Poems from the Northeast – Victoria Leigh Bennett

A poet’s spiritual homeland is oftentimes not exactly the same as his or her homeland by birth. This book is a book of poems composed over a lifetime lived entirely in the northeastern United States and Toronto, Canada. It features a wide range of literary and personal topics with which the author hopes to enliven, instruct without condescension, move, and above all entertain her audience. It is hoped that there is something in this book for nearly everyone, from the full-fledged poetic connoisseur to the most casual of poetry readers.

This review has been a long while in the writing because there is so much to experience in the pages of these three collected books from Vicki.  You can find more of her, always thought-provoking writings here, whilst you are waiting for this book to arrive, as you will probably want to order it.

I found this collection somewhat perplexing, every time that I read through the book I found new favourite poems, so either I am easily delighted, or the wealth of moods catered for is ‘muchos’.  I am inclined to the latter. From simple observations to the big questions of life the variety is there in abundance.

Poems from the Northeast is a delight for the reader, with many references and allusions to authors, poets, artists, and philosophers littered throughout, I had a great time hunting for them, or looking through the internet to explore names I knew but haven’t yet read. 

Paper Heart – Boomie Bol

This book is a debut poetry collection that centers on life in three parts – love, loss, and healing. It looks at love in its many different elements; nature, family, motherhood, sex, self-love, and more. Then shifts focus to the inevitable aspects of loss, grief, heartbreaks, disappointments, abuse, and more. Finally, it lends itself to life’s possibilities of rebirth. Here it touches on healing in various forms; kindness, forgiveness, joy, forward thinking, meditation, and faith.

With an introduction that shows the author’s intent, fellow blogger Boomie Bol seeks to make a connection with each reader, and have her poems infuse into the reader’s life and hopefully be remembered at a time that they are required.

At its core, Paper Heart is a celebration of women, and also women of colour. Boomie’s poems are unapologietic and unashamed, she lays out her innermost feelings and this reader found himself appreciative for the insight into the author’s world and mind and thought process.

From Knights to Hearts

A theme of books being published by blogger friends, of late, seems to be a homage to the medium with which we, both readers and writers alike, feel the most affinity, the humble sheet of paper.

For those of you who love poetry, I present, or remind you, of Boomie Bol , a prolific writer and long term blogger who digs deeply into all things emotional.

Her debut collection paper heart – out today – is a wide ranging assortment of poems ranging from nature, family, heartbreaks, and faith, to name but a few subjects.

A review will follow soon enough, but in the meantime, check the link above if you wish to get a feel for Boomie’s poems.

She

As she read, she became fully human again. A line of poetry was a perfect moment, a spray of words daring and loud enough to take her somewhere unexpected.

Photo by Luriko Yamaguchi from Pexels

Just one line, the right line, could immerse her in something larger, crucial. – The Camel Bookmobile

The Past, Present, & Future: A Book of Poetry – Cody McCullough

Cody McCullough’s debut collection of poetry, THE PAST, PRESENT, & FUTURE, delves into the fleeting nature of life viewed through the prism of time. Separated into three main collections, the work touches on topics ranging from the essence of life, to family relationships, to the natural world. Featuring poems such as THE TALL FIRS ARE DANCING TODAY and THE COOL MORNING AIR, the entire collection includes a total of 73 poems written in free verse. Through his unique style, McCullough takes the reader on a journey from the beginning of existence, to the end of time, and everywhere in between.

It’s a great pleasure today to introduce, remind, or reacquaint, the reader with Cody McCullough’s blog, and new book of poetry.  I’ve been a fan of Cody’s writings for a while now, and always enjoy my visits over at his site.  This collection written in free verse is his usual intriguing work.

As with the title, it seems only fitting to break down each part in turn, beginning, adventurously, with the Past:

Here, we have a considered look at childhood memories, of a fleeting time which the author does well to encapsulate the feeling of time passing.  This section is an exploration of the learning experience of the formative years, and of the memories that we hold all our lives.  There is something melancholy and a feeling of the lost, or perhaps lostness.

These poems – as with the other two parts – are mixed with writings of history, of past generations and a thoughtful look at a perspective of a universal past as well as the personal. The passing of time into history, the temporary, and how that, as well as the personal, is recalled, and remembered differently.

SK’s Browning DTs

Apologies in advance for the attention that this blog is paying to the Dark Tower series but it has been taking up all my reading time of late as I don’t wish to leave it unfinished when I leave the hemisphere behind again.  And there are far too many other books that I want to take back with me instead of  a half finished series.

