Gather by Rose McLarney

Some springs, apples bloom too soon.
The trees have grown here for a hundred years, and are still quick
to trust that the frost has finished. Some springs,
pink petals turn black. Those summers, the orchards are empty
and quiet. No reason for the bees to come.

Other summers, red apples beat hearty in the trees, golden apples
glow in sheer skin. Their weight breaks branches,
the ground rolls with apples, and you fall in fruit.

You could say, I have been foolish. You could say, I have been fooled.
You could say, Some years, there are apples.

Kingdom Animalia by Aracelis Girmay

When I get the call about my brother,
I’m on a stopped train leaving town
& the news packs into me—freight—
though it’s him on the other end
now, saying finefine—

Forfeit my eyes, I want to turn away
from the hair on the floor of his house
& how it got there Monday,
but my one heart falls
like a sad, fat persimmon
dropped by the hand of the Turczyn’s old tree.

I want to sleep. I do not want to sleep. See,

one day, not today, not now, we will be gone
from this earth where we know the gladiolas.
My brother, this noise,
some love [you] I loved
with all my brain, & breath,
will be gone; I’ve been told, today, to consider this
as I ride the long tracks out & dream so good

I see a plant in the window of the house
my brother shares with his love, their shoes. & there
he is, asleep in bed
with this same woman whose long skin
covers all of her bones, in a city called Oakland,
& their dreams hang above them
a little like a chandelier, & their teeth
flash in the night, oh, body.

Oh, body, be held now by whom you love.
Whole years will be spent, underneath these impossible stars,
when dirt’s the only animal who will sleep with you
& touch you with
its mouth.

The Practice by Aaron Shurin

They mistook me for illumination — a revenant in walking shoes — so I gathered significance and spread text… stood beneath the seven cardinal points with arms upraised — practical telepathy — in a white paper suit like a flag of surrender, thunder at my back… I was an open man of the open streets — a burnished sieve of common purpose — scrawled on walls, thrashed cans and blasted caps for equivalence. I wasn’t alone — the boulevards teemed with wiggly kids and mooing parents slow as boulders. In the Plaza Palabra on a green iron bench a grand senora suffered the odes of schoolboys and thugs — smiled behind an opal fan while they searched for words to match their tumultuous nights — and all words fit… In July — volubility — I hoarded cherries, catalogued their juices — were they Rainier, Blood Nut, Royal Ann, Squirrel Heart, Rosebud or Bing? —then swallowed them one by one like detonations…initiations…In a fever of taxonomy I followed a squadron of dragonflies right to the vanishing point…Incarnation is a provisional state, but stretches outward like noon. For practice, I wallowed and stretched…

Book Review: The History of Love by Nicole Krauss

I received a copy of Nicole Krauss’s The History of Love from Meagan last month and finally finished reading it last week.  I must admit that I’m still emotionally digesting it, but I enjoyed the balance of quirky comedy and tragedy in the characters and found the meta-novel aspect quite interesting.  

Plot: The novel follows two parallel and eventually intertwining stories, that of an old man named Leo Gursky, the true author of the novel-within-the-novel entitled The History of Love, and a young girl named Alma Singer, named after the Alma of Leo’s book.

Leo Gursky has suffered devastating losses.  He loses his family in Nazi-invaded Poland, and not long after, he loses Alma, the first and only woman he ever loved.  He finds out, however, that they had a son together, and he secretly watches his son grow up and then die without knowing him. In the present day, Leo’s only (imagined?) companion is his childhood friend Bruno, and as he awaits his death, he does ridiculous things just to keep from feeling invisible.  

Alma Singer lost her father several years ago, and she just wants to find someone for her mother so that she’ll stop being perpetually sad.  Her mother now occupies herself obsessively and lovingly translating a novel called The History of Love, given to her by Alma’s father early in their relationship.  Alma searches through the book for clues about what her father was like and how to help her mother.  What she finds instead is Leo Gursky.

Pseudo-analysis: An underlying theme, highlighted by the meta-novel construction, is the transformative power of literature.  As highlighted by many neuroscience articles of late, a good book changes us, how we see the world, how we relate to others, how we confront difficulties in our own lives.  Indeed, here, a single book becomes the life force of several of the characters and bring them together in unforeseen ways.  

While that’s an important and powerful theme, ultimately, The History of Love is about living with loss.  Alma’s mother enshrouds herself in memories of her late husband.  Meanwhile, Alma hoards wilderness survival gear beneath her bed because it’s the strongest association she has with her father.  Her little brother acts out and seeks knowledge about what their father was like.  Leo, who has suffered such devastating personal losses, carries on almost mechanically, carrying out comical stunts on occasion as if to remind others and himself that he’s still alive.  One of the most haunting aspects of the novel is the unique (but realistic) ways the characters have of coping with their respective losses. 

Next book review, belatedly: And the Band Played On by Randy Shilts.  I think Roommate’s done with it too.

Currently reading: Reading Lolita in Tehran by Azar Nafisi