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More titles uploaded; this was one of my busiest reviewing months.
Chocolate, olive oil, BBQ, housecleaning, history and weeds… something for everyone:
As always feel free to leave comments on the reviews, for the Web is run by reader opinions. Enjoy.
Meredith Greene
I am a poet. Since the age of fourteen I have bent my pen and thought towards pouring out the lyrical corners of my soul onto paper. Often received was the ‘why’ from peers, family and even friends. Admittedly, there is little market for poetry volumes these days. Much of the younger generations tend to attribute poetry to the realm of homework, or as an old fashioned method of expression; the best man could do before ‘texting’ was invented.
Upon reflection, I can understand the parameters of this mindset, schoolwork mentality notwithstanding; good, true poetry requires time to produce, not to mention a bit of concentrated thought. Trying to ‘text’ poems would be arduous; the very idea brings to mind a person on a hill, trying to fervently communicate recipes in semaphore. Poem materials are generally old-fashioned, such as notebook and pen; however, several of my poet acquaintances use naught but Word and a laptop to compose their prose.
Time is the greatest luxury item of all and most fine, worthy things call for a sizable share of it. Poetry requires an additional expense: Truth. The words themselves open a small portico in the soul of the writer and unlike literature the general public is then invited in to peruse at will and scrutinize. They are directed in a steady stream up velvets roped paths; onlookers stop and view each line, weighing both effect and meaning. Some browsers give a philosophical nod and move on; some shake their heads in puzzlement. A few, however, will stand and ponder and walk away uplifted, even moved.
Such is poetry; it can be mere scribbles on a paper napkin scented with the oily perfume of diner french fries. It can be typed up via PC and left to breaths while the poet searches for the perfect, subtle font in which to ‘set the mood’. The presentation method matters not, for though humbly shown or elegantly tinted the lines will be treated equally; each word will be read aloud or, whispered, audibly tested and savored for the complete poetic experience.
Poetry can expound on anything, anywhere to anyone; unconstrained by literary requirements, opinion or the woes of advertising trends, poems allow one to un-tap emotion (whether all of it, or a merely portion thereof) letting it drip down and run over the page. Something as simple as a string of thoughts, inspired by some action or scene, can provoke the most profound interest in humans; it spans race, time and cultures.
Nothing seems to incite curiosity in our fellow man more than how others see the world and what they are thinking. After a few false starts, we even begin to understand Shakespeare’s perspective, by the penning of his lines. The views and genius of Wordsworth, Elliot and Keats hold relevance even for the most agile and dedicated texter.
A breath… a moment… a look at a few lines… a pause to reflect and enjoy… a reverie. A true poet causes simultaneous interest and idyll… a tear and a sigh… recollections and shouts. They write not for fame, for there is but little to go around in this sphere; they write for themselves. As to how it is done, nothing is simpler: the moment is either captured or it is not.
A poet must write; there is no ‘why’.
Meredith Greene
(a short tribute to our eldest daughter.)
Daughter…
I remember the first time my hand
Curved behind your infant head;
Its surface like small golden field on the moon;
What do you see?
I hope a good mother.
Let us grow flowers,
And discover they simply sleep.
Someday, I will dance at your wedding.
But, now I jump up to make tea,
All the way talking with laughter.
Having one of the most famous opening paragraphs in Literature 
notwithstanding, this long tale stands on three solid pillars… along with a whole host of decorative posts.
Pillar one is the historical detail, accurate to the very last aristocratic cruel glare above a laced, starched collar. The strong, ever-moving plot follows and stitches the bits of London and Paris history together into a finely woven story, one that echoes long-forgotten epic ballads, though in true literary form. The last pillar is the drama itself… not overly done, not poured so fast that the plot drowns as a spindly seedling in a lake; Dickens caught up fistfuls of the rampant emotion present during that tumultuous time, hearkening forth the bloodcurdling bawls of long-maligned peasants whipped into a frenzy by the madness of mob rule. This review will not reveal all but merely attempt to incite curiosity in readers to entrench themselves in this classic book.