Today’s post is not just reading for those who have journeyed – or are so doing – through these books,  Robert Browning’s, Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came, is a fantastic read on its own, but as it inspired, together with spaghetti westerns and The Lord of the Rings, King’s monumental series its worth highlighting here.

I’ve posted the first six stanzas of the thirty-five that make up this epic poem, and it seems appropriate to leave a link to the complete poem from StephenKing.com.  Pleasurable reading and pleasant nights as always dear reader.

I.
My first thought was, he lied in every word,
That hoary cripple, with malicious eye
Askance to watch the workings of his lie
On mine, and mouth scarce able to afford
Suppression of the glee, that pursed and scored
Its edge, at one more victim gained thereby.

Gloaming Thoughts

The family snooze away in bed, and I write late into the night.  A beer on the go, and a nocturnal cool settles subtly on my bare arms.

Books are, of course, my chosen subject to write about, a topic that has so many facets, often hidden in plain sight, and so much scope.

Yet as I catch up with the notes on my recent reads, the memories of books long given away take over.

In this late and gently expiring hour, the recollections come thick and fast.  The night always makes one introspective, especially for the past.

On this particular night my eye – and hand – run down the imaginary bookshelf of recall, mixed with different eras of my collecting, the covers vivid and smooth.

An old Famous Five cover from a nearly complete set purchased years ago, the variously tactile cover of the hardback edition of Endymion Spring…

An exploration of architecture in Egyptian temples, and the stark bleakness of outer space, adventuring astronauts lost to everything but themselves.

It’s these times I value.  The unique wanderings in a labyrinthine world of words, reminding me of literary corridors I will, perhaps, walk down again…

Whether in contemplation or purposely.

Reminders of books moved on, in necessity or wrongly thought of as outgrown, treasures lost to me in haste.

Always these ghosts come at night, I like it that way, I am forever grounded in their literary shadow.  Elusive yet bound to my heart.

 

*Image found at Pixabay

High Windows – Philip Larkin

When Philip Larkin’s High Windows first appeared, Kingsley Amis spoke for a large and loyal readership when he wrote: ‘Larkin’s admirers need only be told that he is as good as ever here, if not slightly better’.

Like Betjeman and Hardy, Larkin is a poet who can move a large audience – to laughter and tears – without betraying the highest artistic standards.

When reading Philip Larkin’s poems during my A-levels I never properly appreciated his poems, which is perhaps to be expected at such an age.   Now approaching his work with more life – and reading – experience there is something about his writing that makes it both highly pleasurable and challenging to read.

High Windows deals in some strong stuff; death, failure, and aging are constant (and looming) motifs threaded throughout the book.  It’s a sobering composition but utterly compelling which drove me on to read and reread each poem multiple times.

There is a lot of pleasant imagery also, to contrast with the uncomfortable themes which at the same time amplifies them. A real feeling of nostalgia bursts forth, the heart-warming and traditional (villages, seaside memories etc.), this is shot through with jarring images of decay and threats of hell. Larkin does enough to keep the reader off balance whilst examining the reality of life.

Friday Night at the Royal Station Hotel

Inspiration failing me of late, instead of writing anything vaguely original here is a poem from Philip Larkin, which I recently came across in his collection, High Windows.

Light spreads darkly downwards from the high
Clusters of lights over empty chairs
That face each other, coloured differently.
Through open doors, the dining-room declares
A larger loneliness of knives and glass
And silence laid like carpet. A porter reads
An unsold evening paper. Hours pass,
And all the salesmen have gone back to Leeds,
Leaving full ashtrays in the Conference Room.

 

In shoeless corridors, the lights burn. How
Isolated, like a fort, it is –
The headed paper, made for writing home
(If home existed) letters of exile: Now
Night comes on. Waves fold behind villages.

* Image found on Pixabay

Precipitate Companionship

As it has been raining a lot here recently, it brings to mind one of those thoughts that is made for just such days.  The creative flows when the rainwater does…

Precipitate Companionship

The ‘pock’ sounds on the fabric of the umbrella,
jarringly unlike the gentle susurrus of those
which thud on the ground.
Surroundings tingle all the senses,
the rising scents
the tangy taste on the air
the cleansed colours.

The walk is a glorious thing
especially shared with the closeness of a companion,
shoulders sometimes touching,
Perhaps an entwining
of hands on handle
A sense of total togetherness, intimate,
through delicate and momentary caresses.

The way that makes one feel
in no particular rush to be anywhere
time slackened
just existing
under the brolly,
a closed world,
Shared solely between two.

 

 

*Picture found for free at wallpaperbetter.com