BOOK REVIEWS. Sort Of.

A note about BOOK REVIEWS. Sort Of.:

These are not, in any way, meant to be comprehensive reviews. They are intended to acknowledge that I have read the book, and give my honest core impressions.

If a real review is what you wish, there are many wonderful book blogs available, and I have provided some tools to find them under the tab marked "Useful Stuff."

[NOTE 3/31/15:] Last year I began including a quote with my comments on each book, and I liked that it grounded what is essentially just my brief thoughts. This year, however, as I am now spending a large portion of my time sewing in an attempt to add to our household income, and while this is a great time to listen to audiobooks, it does not lend itself to easily capturing a good quote. Therefore, going forward I will not be including a quote with all the books I read this year.

~ AUDIOBOOKS ~

The Silkworm & Cuckoo's Calling (audiobook) 

- Robert Galbraith

Both of these novels remind me greatly of Lawrence Block's Matthew Scudder stories, except with more tea & literature and less action.

They are heavy on characterization and focus on solving the mystery, itself.

The Golden Notebook (audiobook) - Doris Lessing

If you are interested in a close reading of this book, try {The Golden Notebook dot com}.

This is one of the books, the reading of which, was considered de rigueur by feminists of my generation. Yes, I just got around to reading it.

I find myself wishing that I had read it in the seventies when I had the chance. Never having read anything about the book, I was expecting non-fiction. Although we still have far to go in building a true egalitarian society, we have come a long way. And as I read it seemed somewhat dated.

The Caves of Steel (audiobook)
 - Isaac Asimov

As this story unfolded, I was reminded of the influence Mr. Asimov has had on American culture, in the direction of so much of our science fiction, and our very conception of robotics and AI.

Could it be said that Asimov is to science fiction what Tolkien is to fantasy?

(It was also remarkably reminiscent of a short lived television series from last year,
 called Almost Human.)

There Was An Old Woman (audiobook) - Ellery Queen

I know! I know! I know!          Oh! s#%t!

Even though I read all the Ellery Queen mysteries when I was *ahem* young, they are new to me these days. (There's a really bad Alzheimer's joke in that.)

Without a doubt, they remain some of the best constructed and most confounding mysteries I've ever read. I'm never disappointed, even when I do (rarely) solve one.

Double Sin and Other Stories (audiobook)

 - Agatha Christie

A nice, classic collection of Agatha Christie short stories

One of them however, The Dressmaker's Doll, is not your typical Agatha Christie story, in that it was not a murder mystery.

Muahahaha . . .

The Halloween Tree (audiobook) - Ray Bradbury

I sure picked the wrong time of year to read this one. It would have been much better at Halloween Hint. Hint.

It's hard for me to believe that he's no longer with us. Some people aren't just a part of the fabric of our lives, they helped create it, and they leave a hole when they are gone.

Is there an author who has made you feel this way?

The Cat Who Blew the Whistle (audiobook)

 - Lilian Jackson Braun

Where would we be without cats? 

This go'rou nd Coco & Yum Yum help solve a murder involving trains, family curses, and embezzlement.

The Cat Who Came to Breakfast (audiobook) 

- Lilian Jackson Braun

What's in a name - besides confusion that is?

The Cat Who Said Cheese (audiobook)

 - Lilian Jackson Braun

There were so many mysteries to solve in this one!


The Cat Who Tailed a Thief (audiobook)
- Lilian Jackson Braun

Along with the mystery, we get some "Short and Tall Tales," as told to Qwillerman by various interesting Moose County inhabitants.

The Cat Who Wasn't There - (audiobook)

- Lilian Jackson Braun

Coco works his magic even thousands of miles away.

The Cat Who Went Into the Closet - (audiobook)

- Lilian Jackson Braun

I share Coco's fascination with over stuffed closets. I, however, lack his intuition.

The Cat Who Knew a Cardinal - (audiobook)

- Lilian Jackson Braun

 Some people are really jerks.

On the bright side, I've always loved that apple barn.

The Cat Who Moved a Mountain - (audiobook)

- Lilian Jackson Braun

New friends, solitude, and rain don't dampen Coco's mojo. Though Quill does get bogged down a bit.

~ SHORT STORIES ~

The adventure of the Sinister Stranger (audiobook)

- Agatha Christie

Although I have repeatedly read Ms Christie's Poirot And Miss Marple stories, this is the first of the Tommy & Tuppence stories I've read. The characters were enjoyable and that always adds to a story.

 
Voluntary Committal (audiobook)
- Joe Hill

This story moves beyond the usual mystery and conjures up some intriguing possibilities.

The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar (audiobook)

 - Roald Dahl

After the Dahl stories I'd read with my children over the years, it was not what I expected. It was an uplifting story that left me with a smile.

The Case of the Middle Aged Wife (audiobook)
 - Agatha Christie

I saw the ending early in the story, but it was enjoyable, none the less.

