr. Robinson is a fine and talented author.  I look forward to more of his work.  I have read his other book, "Fill my Eyes" which is a book I could not put down.

Mary Lacey
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Irene Brodsky may yet be recognized as a modern Grandma Moses of American folk poetry.  Irene came to writing in this genre after a life dedicated to dreary clerical work in the Board of Education.  However, it is evident that throughout her life ideas, thoughts and images were incubating in her soul.  When she decided to return to complete a bachelor's degree at CUNY, she and poetry found one another.  From childhood scenes in Brooklyn, to memories of adolescent popular tunes, television shows and horror movies, this tome is an anthology of gleanings from a first-generation (Jewish) perspective.  Its appeal and audience are universal, because the subjects are handled with respect and wonderment, without deference to creed or race.  The tone of most are whimsical, if not humorous, e.g. "Fast Food Mania" and "All that I can See".  However, there are those such as "The Tallest Twins" and "For all She has Given Us" that are somber, giving us pause to reflect and remember.

Perhaps what is most valuable about this thin volume of poetry is its ability to awaken within each of us a desire to write poetry ourselves.  This is somewhat different from the experience gained from reading Whitman, Dickinson or Frost.  It is the simplicity yet depth that free verse affords us when we are able to see vignettes of life from the viewpoint of mindful human. It may be something that we actually experience, but it may be something we read, learn or overhear.  Poetry is a magical vehicle by which we can encapsulate notions, be they fantasy or true-to life, that give meaning to us as people.

I imagine that this book would be useful as well as well-received by a variety of audiences.  As a former instructor of English as a Second Language, I am certain that many newcomers to the United States would enjoy this short collection of verses written in easy English.  Likewise, I can see it useful in grades 5 and up.  Poems such as "On Howard Avenue", "The Best Kept Secret in Brooklyn" and "Prospect Park" tell us in a sense as much about Brooklyn as many a lengthy memoir. However, for the young at heart, Ms. Brodsky's poetry deals with a wealth of fact and concept, compressed as poetry is, into short lines and strategic impact.  "Poetry Unplugged" makes a pitch for why this art form is here to make a come-back.  As a librarian, I highly recommend this collection for public school libraries of all grades for its pedagogical merits.  Moreover, I would highly encourage its purchase for those who wish to be reminded that poetry is within the reach of all who aspire to write it.  "Poetry Unplugged" is an affordable volume of free verse suitable for family collections, and will hopefully find parents and grandparents sharing it with young loved ones for generations to come.
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The work is excellent. The poems can reach a very wide audience, from novice to professionals. I am well acquainted with the authoress and know personally of the fine work she does. She was kind enough to write poems when my mother and husband died. I cherish the words in those writings. They will always be a keepsake to myself and my children. I am sure that there will be more poetry published by this wonderful artist.
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A remarkable collection of poetry by a masterful young poet, who spins his words with resonant emotion that settles into your very being. The poet writes of what he knows, dedicating this book to abused boys, abused children, who have suffered the horrors of child sexual abuse, exploitation, and trafficking. The raw anguish and pain of these children, and the brutality of what they endure is apparent throughout this work, but also apparent is the hope for a better life to come that justice will be served upon their tormentors and oppressors, and that they will find peace and love in the arms of their family and friends once  again.

Lets fill a glass, cheers to fraternization
to poetry as art that builds this bridge
tween worlds and people, far away and near
to friendship, love, and friends so very dear.

Darren is a versatile poet, expressing his craft in such a wide array of poetic styles, that the overall expression is truly a beautiful work of art. He is a man with the universe in his very soul.

