In a bit of a bookish slump lately, sorry to say. I see I haven't blogged here for almost a week. The book I mentioned in the last entry, Mosaic, was a disappointment. Yes, I read the whole thing (there's that difficulty with putting a book down unless it's truly entirely awful), but now I wonder why. The story was gripping through part of the book, a woman's children taken by her husband back to his family in Jordan, his intent to raise them there by Muslim values, her attempts to get them back. The writing was plebian, and in the end the whole story was facile. Happy ending, nice and tidy. Don't bother looking for it.
Now I'm reading St. Dale, Sharyn McCrumb's latest, but in widely separated fits and starts. I have been too busy to read it with any continuity. I am therefore giving it the benefit of the doubt. I will say that thus far I find it not up to her usual standards.
Yesterday I ordered several things from the library, so perhaps the slump will end soon.
There is so much wonderful poetry in the world, don't you think? I can't give up hope entirely while this is true. Practically every day I discover a new writer, and a whole new vision opens up before me. Today it's Timothy Walsh, thanks to Garrison Keillor's Writer's Almanac. This poem is the perfect expression of the experience of going to PrimeHook on a late winter day, everything encapsulated in these few lines:
The Marsh in Winter
If you stand and listen,
you will hear the voice.
Reeds sharp as rapiers rasp the wind.
Frost creaks in the trees.
Sunlight, ice-bright, falls from the sky.
Scattered cedars and junipers loom like shadows.
Sheathed in ice, a willow droops heavily
Across the path.
Driven snow packs the creviced bark of cottonwoods.
Once-hidden bird nests now plainly marked
by a white cap of snow...
Out on the marsh, blue water shows through shifting ice.
Tall brown reeds, slim as dancers, bend in the breeze.
A hundred thousand cattails, each one lit
by the low-angled light of awestering sun,
each brown seed head blazing
like the head of a saint.
Timothy Walsh, from Wild Apples
My own photo, Terrapin Nature Preserve
Now I must find this volume of poetry, see if the rest is as good. The title holds promise. Nature poetry is what always grabs my heart. My endlessly romantic (in the literary/art, not the Hearts & Flowers, sense) heart.
5 comments:
That poem is incredible. I'm going to have to check out The Writer's Almanac. Everybody I know who has it loves it.
Yes, yes, what a gorgeous poem. So beautifully true. In reading several journals and posts on message boards, I find many people are disallusioned with their reading. I think part of the problem is with what is being published but mostly with what is being advertised to the public. There is so much good work out there that never gets publicized, so people never know about it. Since publishing my novel, I've learned a lot about why some books are pushed and others aren't; usually it doesn't have anything to do with the quality of the work. Publishers are looking for some sort of one-size-fits-all book because they hope to sell thousands of copies. They won't promote the quieter, more subtle, or quirky books. The public loses, unfortunately. Now, I do what I can to search out the treasures that aren't being publicized. There are really some gems out there. It is interesting to me that readers are such good people--they usually blame themselves when they don't like a book that's supposed to be good. I have many friends who have done this; I've done this myself!
before I arrived here, Virginia courted me with nature poetry every morning. judi
Wow! What a beautiful entry!
Thanks...
V
Perhaps Nascar as a topic is too much of a challenge even for the talents of a Sharyn McCrumb?
A friend gave me a wonderful book of poetry last year, The Essential Rumi. Perhaps you've heard of this ancient poet?
Post a Comment