Poetic Book Tours: Among The Lost by Seth Steinzor

Among The Lost by Seth Steinzor 

Back Cover:

Among the Lost, set in the modern American rust belt, is a meditation drawn from Dante’s Purgatorio. To Dante, Purgatory was the mountain where souls not damned went after death to cleanse themselves of sin in preparation for entering Paradise. What, Steinzor asks, are we preparing ourselves for, having lost the fear of hell and the hope of heaven, in the course of our daily urban existence? And whatever that is, how do we go about preparing for it?

My Review:

Hindu Religion is about attaining Nirvana, where the cycle of rebirth is broken. One strives to attain that highest status where ones soul merges with that of God. The soul stuck in mid way is in fact, how we are. We do not even realize it and that is what is terrifying. When we follow the right path then Nirvana is not as difficult as it seems.

I won't say that this book of poetry was a revelation for me. I liked the narration. The way he describes the mundane everyday life and is very near to the cycle of birth and death, being in a hospital. I always found that it is only place which levels us. We are forced to contemplate our own mortality. It is how we deal with it, is the question as well as the answer.

Lost love need not be saddening. It gives us the confidence and capability to love. However, we are lost in the maze of life and think, why me, why me....

I found the poems rhapsodic, melodious and very touching. The beauty of words cannot but touch the soul, that very soul, which wants to attain the highest state. 

Our Held Animal Breath by Kathryn Kirkpatrick

Her lip curled. I could see
that she hated me.
                            It was odd

how the hatred went on
for days and days and years and years.

I began to feel I could 
count on it. It was a steady

reliable hatred. Not like
baled hay
                which can rot.

Our Held Animal Breath, Poems by Kathryn Kirkpatrick

Title: Our Held Animal Breath: Poems
Author: Kathryn Kirkpatrick
ISBN: 9781936370917
Publisher: WordTech Communications/2012)
Pages: 95

All the forty-four poems in the volume are extremely readable. The poems are about everyday stuff like hiking, meditating and gardening. The emotions range from hurt, loss and confusion, understanding and rational optimism. Hope and determination intermingle with loss and fear. 

Her poems reflect politics as well as gives us a glimpse of Blue Ridge Mountains and other such places. Current events are narrated well. With deep understanding and feelings.

I could relate to the way she has portrayed women. I felt as if I know them, which I do...my mother, my neighbours, work colleagues and lot more. It was as if I was reading about the lives of the women I know. 

Let me share another poem. 

Driving Home

The girl in platform pink flip-flops

stumbles in my headlights on the broken
pavement.
Beside her, the boy in the gray
overcoat pulls her from the road
in January rain.
My foot on the brake,
she was never in danger, except perhaps—

her face now contorted by tears—

from the misapprehension
that here in this fractured public space

unmended asphalt
absence of sidewalks
anonymous, glaring cars

she is somehow to blame.

Hurrah's Nest by Arisa White

We alone together is me, one egg in the pigeon’s nest
between my rusting ten-speed and brick wall.
The wind blocked my body from her.

Night and day we were audience
to feathers tossed and shit about.
It’s hard to listen to courtship.

She tells me, 
With children you will never be lonely.

-from “Disposition for Shininess” from Hurrah's Nest by Arisa White

Hurrah's Nest: poems by Arisa White

This book of poem speaks of a family, their interactions, hardships and everything in between. There is identity crisis, scars of being a family. One might feel that there is no love between them but it is not so. Poems are built from moments, memories and just being there. Each poem is a story in itself yet we don't feel anything is disjointed. 

The family consists of a mother, six brothers and one sister. There is a sense of abandonment by the mother but that too is just a passing feeling. Closeness is the end result, no matter what experiences one might have gone through in ones's family.....

I can go on but poetry has to experienced by the reader, felt in his/her heart....

TSS: For all the mothers out there....

