Super Skittles

Skittles the wonder dog, recuperating at home from her spay procedure on Thursday.

Resting on her favorite snowman blankie.

Good News / Bad News

The good news: everything has been saved,
locked away for you:

real love, sunny skies, and on and on.

The bad news: you need a key to open the door.
You have to make the key yourself.
The lock is in a foreign language.
No interpreter.

The good news is, the world turns and turns.
Tides come in, then go out.
The equator is a ring on which hangs the key.
Already made, already spoken

by your own hand;
from your own mouth.
_____
  
For Susie's challenge at Real Toads.

Cliff & Clarity

At the cliff,
no Dairy Queen.
No airport.
No cinema.

Just the Confused,
with their dusty feet.

At the bottom of the cliff,
the No Longer Confused
in their matchless silence.

In between,
an empty space that is not empty.
Each entrant fills it (briefly)
with flight, adrenaline, instant regret, or transport.

As with all spaces 
of sudden clarity and 
illumination,
you cannot live there.

Just when you so want to tell the world
--yes, that recently rejected world--
what you know,

Here comes gravity the motivator,
solid ground the schoolmarm,
and permanence the principal

to shut you up,
lest you warn those wide-eyed others
on their way
behind you.
_____

 

Chinese Box

The restaurant was a Chinese box.
My order was wrong,
then right,
then wrong again.

The waiters were men,
then women,
then men.

You were angry with me,
then not;
then you weren't you, or at least,
didn't seem to be.

An alchemist came and turned the soup to stone,
the stone to a poem,
together to alone,
despite all assurances printed on the menu card.

Lunch for 2.
Dinner for 4.
In your hand an apple,
then nothing; then a core.

I said, "My love...my love...my love...my love...."
as I dug with my fingers all the way through the world,
to find a hard queen, a woman dissolved
in your eye looking back saying, "Now what, girl?"
_______

For "Play It Again, Toads" at The Imaginary Garden. I was inspired by the image at top, which is by my dear friend Daryl Edelstein, and also by the image below, which was taken by Karin Gustafson.

 Optional--and quite insane--musical accompaniment.
 

Ambition

I am not the girl for you.
Mornings and evenings, 
I am lost in the roil and flock of myself.

Here is the hungry
coming out from me,
motion by slim margins denied.

I'm all sharp looks,
resenting restraint,
ready to die
if by dying I rise.

Do you think
you're the sky?
You look to me like a stick on strings,
a store-bought bell.

I weigh 
nothing,
amount to
nothing,

like love, or thermals.
But instinct drives me,
driven spiral-mad to know

That the rodent heartbeat of my inborn ambition
is out there,
stirring the leaves,
heading for its hole,

While I strain and scream,
knowing I can never spot it 
from here.
______
 

Book Review: "Her"

Her by Harriet Lane

My rating: 2 of 5 stars


"Her" is a suspense novel about two women. Polished artist Nina recognizes new mother Emma on the street one day, and sets about insinuating herself into her life. She starts by snatching her wallet as Emma grapples with a stroller getting out of a shop. She then returns it in person and goes from there. Clearly, she has something bad in mind, all the while pretending to be Emma's new friend. Emma, for her part, doesn't remember Nina.

Emma *needs* a friend. She has a toddler and a newborn, and is doing all she can just to keep up and not collapse from exhaustion, let alone do much of anything for herself. Lane depicts her situation extremely well, but one things is missing: until almost the end of the book, there is no hint of any joy in motherhood for Emma. In fact, the entire cast seemed to me to be sour, judgmental, resentful and constipated. At one point, Emma's husband remarks about a novel he is reading, that he doesn't *like* any of the characters. Nina is annoyed by this and doesn't deem it even worth responding to. So I will.

Nina doesn't reveal what she's getting even for until late in the book, and when she does, it is something that, while slightly upsetting in the moment, is something that any normal adult would have grown up and gotten over years ago. Not Nina. No, despite having money, a husband and a teenage daughter, as well as a successful career as an artist, she sets out to systematically torment Emma mainly through a series of cruelly petty things she does to her young children on the sly. What 40 year old woman does things to tiny kids because she is resentful about something that happened more than 20 years ago? Not fun to read, and not even really suspenseful until the very end of the book. It kind of meanders along for the longest time.

As for the writing, Lane is continually launching into these long listy descriptive sentences that are all right at first, but become really irritating the more she does it. No one in this book just walks down the street. No, they have to notice EVERY little detail. It's like being stuck in a car with an acquaintance whose stories have wayyyy too many details, until you just want to throw yourself from the moving vehicle or else shake them by the lapels and scream "get to the point!"

Then there's the endless Britspeak. "Demob"? I was having to Google the Briticisms every other page. Plus, she assumes her reader knows all about London, and mentions things and places without any explanation at all, so I was frequently at a loss as to what she was talking about.

The worst, though, is just the sheer joylessness of the entire book. Nobody seems to really like anybody else very much. They sit around and silently judge each other for trifles, and although Emma is less this way than the rest of the characters, even she only seems to see the worm's eye view. Throw in the demented Nina out for blood to avenge what wasn't even a trifle, and it's enough to send anyone running for the antidepressants.

I just didn't *like* your novel very much, Harriet. Does that annoy you? Good, because your novel annoyed me.



View all my reviews

Astrid

Some come sweet, from woman born,
not cradled by the briar thorn
and grow with sun and time that passes
not bitter like blackstrap molasses--

Astrid from the fire came
veiled and silent, sharp as cane
she makes you want her without trying
cloaked in all that's dank and dying,

Yet seeming skinned with fire's ember
red as rot in late September--
kiss her, call her, blister sweetly;
give yourself to her completely--

Astrid by the stone fence waiting
phosphor-bright and emanating
promise made that only passes--
Astrid gone to ache and ashes.
_______

Incidentally, this is my 2,000th post at Word Garden.