One of these things is not like the other...

Catch Light

a poetry collection by Sarah O'Brien

(3 scoops)

This collection plays with white space as it relates to the idea of light and capturing an image on film. The last series was the most compelling- O'Brien used textbook chapter titles as inspiration.

[Sarah O'Brien the poet does not have a website, but there is another Sarah O'Brien all over the web; she is a musician and she just got back from a tour with Yanni. That's funny.]

A Necklace of Bees

a poetry collection by Dannye Romine Powell

(2.5 scoops)

Some nice moments, but overall the poems felt overly sentimental and I did not connect with the subject matter. One of the best poems in this collection is Everyone is Afraid of Something.

Splintering

a poetry novel by Eireann Corrigan

(3 Scoops)

Told in a series of poems, this book explores the impact of a violent crime. The two speakers, 15 year old Paulie and her older brother Jeremy, describe the struggles they endure dealing with the aftermath of the attack. I never believed these speakers were real people, instead they read like containers for the author to present emotions and observations about the world. One moment when this was obvious was when Jeremy commented on Evan's dorm room- it read like a 30-something reflecting on her college experience instead of a teenage boy who has never been to college reacting to his environment. There are many powerful poems in this book and it is full of fresh metaphors and similes, but the sequencing feels off. Details are introduced and then forgotten, like when Paulie decides to cultivate dreadlocks and then a few poems later her sister is running her fingers through Paulie's hair with ease. Overall I believe there are too many poems- too many words in each poem-(there are even a couple of typos!) and the plot, especially at the end, seems forced; what could have been a beautiful and evocative collection of thematically linked poems devolves into a silly action sequence, thus rendering the lyrical ending completely unsatisfying. This books feels like one book was layered on top of another book and the finished product is confused as to what it is, but, despite the failure to be a cohesive work, there are poems or lines of poems in these pages that I want to frame and read everyday.

Realm of Possibility

a collection of interrelated monologues written in free verse by David Levithan

(5 scoops)

What can I say, I Iove this book.

I Don't Want to Be Crazy

a poetry memoir by Samantha Schutz

(2.5 scoops)

Most of the time I felt like this was an honest portrayal of having anxiety and confronting the reality of mental illness, but other moments felt like they just skimmed the surface, particularly in regards to the actual work of recovery. Perhaps if the author had waited a few more years to write the book there might have been a more satisfying conclusion for the reader

TTYL

an instant message novel by Lauren Myracle

(4 scoops)

I liked this book a lot more than I thought I would. The characters seemed a bit cliche at first, but as it moved on I felt the characterization was quite rich. The story definitely went in directions I didn't expect and I appreciated that. The instant message format was fun and it read quickly, like a reading a theatre script.

Paranoid Park

a novel in journal entries by Blake Nelson

(3.5 scoops)

Borrowing from Fyodor Dostoevsky, this novel takes a look at guilt and the effect it has on the human psyche. Alex, the protagonist, is a skateboarder and on the edge of a reckless street scene. I believed the voice and empathized with the character.

Billy Collins on The Workshop Model

I stumbled upon this poem about the creative writing workshop and it cracked me up. I must say, I am enjoying my Grad School workshop experience, but I do understand the complaints one could have about creative writing classroom critiques. Clearly I am quite lucky to be in a room where I respect my peers and their writing and the feedback they give me, but I see how easily the whole experience could devolve into useless chatter. I love this poem because it seems to mock the person critiquing as much as the poet being critiqued, all the while being an earnest piece of poetry.

Workshop by Billy Collins

I might as well begin by saying how much I like the title.
It gets me right away because I’m in a workshop now
so immediately the poem has my attention,
like the Ancient Mariner grabbing me by the sleeve.

And I like the first couple of stanzas,
the way they establish this mode of self-pointing
that runs through the whole poem
and tells us that words are food thrown down
on the ground for other words to eat.
I can almost taste the tail of the snake
in its own mouth,
if you know what I mean.

But what I’m not sure about is the voice,
which sounds in places very casual, very blue jeans,
but other times seems standoffish,
professorial in the worst sense of the word
like the poem is blowing pipe smoke in my face.
But maybe that’s just what it wants to do.

What I did find engaging were the middle stanzas,
especially the fourth one.
I like the image of clouds flying like lozenges
which gives me a very clear picture.
And I really like how this drawbridge operator
just appears out of the blue
with his feet up on the iron railing
and his fishing pole jigging—I like jigging—
a hook in the slow industrial canal below.
I love slow industrial canal below. All those l’s.

Maybe it’s just me,
but the next stanza is where I start to have a problem.
I mean how can the evening bump into the stars?
And what’s an obbligato of snow?
Also, I roam the decaffeinated streets.
At that point I’m lost. I need help.

The other thing that throws me off,
and maybe this is just me,
is the way the scene keeps shifting around.
First, we’re in this big aerodrome
and the speaker is inspecting a row of dirigibles,
which makes me think this could be a dream.
Then he takes us into his garden,
the part with the dahlias and the coiling hose,
though that’s nice, the coiling hose,
but then I’m not sure where we’re supposed to be.
The rain and the mint green light,
that makes it feel outdoors, but what about this wallpaper?
Or is it a kind of indoor cemetery?
There’s something about death going on here.

In fact, I start to wonder if what we have here
is really two poems, or three, or four,
or possibly none.

But then there’s that last stanza, my favorite.
This is where the poem wins me back,
especially the lines spoken in the voice of the mouse.
I mean we’ve all seen these images in cartoons before,
but I still love the details he uses
when he’s describing where he lives.
The perfect little arch of an entrance in the baseboard,
the bed made out of a curled-back sardine can,
the spool of thread for a table.
I start thinking about how hard the mouse had to work
night after night collecting all these things
while the people in the house were fast asleep,
and that gives me a very strong feeling,
a very powerful sense of something.
But I don’t know if anyone else was feeling that.
Maybe that was just me.
Maybe that’s just the way I read it.

You can listen to him read this poem here.

Inaugural Poem

Inaugural Poem by Elizabeth Alexander

Praise song for the day.

Each day we go about our business, walking past each other, catching each others' eyes or not, about to speak or speaking. All about us is noise. All about us is noise and bramble, thorn and din, each one of our ancestors on our tongues. Someone is stitching up a hem, darning a hole in a uniform, patching a tire, repairing the things in need of repair.

Someone is trying to make music somewhere with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum with cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.

A woman and her son wait for the bus.

A farmer considers the changing sky; A teacher says, "Take out your pencils. Begin."

We encounter each other in words, words spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed; words to consider, reconsider.

We cross dirt roads and highways that mark the will of someone and then others who said, "I need to see what's on the other side; I know there's something better down the road."

We need to find a place where we are safe; We walk into that which we cannot yet see.

Say it plain, that many have died for this day. Sing the names of the dead who brought us here, who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges, picked the cotton and the lettuce, built brick by brick the glittering edifices they would then keep clean and work inside of.

Praise song for struggle; praise song for the day. Praise song for every hand-lettered sign; The figuring it out at kitchen tables.

Some live by "Love thy neighbor as thy self."

Others by first do no harm, or take no more than you need.

What if the mightiest word is love, love beyond marital, filial, national. Love that casts a widening pool of light. Love with no need to preempt grievance.

In today's sharp sparkle, this winter air, anything can be made, any sentence begun.

On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp -- praise song for walking forward in that light.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ 

Amazing. Man did she look nervous! I wanted to run up there and give her a big hug. But her delivery was so level and focused. She conquered her nerves and let the power of her words guide her; her message manifest. Bravo.