It is difficult to remember throughout this story that this is indeed a ‘Dickens’ book… an author known for his rather hopeful stories, whose plots tend to lean heavily on the milk of human kindness. Though Dickens excelled in painting humans as they are with his pen, this tome is by far his most macabre in flavor… yet, I knew as I read it that this was due more to the actual events than to the writer, for historical accounts show that despite one or two literary straying from known paths into storytelling, this piece may have almost been a chronological account of the revolution in question.
The tale begins as most great stories do, with an innocent person suffering an enormous wrong by greedy overlords bent by decades of excess, wont to do as they please. This ‘beginning’ is gradually revealed as the plot goes along similar to now movies use flashbacks to give background filler. I digress: a young peasant girl falls victim to a particular, tyrannical aristocrat; as she is laboring to give birth to the nobleman’s bastard a local doctor, Alexandre Manette, is called in to assist. Tragically, he is unable to save her or the child, and for some reason instead of merely warning the doctor into silence about the scene he’s just witnessed, the aristocrat ushered the good man into a waiting, blanketed carriage and hustles him off to the worst place in all France: the Bastille prison.
Though the good man wishes to decry his chains, Manette’s name is written down in the prison ledger and he is closeted away in one of the foul, stinking cells of stone. There he remains for 18 years, not knowing how his servants or young daughter are or how to contact them. Eventually one of his former servants Defarge finds him and is allowed to care for the man. Defarge and his oddly cold wife Therese run a wine shop and secretly nurture a blossoming secret revolutionary group referred to as ‘Jacques’, a name taken from an actual French Revolution group, the Jacquerie. Therese has her own dark reasons for zealously provoking rebellion, which are revealed later in the book.
Time goes on; Dr. Manette’s daughter Lucie (a lovely, sweet-tempered girl) is cared for by the capable, motherly housekeeper, laboring under the delusion that her father is dead. Eventually Tellson’s Bank in London gets word somehow of Manette’s real condition and in order to verify the information (the reason involved money) sends an astute and dedicated employee named Jarvis Lorry to Lucie, explains that her father is alive and enlists her help; normally a young girl that that time would have been a traveling liability, but Lorry is clever enough to know that 18 years in the Bastille may have thrown a damper on Manette’s reasoning ability, and that seeing his daughter may slowly snap him out of it. This thinking proves correct. They find Defarge, whom leads them to a cell where a half-catatonic, wasted Manette sits, making shoes in a compulsory manner, having severely withdrawn into his own mind. Eventually, the sight of his daughter’s golden tresses stirs a small memory in his mind, and he grows to recognize her and know himself again. Lucie and Lorry liberate him and carry him back to England to convalesce in the arms of family and devoted servants. Thus ends the first third of the book, and one of the few happier moments. Two more parts lead these characters into a web of mystery, love and finally, resolve.
Not only for readers but writers, this tome is well worth the time and energy required to read and enjoy the historical drama, well-developed characters and genteel intrigue overshadowed by the hideous wraith of revolution. Few today write as well or as honestly as Dickens.
*fanfare: Two of my May Book Reviews are out on the SBR website (links below).
Feel free to take a gander at them and leave comments (broad, unmistakable hint) if not just to add to the realm of literature and reviewery, but I rather enjoy being one of very few reviewers on said site to actually have generated comments and discussion.
The titles published so far: (more will be added in the upcoming days)
Chocolate: a Healthy Passion:
http://sacramentobookreview.com/cooking_food_wine/chocolate-a-healthy-passion/
The New American Olive Oil:
http://sacramentobookreview.com/cooking_food_wine/the-new-american-olive-oil/
Much obliged,
MG
Ten days ago the escrow on our new home closed. Well, it’s not new, per say… but to us it seems so. We’ve spent a frantic yet satisfying week moving in and organizing everything to optimum efficiency, and we hope it stays that way. My husband is in the construction industry and saw the housing downturn coming quite a ways back; he said the way houses were being over-inflated there was no way it could last. So, we put our home-buying plans on hold and rented for seven years… waiting for the market to come back down to a reasonable range.