Mom and Me

let it be forever

tiny shaking shakes me out
the capsules on the floor tell me a tale
she who is ramrod straight
despairs in the midst

I sit with her on the floor
embrace her to me
she gives in
but only for a while

her voices soothes me
her arms hold me
she is again the strong mother
I am again the daughter

"forever, let it be forever, 
although that isn't enough either"

A-Z Wednesday: numbers go nutty while I watch

all those numbers run around

I catch them

put them in different slots

but they escape again

curious to know each other

I like the picture

logical numbers

going nuts over each other

squares and cubes

climb exponentially

trigonometry breaks

into geometry

they giggle like a kid

and suddenly embrace,

break away guiltily

precalculus is the silent one

it has too much in its pocket

number system spouts euclid's lemma

roots of quadratic are always paired

but you know, it is all statistics

each portion of math says this

If I should die, think only this of me-

how to resurrect those numbers again

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sharing a N poem of mine!

A-Z Wednesday: Ka 'Ba by Imamu Amiri Baraka

A closed window looks down
on a dirty courtyard, and black people
call across or scream or walk across
defying physics in the stream of their will

Our world is full of sound
Our world is more lovely than anyone's
tho we suffer, and kill each other
and sometimes fail to walk the air

We are beautiful people
with african imaginations
full of masks and dances and swelling chants

with african eyes, and noses, and arms,
though we sprawl in grey chains in a place
full of winters, when what we want is sun.

We have been captured,
brothers. And we labor
to make our getaway, into
the ancient image, into a new

correspondence with ourselves
and our black family. We read magic
now we need the spells, to rise up
return, destroy, and create. What will be

the sacred words?