The Case of the Discontented Soldier (audiobook)

 - Agatha Christie

This one bore a remarkable similarity to The Case of the Middle Aged Wife, which made the solution quite easy.

Suicide Run (audiobook) - Michael Connelly

This is a collection of three Harry Bosch short stories, and they are good for what they are. As far as Harry Bosch stories go they seem lacking and unfinished.

I wonder if this is how his ideas begin, and he just fleshes them out until they are a complete creation.

~ EBOOKS ~

Demolition Angel (ebook) - Robert Crais

"She was alone with it. She told herself that was okay; she had been alone for three years."

This novel puts Carol Starkey, a minor player in the Elvis Cole/Joe Pike series, at center stage, where she acquits herself quite admirably.

The Garden of Eden and Other Criminal Delights (ebook) - Faye Kellerman

"Your mask is Karl Marx," Feinermann said.

"No, it's not," Karl protested. "I'm Albert Einstein."

"I hate to say this, young man, but you're no Albert Einstein."

Most of these short stories were pretty good, and two of them were co-written her children.

But a couple of them were not mysteries and seemed out of place. After all, it was billed as an anthology of crime stories.

Critical Mass (ebook) - Sara Paretsky

"They ravage, they slaughter, and call it 'empire.' They create a desert and call it 'peace.'" 

 
Old evils and their legacy show up in the present, and V.I. is right in the middle of the maelstrom. 

She never forgets the voiceless and abused.


 
Chasing Darkness (ebook) - Robert Crais

Politics and corruption stand squarely in the way of justice, until Elvis finds himself an unwilling champion.

One of the things I like about Elvis is that no matter how hard he might try not to be, he is always a good person (albeit a badass one).

Blacklist (ebook) - Sara Paretsky

This story moves from a man blamed for his own murder, to McCarthy era blacklists, and V.I. doesn't bat an eye as she finds herself up against the Patriot Act. I wish I had her nerve.

The Watchman (ebook) - Robert Crais

“She asked me why I always had something flip to say. I said that I didn't know, but having been blessed with the gift, I felt obliged to use it.”

Mr. Crais' Elvis/Pike mysteries are my new favorite series, and this one does not disappoint. Pike takes the lead in this one, though his buddy Elvis is right there when he's needed.

I only discovered the series last year and am still catching up on reading all that are currently available.

Kilt Monday!

'Cause let's face it,

Mondays can be so rough, hard, difficult.

BOOK REVIEWS. Sort Of. (Poetry Edition)

A note about BOOK REVIEWS. Sort Of.:

These are not, in any way, meant to be comprehensive reviews. They are intended to acknowledge that I have read the book, and give my honest core impressions.

If a real review is what you wish, there are many wonderful book blogs available, and I have provided some tools to find them under the tab marked "Useful Stuff."

Spoon River Poetry Review 39.2 (Winter 2014) Journal

I look forward to receiving this journal twice a year, but this time around I had the added pleasure of actually having one of my poems included in its pages.

Those of you who write know that the costs of chasing publication can add up quickly. And for someone on a limited budget, it's always a joy when I'm able to realize a bit of my goal.

The link above will lead to this issue while it is current. If you would like to buy the issue or subscribe to the Journal itself, click {here}.

This poem, by Kevin McLellan, reminded me of the word games I used to love to play when I was younger.

Exordium

ending
becomes

last and last

becomes
salt

Could there be truer words than these?

The First Rule of Poetry
- Jose A. Alcantara

You have been given a gift
a curse, a knife under the ribs.
You have been given a word
a vision, the toll of a distant bell.
You have been given the overheard conversation
the fox sleeping atop a bale of hay
the suicide in the alley.
You have been given the dew drops
pendulant on the ti of every burning blade of grass.
You have been given the rape
the incinerated village
the little girl in pink shoes skipping as she sings.
You have been given the robin flying against the glass
the shadow of a leaf on the wood of the boardwalk
the hungry raven's cry.
You have been struck with the cold cudgel of grace.
Now get out of the way.

Dog Songs (ebook) - Mary Oliver

A must for anyone who has ever loved a dog.

This collection is not the best of Ms Oliver's poetry, but I found myself tearing up a couple of times at revived memories.






EVERY DOG’S STORY

I have a bed, my very own.
It’s just my size.
And sometimes I like to sleep alone
with dreams inside my eyes.

But sometimes dreams are dark and wild and creepy
and I wake and am afraid, though I don’t know why.
But I’m no longer sleepy
and too slowly the hours go by.

So I climb on the bed where the light of the moon
is shining on your face
and I know it will be morning soon.

Everybody needs a safe place.

LUKE

I had a dog
who loved flowers.
Briskly she went
through the fields,

yet paused
for the honeysuckle
or the rose,
her dark head

and her wet nose
touching
the face
of every one

with its petals
of silk,
with its fragrance
rising

into the air
where the bees,
their bodies
heavy with pollen,

hovered—
and easily
she adored
every blossom,

not in the serious,
careful way
that we choose
this blossom or that blossom—

the way we praise or don’t praise—
the way we love
or don’t love—
but the way

we long to be—
that happy
in the heaven of earth—
that wild, that loving.

