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Diane Cochrane - Poughkeepsie, NY (USA):
April 09, 2001:
This battered book is the one I'd take to a desert island.
This good book is the one I read not knowing the author
and this slim volume is its lonely companion, written by her husband
the year following her death.
Here is the only book I swear I ever stole in my
life. When I "borrowed" it for the last time, it
had not been checked out in over 10 years.
A dust-catcher to others; to my soiled soul, it was bread.
April 11, 2001:
This bestseller by my best friend's sister makes people say when they
meet her, "I thought you were dead."
This wanna-be book is a loose knit collection of camouflaged reflections that,
if published, might make my sister wish I was dead.
Here is a terse book of verse signed by an author who
confessed, "I'd never want my poems to hurt anyone."
If there's a Best Blest for saintly writers, no doubt she'll head
the list. Meanwhile, devil's advocate, I cast her down
to this shelf next to the text on armadillos and a biography
of the man who professed, "Writing is an axe."
These books are his first picks for a Presidential Library someday.
They're all written on 100% unrecycled paper by men he says have
Pocketbooks yet they speak volumes. He claims there gonna be bestsellers.
I dunno, but here they are: American Arsenic, Caribou-hoo No More,
The Supreme Court Shanghaied Express,
The Wheezing of America and, my personal favorite, Republicans for Dummies.
April 30, 2001:
These books whisper to me from the shelves:
When One Has Lived A Long Time Alone with Mortal Acts and
Mortal Words, Body Rags and Naked Song, one arrives 7 Years from
Somewhere in A House of Light, The House on Marshland. Descending
Figure Under Stars, Yellow Stars and Ice, one begins to notice, Even
in Quiet Places, What the Living Do, and to ask Questions about
Angels, especially The Angel of History, who Willingly responds
With Instructions to the Double: Guilty Bystander, we are Heroes in
Disguise. Yet Our Life in the Forest, our Lucky Life, Without Out-of-Body
Travel, becomes the View from a Grain of Sand, Adventures in
the Letter I, The Game of Statues while we stay staid in
our Natural Histories worrying about Blood Pressure, The Five Stages of Grief
and What a Working Girl Can’t Win.
A World of Difference when A Fraction of Darkness lifts North of
Boston and the Book of Hours falls open to a new folio,
revealing This Journey is for what it is: A Journey to
Love. Behold the cornucopia of a Red Suitcase and Nervous Horses,
The October Palace beneath The Ink Dark Moon. Poems are Otherwise
like prayers; they make manifest The Lives of the Heart.
Eva-Mary, even on Average Nights the News of the Universe is this:
The Soul is Here for Its Own Joy. Look--Above
the River floats the Final Harvest. The Firstborn are Claiming Kin,
Gathering the Tribes into The House of Belonging until, Snow on Snow,
The Country Between Us vanishes. I start Kicking the Leaves and
stop Waiting for My Life. Let Evening Come.