he laughs in the knowledge that his freedom is written in stars and moon
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hooray! i found the 2nd book of poems that i love. about a year ago i decided to have a go at liking poetry. it's been rocky, with ups and downs along the way, but only two peaks of excellence have i so far experienced the wonders of. the first peak was billy collins collection "sailing alone around the room." now a second work of poetic joy has entered my mind: al purdy's "rooms for rent in the outer planets," a collection of poems written between 1962 and 1996. in the afterword (a collection of blurbs, interview outtakes, and whatnot) to this work mr purdy answers the question "what do readers want from a poem?" he says: "primarily, i suppose, to be entertained. and that involves tuning in on some emotion or feeling or discovery that is larger and more permanent than he is. some flashing insight that adds a new perspective to living." well, i don't know if that fits all readers of poetry, but it certainly works for me. mr purdy's poetry has a strong sense of history running through it like a current. his words romance the past. and often the very, very distant past at that (pre-mankind). standing here and now and contemplating that long distance over time seems a preoccupation in his writing. a connection from then up to now haunts much of his work. in a way he reminds me of one of my favorite non-fiction authors; loren eiseley, an anthropologist and naturalist whose work is filled with the same sort of beauty and wonder involved in connections between beings of the distant past and the present. mr purdy; though, balances his serious side with a fine sense of humor that infuses his poetry with an anodyne (however temporary) to the tragedy life has been awash in through the ages. a great poet. an encouragement and inspiration for me to move ahead and search out more poets i can relate to and love.
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Alan Shapiro has, in this volume, created a world where, for better or for worse, the past is not missing: instead, it walks around in our world, befriending us or pestering us, stopping at nothing, even death.  And yet these are poems of loss, or loss that will not complete itself, as in Joyce's "absence is the highest form of presence."
Take the poem "Ghost," in which a dead woman speaks to her widower: even the past is haunted by its own past.  Or the poems of or to the speaker's dead or dying relatives & loved ones: the touches that have ended in withdrawn hands but remain in lingering feeling.
Shapiro's knowledge of poetry is astounding, & he uses that knowledge (which is, by the way, so much more than mere knowledge) to build subtle, strong, and elegant poetry.  He has been doing it for years; his earlier work--excellent as it is--is mere exercize for the power of The Dead Alive and Busy.
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Poetry is a difficult genre to review, since it is written from the author's soul. As a reviewer, I am forced to dig around in the soil thereof, while completely respecting the effort, emotion, and creativity that has gone into each project. It may also be understood and embraced by one reader, though discarded by another. Each reader of poetry expects and appreciates that which speaks to their own heart and experience--a few pages here spoke to mine. This is a book of love letters written as poetry. I found it interesting and at times touching.

(Thank you to the author for my review copy.)
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People sometimes ask what the difference between prose and poetry is. Certainly the lines between these two forms have blurred in modern times, but generally a reader expects prose to have literal significant and poetry to have an emotional component. It would be good to keep this distinction in mind as you read Joan Slowey's The Red Petticoat.

Joan Slowey's poetry is personal and yet it has the kind of emotional resonance that echos in the ear and the heart of the reader. Ms. Slowey draws upon her experience. The tone of her work tends to be reflective as she looks back over a lifetime of joy, love, and loss. She uses language that has significance for her, that draws upon her Irish roots. Gaelic words pepper her writing, as do characters from Irish lore. At one point she writes an entire haiku in Gaelic. This is her heart and her psyche speaking, of her tradition and to her tradition. All of it works.

Ms. Slowey covers a variety of subjects. In each case there is evidence of a mature intelligence and a deep empathy. Ms. Slowey has witnessed the full cycle of life and is coming to terms with her place in that cycle. In "Minus One", for example, she mourns the passing of her "own particular Adam." Her "magic circle" has been broken and she wonders
How much of you is me
Stretching to close the circle.

Two of my favorite poems draw upon her insight as a sentient observer.  One haiku, for example, notes the slime of a snail on her patio and ends with the line, "Well, snails must live too".  Another, more thought-provoking piece contemplates a creature even more despised than the snail: a flasher.  In this poem, entitled, "The Flasher", she lends complexity to a subject most of us dismiss out of hand.  What is the dark secret behind such a low act?  She wonders, as the poem draws to an end,
'Did he shake with wicked glee?" or did he "Turn away to hide?"

The Red Petticoat is a slim volume. Its brevity invites a leisurely read, and perhaps a re-read.  If you indulge in this temptation you're bound to find a gem, one poem that resonates with you as so many in this collection did with me.

I highly recommend Joan Slowey's The Red Petticoat.
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The opening line of this collection, "I who am what the dead have made", leads us straight into the mood of the poet during the years when these poems were written (1975-78) as she was approached her seventieth birthday. She sees herself as a word ("I myself the spoken word", "Voices of wind and water / Have uttered us from the beginning"), an utterance of the past, of her ancestors, of the land they lived in (Scotland and Cumbria). Something which it seems she turned her back on to a large extent, but now re-turns to.