Many of our relatives said we were insane to rent that long. “A house is an asset!” said they. “You’re just pouring your money down the drain!” It did seem they were right for awhile, especially when many of our cousins bought homes. The half-plex we rented looked awfully small with its pocket-handkerchief-sized garden and corner location. However, it was all worth the wait. The house we bought, just four years ago, sold for $200,000 more than we paid for it… so perhaps we were not so ‘crazy’ after all. Our new mortgage payment is now $150 less per month than we were paying for rent, and the garden… it’s simply enormous. The children are free to run and play without my having to worry about their safety.
As I walk around the home putting things away, the very air seems surreal. Keeping busy seems to help bring closer reality, combining bliss with blisters. Just completed is the pleasantly arduous task of planting the vegetable garden: Brandywine tomatoes, snow peas, basil, onions, garlic, loose-leaf lettuces, spinach, radishes, carrots, cantaloupes and butternut squash. Once matured, they should help out on the grocery bill for our family of six. The only downside to our haven seems to be the increased amount of cleaning time required, seriously cutting into writing time (indeed I have been falling into bed exhausted, able to merely scribble a few lines on a notepad by my bed) but this somehow does not dampen the overall bonhomie.
The culmination of all the work (unpacking, digging, planting, sweeping, painting, vacuuming, organizing, pruning and family meetings) seems to be a very thorough confirmation of Longfellow’s assertion from auld times past:
“All things come round to him who will but wait.”
May your waiting be invariably worth the blisters and blessed with fruit.
MG
The literary publication for which I write book reviews for part time started a new campaign of ‘sponsored reviews’; for just a bit of coin your book, whether self published or not, gets a featured spot and quick turn-around. Here’s a quote from the in page:
“SBR Sponsored Reviews is a paid-review service that allows authors and publishers to receive expedited reviews of their book. You are not guaranteed a spot in the print publication, but a Sponsored Review gets your book reviewed by one of our already established reviewers, and the review will be put into our publication pipeline. If we do not use the review in the paper, we will place an ad for the book in the Sacramento Book Review, and we will place the review in our online edition, post it on Amazon, and make it available in our upcoming book review syndication service. You will also be able to use the review in your own marketing efforts.” – Sacramento Book Review Submission Page
To sign up or for pricing and more information: Click Here for Info
The SBR folks have proven themselves ready and able to promote writers; this just another great tool in the digital arsenal… with a touch of old-world paper publication thrown in.
- Belator Books
The epic ballad (or any long-winded poetic story, really) has ducked away from sight in modern years. Certainly it takes a bit of fortitude to read through them; one only has to crack open the Canterbury tales to grasp this, but still… the story portrayed is a welcome respite away from novels and news columns. The image of fire lit gatherings comes to mind, with a good haunch of meat roasting on a spit, a cauldron of cider warming nearby, with folks grouped about, listening as the bard regales them of personages nobles from aulde times past.
Finding modern epic selection lacking, I conjured up one of my own… mostly, I must admit, out of sheer frustration. We’d recently gone through the long, tedious process of buying a home and the only way I could think of to relieve the pent-up stress was to eviscerate the unhelpful loan officer (Mortgage, the villain) and inhuman underwriter (the Magistrate) in fictional prose, relating a modern problem in 16th century fashion. The tale chronicles our journey through the home-mortgage mire with frequent stops into the fantastical and liberally painting the woe which besets ‘the family’ along the way. Yes, there is a quasi-happy ending, though bought dearly. If it seems a bit rushed or sloppy it is because I typed it all out in about an hour, and found it extremely therapeutic. I hope you enjoy my attempt at a somewhat brief epic.
The Perilous Quest:
It began one sunny, Spring morning
With a proclamation heralded wide:
“Come! Purchase a house; now is the time!”
One family hearkened well and conferred.
They debated the quest late into the night…
Of the pros and cons of moving,
But more importantly, they’d be contending
With the infamous Companie de’ Mortgage.
Of fearsome reputation was this being;
Cold and merciless when angered.
Yet, none else but it could bring close
The dream of their own house to live in.
Morning found them leaving the rented straw hut,
Taking along their worldly belongings.
The father kept close their carefully saved gold,
Tied up safe against the eyes of bandits.
The marketplace whirled with activity;
Some time later the family fought through
Standing at last in front of the marbled edifice…
The fortress of Companie de’ Mortgage.
Never had the children seen such a place,
Staring, as they waited in ponderous queue.