by Imamu Amiri Baraka
~~~~~~~~~~~
I found this poem surfing the net. I am reproducing it here as I think it needs to be read by all of us. You can find more about the poet by clicking on:
http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/poets/imamu_amiri_baraka/biography

Teaser Tuesdays: musty scent of love

I thought I would do Teaser Tuesday differently today. Here I post a poem of mine, which I wrote yesterday. Yes, I do write poetry. Infact I consider myself a poet first and then anything else. Why I called this a teaser? Because I want you all to be teased enough to visit my poetry blog, rooted and read it regularly.

musty scent of love

those old notes- yellowed,
in tatters, words smudging
I tape them carefully
to preserve them for you both

it is not quite dawn yet-
what am I doing in the wee hours
going through old letters
taking in the musty scent of your love

you know she sleeps in the next room
I don't wish to wake her up
like the way you were
ever so careful not to disturb her

what I see through my hazy vision
your words lovingly penned for her-
her words reciprocating,
my heart aches for her loss

I am no connoisseur on recipe of love
(but I know) she is still spellbound by you,
you can see that from up there,
but she cannot and that hurts her

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When I get glimpses of my mom missing my dad, it hurts me too. She is careful not to show it to me but as her daughter, I understand how much she misses him. I miss him too but it is different for her. As it should be. As it ought to be. I always have wished for a love as strong as theirs. I write it for both of them, even though I know she will not like it that I can read her so well.

May I remind you, yet again, to visit my poetry blog, rooted? Thanks!

Weekly Geeks: saintly mind gets lubricated

Weekly Geeks: Poetry Month

As most know, I am a poet too apart from being a reader. Here I post one of my recent poems.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

brash words on that message board
crash to the ground
like a saint you stand there
listening to the reverberating sound
it is your doing or undoing
(have it your own way,think what you like)
one by one, everyone walks away
you stand there alienated

if only you had lubricated your mind
you wouldn't put those words out there
and suffered because of it

Weekly Geeks: Romancing the Tome

Feel free to explore any or all of these prompts:

• What literary couple is your favorite?
  
• How do you define romantic literature? Does it always involve sex? or the hint of sex?
  
• What author/s do you think writes romantic scenes particularly well?
• Do you have a favorite romantic scene in a book?
• Do you find you read romantic literature at certain times of the year?
• Tell us your favorite romantic quote.
• Do you have some favorite romantic poetry?

Here I share two romantic poems that I like amongst others. Hope you like those too:

I Carry Your Heart with Me by E.E.Cummings

I carry your heart with me (I carry it in
my heart) I am never without it (anywhere
I go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)

I fear no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) I want
no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

I carry your heart (I carry it in my heart)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Love Letter by Sylvia Plath

Not easy to state the change you made.
If I'm alive now, then I was dead,
Though, like a stone, unbothered by it,
Staying put according to habit.
You didn't just tow me an inch, no
Nor leave me to set my small bald eye
Skyward again, without hope, of course,
Of apprehending blueness, or stars.

That wasn't it. I slept, say: a snake
Masked among black rocks as a black rock
In the white hiatus of winter
Like my neighbors, taking no pleasure
In the million perfectly-chisled
Cheeks alighting each moment to melt
My cheeks of basalt. They turned to tears,
Angels weeping over dull natures,
But didn't convince me. Those tears froze.
Each dead head had a visor of ice.

And I slept on like a bent finger.
The first thing I was was sheer air
And the locked drops rising in dew
Limpid as spirits. Many stones lay
Dense and expressionless round about.
I didn't know what to make of it.
I shone, mice-scaled, and unfolded
To pour myself out like a fluid
Among bird feet and the stems of plants.
I wasn't fooled. I knew you at once.

Tree and stone glittered, without shadows.
My finger-length grew lucent as glass.
I started to bud like a March twig:
An arm and a leg, and arm, a leg.
From stone to cloud, so I ascended.
Now I resemble a sort of god
Floating through the air in my soul-shift
Pure as a pane of ice. It's a gift.

Teaser Tuesdays: Selected Poems of Carl Sandburg

Haunts

There are places I go when I am strong.
One is a marsh pool where I used to go
with a long-ear hound-dog.
One is a wild crabapple tree; I was there
a moonlight night with a girl.
The dog is gone; the girl is gone; I go to these
places when there is no other place to go.

~Page 70, Selected Poems of Carl Sandburg

Title: Selected Poems of Carl Sandburg
ISBN: 9781566192644
Publisher: Barnes & Nobel/1994
Pages: 92

Starting with Chicago, this short book of poetry takes us to the real word of the working class. There are no embellishments but these poems speak of the struggle undergone by that class without whom the world cannot move. The poems depict straight from the heart emotions of what he observed and yet contains that mystical, mysterious element. Each poem makes us think and savour the beauty found in the mundane, normal word of the working class, but retains the mystery and needless to say he makes one think. Poetry ought to be like that.

Here I cite few of his poems. See for yourself what do they make you feel and think.

Cool Tombs

When Abraham Lincoln was shoveled into the tombs he forgot
the copperheads and the assassin . . . in the dust, in the
cool tombs.

And Ulysses Grant lost all thought of con men and Wall Street,
cash and collateral turned ashes . . . in the dust, in the
cool tombs.

Pocahontas' body, lovely as a poplar, sweet as a red haw in
November or a pawpaw in May, did she wonder? does she
remember? . . . in the dust, in the cool tombs?

Take any streetful of people buying clothes and groceries,
cheering a hero or throwing confetti and blowing tin
horns . . . tell me if the lovers are losers . . . tell me if any
get more than the lovers . . . in the dust . . . in the cool
tombs.

Fog

The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.

I Am the People, the Mob

I am the people--the mob--the crowd--the mass.
Do you know that all the great work of the world is
done through me?
I am the workingman, the inventor, the maker of the
world's food and clothes.
I am the audience that witnesses history. The Napoleons
come from me and the Lincolns. They die. And
then I send forth more Napoleons and Lincolns.
I am the seed ground. I am a prairie that will stand
for much plowing. Terrible storms pass over me.
I forget. The best of me is sucked out and wasted.
I forget. Everything but Death comes to me and
makes me work and give up what I have. And I
forget.
Sometimes I growl, shake myself and spatter a few red
drops for history to remember. Then--I forget.
When I, the People, learn to remember, when I, the
People, use the lessons of yesterday and no longer
forget who robbed me last year, who played me for
a fool--then there will be no speaker in all the world
say the name: "The People," with any fleck of a
sneer in his voice or any far-off smile of derision.
The mob--the crowd--the mass--will arrive then.

Some of those poems blew me away completely and made me want to read more of his works. Simply look at this:

Pool

Out of the fire
Came a man sunken
To less than cinders,
A tea-cup of ashes or so.
And I,
The gold in the house,
Writhed into a stiff pool.

Thanks to Stacy of Stacy's Books, for sending me this poetry book.

TSS: Readingless days

scattered everywhere
I see my books
pleased with my collection
fantasy, memoirs
magical realism, historicals.

yet my mind refuses
to pick any.
I enjoy the readingless days
writing poetry
or short fictions.

"when books are my life,
why am I slacking on my reading?"