"What did I hope to find when I turned away from her ...?' [her mother] she asks in one poem, and in another "Do I return / To the presence of the garden / The same, or not the same?"

And what did she find, what did she go through, while she was away? Is this it, in a poem called "Christmas Children"? "Little children running / Each in a paradise" among "London's many-coloured fairy lights" and "Tangerines, sugar-mice, a star, / Here and now boundless / Their merriment." But, she finishes, "the dark hells walk past them unseen." Was that it? No, though it was there, as it is for all of us. For in other poems we find "yet this world, / Dark to the gods, how bright a paradise / When the heart loves ..."

Another poem begins "Paris it was called ...", 'was', not 'is', for to travel to this Paris she would need a time-machine.

Kathleen was above all a mystic. I will call her Kathleen here, for I called her Kathleen to her face and she called me Jim when we spent hours discussing Blake's poetry and Blake's form of mysticism. (And what I have in my hands is a signed copy of this book that I am reviewing now, years later; signed on April 27th, 1985 - almost thirty years ago.) Kathleen was a mystic and the great poems and prose of her middle years nearly all give expression to this (or attempt to, for, like all true mystics, she knew it to be ultimately inexpressable), and here too we have lines such as this (from "In My Seventieth Year"):

It is enough, now I am old,
That everywhere, above, beneath,
About, within me, is the one
Presence, more intimate and near
Than mothering hands or love's embrace
[...]
And since the utterance of the one
Majestic voice raised me to life
I am the part that I must play,
I am the journey I must go ..."

Which brings us back to where I began this review. At the end of the book is a small section of "Short Poems", where you will find these gems.

"Ah, many, many are the dead
Who hold this pen and with my fingers write:
What am I but their memory
Whose afterlife I live, who haunt
My waking and my sleep with the untold?"

"I could have told much by the way
But having reached this quiet place can say
Only that old joy and pain mean less
Than these green garden buds
The wind stirs gently."

"Young or old
What was I but the story told
By an unageing one?"

Perfect. Her name, and some at least of these poems, should be on everyone's lips.
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I love the poetry of this poet and recommend it to anyone who enjoys both light and profound readings.  He says this will be his last work, but I pray not!
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I was first introduced to this beautiful book of written poetry by hearing the author speak the words. The words are written, but she did not read them, she spoke life into them yet again. These poems cover the full spectrum of life, and speak hope to whomever hears or reads them. The words are as eloquent, strong and beautiful as the person delivering these gifts to us.
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I met this gentleman at an AP training session. The poems are very lyrical and short, a lot of wax poetic for me, but overall there are some insights to be gleaned from this literary activist!
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Vi Khi Naos poems inhabit a lyrical space within the shell of the bodyslicing between past and future in order to carve the meaty line of the present. And, the poems within The Old Philosopher (Nightboat Books, 2016) are made of the lines materialized when thighs meet. They are tangible, tender, and threaten to open and reveal either (or both) pain and fantasy.

And, as you read, you will have this fantasy of descending through your body in a glass elevator tapered thin like the edge of a blade. You thought you knew the body from your obligatory studies of either a spiritual text or biology, but the poems of The Old Philosopher take both spirituality and the lived life and convince you that there are bodily spaces comparable to the cosmos of your own inner universe.

You press B for basement, but the machine halts in an organ filled with language of kernel, core, nucleus, the / nub and gist of my tight muscles clutching the tiniest details of losses and loves. The interior walls of / [] English-ived stomach recalls your shared memories of mothers, internalized as bodily plants, digested to their essential oils.

And, Nao peels the skin from language like the exoskeleton from a shrimp. Continue reading and youll run your fingernail along the lines and feel your own body gently peeled. The pages feel as delicate as this skin; its as if they were actually made from the pulverized wood of five hundred bonsai trees.

The elevator continues to taper into a thinner edge and you're covered in tiny female lizard hands clutching you like the crumbs coating shrimp tempura.

Stripped, revealed, and covered in the feelers of human and animalistic emotion, youll come away wanting to read it all again; but youll find yourself on an entirely new floor of the internal. And youll appreciate and crave the taste of tracing the line of now between a lovers thighs. Youll request your skin peeled infinitely more.