Other families walked into the doors ahead,
And many came back out again, sobbing.
“Woe!” did they cry, “Woe for a home!”
The family shivered but yet stood in line.
Hours passed with no respite;
Guards armed to the teeth kept watch.
At last the family was ushered through,
The last to be let in as the sun set.
The echoing hall was oddly silent;
A distorted throne at the far, far end.
“State your purpose and quickly…”
A languid voice instructed them.
Fog surrounded the throne, though it moved.
The father stepped up, his head held high.
“We seek a house, O’ Companie,
To house ourselves in safety.
The winter rains will be coming someday;
We’ve just gold enough to buy it.”
The fog stirred and beckoned a steward.
“Follow and do as you’re commanded.”
The family did so, smiling… excited.
Perhaps a new home was on the horizon.
The next hall held many fine desks;
But, no one appeared to be working.
Some napped upon cushioned chairs,
While others supped at banquet tables.
The steward led them to a velvet-draped desk.
A woman in black hovered behind it;
Her steely gray eyes filled the family with dread.
“This is Mortgage, the agent,” the steward said.
Mortgage looked at the family a moment,
Then took in hand a worn, fat parchment.
Holding one end she let the other fall;
It trailed onto the floor and around the desk.
“Here is our gold,” the father began.
The woman looked at the small bag;
She smiled, though not with any mirth.
“We do not want your gold, just yet.”
“To prove you are worthy of a home,
You must retrieve these items… each one:
A gold hair from an angel’s pet cat,
A floating stone from the enchanted castle…
A feather from the fierce, man-eating Roc,
A vile of blood from a cave-dwelling bear,
And lastly, one sandal worn by the King.”
She rolled up the parchment with a sigh.
Shocked at the type of things to procure
The family stood silent a moment, unsure.
Mortgage seemed to find this amusing;
She wrote the list quickly on a parchment scrap.
“You have a fortnight to find them all.”
With this, the woman dismissed them.
The family stumbled out a side exit, dazed;
“Oh task impossible!” the mother cried.
“Such things to find… and no time to!”
She hung her head and cried, dismayed.
“Cheer yourself, my love,” the father told her;
“We are not beaten yet; let us try.”
“You see…” he said as they traveled,
“They wish to keep the homes for themselves.
I see that now, seeing how many are quitting…
We shall prevail yet, but only together.”
The family did not wait for morning to come;
That night they walked, eating bread out of hand.
At the crossroads they saw other families grouped,
Looking at the road signs with lists of their own.
“We’ll cover more ground separately,” one said;
The others around the man agreed.
The family drew near as the others were leaving.
“It is not safe to go alone,” the father said.
The mother nodded, holding her children close.
They read the road signs and chose a direction.
The sky grew lighter as the morning sun rose;
An incredibly high mountain loomed far ahead.
The path up the mountain was treacherous,
It took them a day to ascend it with care.
Bones of the reckless they passed now and then,
Causing firmer grips to be used than before.
The angels let out their pet felines to graze
Among the fertile grasses on the paramount.
The father bade his family to hide a spell,
To wait for him to return with the hair.
While he skulked among the boulder shadows,
The mother foraged for berries and roots.
The eldest daughter kept the smaller ones close,
All counting the seconds until the father came back.
A hiss… a cry and the sounds of cats running;
The father returned, smiling elated.
“I’ve got three golden hairs,” said he to his family.
“Soon the rest of the list will be ours.”
They spent that night at the base of the mountain;
Tucked in, out of sight of the path leading upward.
They feasted on bits of bread and berry.
At the crossroads again they chose a new path.
The rest of the list the family toiled for;
For days they ran, hid, ducked and darted.
The mother and children gathered meager food,
For other families had in past quested there.
The father was wounded avoiding the Roc;
The mother bound up his scraped arm with tears.
Undaunted the family journeyed onward…
Hope buoyed them forward, to the castle again.
Mortgage did not appear happy to see them.
She looked at each item closely…. slowly.
Into a basket she callously tossed them;
The family stood nervously by the one chair.
“You have managed to get the first items…
The others should come to you more easily.”
“The others?” the father asked her, surprised.
The woman smiled coldly, glee undisguised.
“A few more things… formality you see…”
Another list was handed over the desk,
One even longer by ten and three.
“These should be here in four days,” said she.
The family left the castle exit again,
Mired deeply in rock-bottom feelings.
“Come along,” the father said after a moment.
“We’ve no choice; we’ll travel quickly.”
At market they bought a little bread,
Passing by vendors selling apples and milk.
“It will be worth it to save our money,”
The father assured his brood, walking on.
Up into the hills of Forgotten Papers,
Down the Valley of Revenue d’ Taxes…
Through the dark, eerie forests in between
The family searched and hid from the wolves.
They picked mushrooms where they grew thick,
Berries sweet where they could be had.
So far the late spring season held plenty,
And they gathered their list once more.
Mortgage was surprised to see them again.
“Congratulations…” she said, standing up.
The family breathed out a sigh of relief.
“Just one last list of things to get, in two days.”
“This cannot be!” the father cried out.
Disturbed at this outburst, other agents looked
Away from their fine repasts and napping.
“It can… it is… accept it,” Mortgage stated.
The castle exit opened and shut with a ‘thud’.
The family looked at the new list in horror.
“By far these are the hardest yet to find.”
The father rubbed his forehead in frustration.
By the castle exit grouped more families;
Also with lists impossible to obtain.
Some were fighting, some were crying;
Others had lain themselves down to die.
“We will not give up,” said the father at last,
“We have come thus far… shall we not go on?”
“We shall,” said his wife with a smile;
“We’ll win us a home, before winter comes on.”
With renewed spirit the family set out;
They combed the barren Beaches of Forms.
They journeyed afar, walking even at night;
Running, panting to get to the castle in time.
Just as the gates were closing that night,
The family came through, exhausted and hungry.
“We’ve collected the list!” the father called out.
Mortgage shrugged and held up a small parchment.
“You’ve done well,” said she, “Here is your contract.
Take this to the magistrate tomorrow;
Have him place his signet in red ink,
And stamp it here, here and here.”
Gleefully the family bore their parchment outside.
They looked at the writing by firelight.
Each words was read aloud and treasured,
Knowing that this paper gave them home-right.
“How grateful we are to our Creator this night;
He has given us the strength to persevere.”
The family ate their bread as if it were cake,
Blessed with hope-laden dreams of a house.
The magistrate’s office was busy that day;
They were told to come back in a week.
The father got work sweeping out the Inn stables;
The mother and children sheltered nigh to the creek.
The day of the appointment dawned bitterly wet;
The spring rains had come back to visit.
Dripping on the magistrate’s office floor
The family stood by as the contract was read.
“The fee for each signature is five golden coins.”
The magistrate words made the family cower.
“Mortgage did not tell us there would be a fee…”
The father held his cap twisted in hand.
The magistrate smiled, well wined and dined.
“There is always a fee in contracts of this kind.”
Three signatures were needed; fifteen gold coins paid.
The family left the office feeling bereft and misled.
The next day Mortgage met them at the gate.
The father handed the contract over with grim stare.
“Do not blame me for your misfortune,” Mortgage said.
“It is this way for everyone; you’re doing quite well.”
The father spoke as she stamped the contract.
“We may not have enough now to buy this home,”
Who knows if there are other fees we must pay…
And my children have not eaten bread today.”
Mortgage shrugged, and rolled the parchment up.
“Surely you have some kin that can help.
A relative, a brother, an aunt… any will do.
Ask them to help supply that which you lack.”
The family again left the castle chagrined.
Another official must also sign their contract,
And another still must sign after him.
Slowly in silence the family trudged down the road.
The rain let up a little that night;
The morning sun re-appeared and all seemed right.
The last gold was paid, the signatures gathered.
An uncle by the river would likely aid them.
After a short journey hence they rested,
Telling the uncle their long questing tale.
The man nodded often and gave them coins,
Saying: “Many years ago I tried buying a house.”
“We tried to please Mortgage, but to no avail…
She asked for more things than I knew to exist.
Instead we lived here, by the river in huts.
But, we’ve saved some money; take it you must.”
Thanking the man many times over
The family left to continue their journey.
Once more into the castle to see Mortgage again;
She checked all of the names then grinned.
“You have only one more thing left to do.
“Wait by the creek until this is approved.”
“How long must we wait?” the father hazarded to ask.
Mortgage turned away without a word.
By the creek in a shelter of wood and hay stubble,
The family waited and talked of the home.
“It will be wonderful,” they said, smiling.
The thoughts of the future gave them much comfort.
Weeks passed by with no word at all;
Summer came with warmth and much food.
The father worked hard to save coins;
The mother and children foraged in the woods.
The days grew longer; the night air cooled.
“Soon Autumn will arrive, with the harvest.”
The father looked for a herald each day;
One word from the castle would his fears allay.
At last as frost lay on the grass at the dawn,
Mortgage sent a herald to bring them.
“You’re contract is binding…” she told them.
“Pay the price now and the house is yours.”
The cost of the home made the mother swoon;
The father rubbed his forehead twice.
“This is all of our money… the very last cent!”
Mortgage smiled. “It is better than paying rent.”
Handing over his gold the father signed;
The mother signed the contract as well.
Mortgage nodded, looking more pleased.
“Now, take this to the magistrate to sign.”
With steps of gloom the family walked,
Wondering what they would do next.
They struck a deal with magistrate’s butler,
To clean and serve for a week in exchange.
The week was really two, for the man was a liar.
The family worked, eating scraps from the kitchen.
At last the contract was signed by the master,
And placed in the cold hands of Mortgage.
Finally came the words they’d longed to hear:
“Come… I will now show you the home.”
The journey was long, over stone roads and mud.
The air grew cold; the nights longer still.
With all of their money tied up in the house,
The family foraged what they could from the woods.
No work could be found along the road;
They walked after Mortgage’s procession of servants.
After many nights of waiting did they see it;
A glade of dry grass… a stone house within.
A creek ran alongside; a bird chirped in the air.
The family embraced each other, without words.
At last they reached the home’s doorstep
Shivering and emaciated,
With the last shred of raw strength
They pried the key from Mortgage’s cold grip.
The woman turned and floated away from sight,
Leaving the family to contend with the Lock.
Together they knelt upon the stone doorstep,
Reaching up hands they turned the key, as one.
The lock threw back its arm and let them through;
The door shut behind them… the room was aglow.
The very air welcomed and warmed them,
Barring the inhumanity lingering outside.
Through months of toil and angst they fought
To call this house ‘home’ and sleep in safety.
To own a piece of land and grow their food…
‘Twas nobly accomplished, without trickery or stealth.
The family flourished, they never once begged.
They never went back near the castle, not once.
The father on free days stood at the crossroads,
Warning all within earshot of the perilous quest.
O’ influenza…
You’ve kindled burning flesh upon my forehead.
Your clammy fingers do not comfort;
With grip unyielding
They wrap about my throat,
The air breathed in is dry as desert bones.
All moisture you diverted to the nose,
Which flows freely onward…
Coupled with unapologetic sneezing.
I am bereft
Of all nutrients and vim;
Vigor left long ago, on day one.
Energy won’t even show up,
Despite the thin broths consumed.
Many oranges have been sacrificed,
Squeezed of juice for my benefit.
Long movies are dusted off and watched halfway
Before one slips behind the veil of dozing.
Nothing seems clear or real enough to tell if I am awake,
Or ensconced in a long, tedious nightmare.
Yet, my body needs food…
And clean dishes to eat it on.
Dragging myself up I ignore you,
O’ hovering wraith of sickness…
Sap me of life if you will,
But I shall get up and clean.
I shall put laundry in the washer…
I shall hang it in the sun to dry;
I shall put on clean sheets and shower,
Not heeding the lateness of the hour,
And slowly finish what I had begun.
Then, to simply prove I can,
I shall pen a few lines.
The flag unfurled waves you away
To haunt another,
Some other day.
For now I shall recuperate,
Slowly gaining in strength;
At length re-capturing my vitamins…
To draw breath un-halting
And feel sunlight again.
(a short Auden Tanks first posted on writerscafe.org)
Standing still, the house beckons us nigh;
“Come live here in safety.”
The soft call pulls, yet seems unattainable…
Can we trust this promise?
One hopes… but must also remain aloof,
Knowing reality is often fickle.