LITTLE DOG’S RHAPSODY IN THE NIGHT

He puts his cheek against mine
and makes small, expressive sounds.
And when I’m awake, or awake enough

he turns upside down, his four paws
in the air
and his eyes dark and fervent.

“Tell me you love me,” he says.

“Tell me again.”

Could there be a sweeter arrangement? Over and over
he gets to ask.
I get to tell.

THE SWEETNESS OF DOGS

What do you say, Percy? I am thinking
of sitting out on the sand to watch
the moon rise. It’s full tonight.
So we go

and the moon rises, so beautiful it
makes me shudder, makes me think about
time and space, makes me take
measure of myself: one iota
pondering heaven. Thus we sit, myself

thinking how grateful I am for the moon’s
perfect beauty and also, oh! how rich
it is to love the world. Percy, meanwhile,
leans against me and gazes up
into my face. As though I were just as wonderful
as the perfect moon.

So Very True . . .

Photo

{Source}

(There are more; check it out on BookRiot.)

Saturday Farmer's Market - Breaking: Major Solar Spill on the West Coast . . .

Created by Heather at Capricious Reader, and now hosted by Chris at Stuff as Dreams are Made on.

All the beautiful flowers have gone, but left in their wake are these tiny green promises of deliciousness.

California is in the midst of a nasty drought and we're hearing hints of tough water restrictions this year, which could adversely affect home 'orchardists,' such as myself.

When I prepared to plant originally, I researched ways to give my trees the most solid foundation on which to grow, and I'm hoping that research pays off now.



One idea was to cycle between deep watering and allowing the soil to dry out. This gives the tree the water it needs but encourages it to send its roots as far down as possible looking for moisture. I recently had to remove one of the trees because of disease, and trust me, those roots are anchored!

I was torn about planting a garden this year. I'm still making changes and I'm really not ready.

But I just couldn't face a year without tomatoes, at the very least, so I put in a six pack of Romas.

They will be frozen as soon as they ripen. I can then make sauce at my leisure.

I will be planting a Cherry Tomato as well.

We eat this 'garden candy' right off the vine, they are good for so many impromptu dishes right out of the garden.

I also planted one Jalapeno Pepper and one Cayenne Pepper. These two plants should produce enough to take me through to frost.

Peppers and Tomatoes are the core of my garden every year and, with a little organic fertilizer and attention from the birds, they seem to be hearty and fruitful in abundance.

Here's hoping for another good year.


















I need some help. It seems our little friend is going to be hanging around, at least for a while, and she needs a name.

My husband is leaning toward 'Lovey Dovey,' but I'm not sure.

I'd appreciate any suggestions and will let you know when a decision is made.




 

 The California Poppies and the purple Iris look so beautiful together.

These last two pictures are of the Pieris Japonica.

The second one is called 'Fire,' and you can see why.

Every Spring it puts on this bright flaming foliage.

Ode To Tomatoes 
- Pablo Neruda

The street
filled with tomatoes,
midday,
summer,
light is
halved
like
a
tomato,
its juice
runs
through the streets.
In December,
unabated,
the tomato
invades
the kitchen,
it enters at lunchtime,
takes
its ease
on countertops,
among glasses,
butter dishes,
blue saltcellars.
It sheds
its own light,
benign majesty.
Unfortunately, we must
murder it:
the knife
sinks
into living flesh,
red
viscera
a cool
sun,
profound,
inexhaustible,
populates the salads
of Chile,
happily, it is wed
to the clear onion,
and to celebrate the union
we
pour
oil,
essential
child of the olive,
onto its halved hemispheres,
pepper
adds
its fragrance,
salt, its magnetism;
it is the wedding
of the day,
parsley
hoists
its flag,
potatoes
bubble vigorously,
the aroma
of the roast
knocks
at the door,
it's time!
come on!
and, on
the table, at the midpoint
of summer,
the tomato,
star of earth, recurrent
and fertile
star,
displays
its convolutions,
its canals,
its remarkable amplitude
and abundance,
no pit,
no husk,
no leaves or thorns,
the tomato offers
its gift
of fiery color
and cool completeness.

Woman's Work

- Julia Alvarez

Who says a woman's work isn't high art?
She'd challenge as she scrubbed the bathroom tiles.
Keep house as if the address were your heart.

We'd clean the whole upstairs before we'd start
downstairs, I'd sigh, hearing my friends outside.
Doing her woman's work was a hard art.

to practice when the summer sun would bar
the floor I swept till she was satisfied.
She kept me prisoner in her housebound heart.

She's shine the tines of forks, the wheels of carts,
cut lacy lattices for all her pies.
Her woman's work was nothing less than art.

And I, her masterpiece since I was smart,
was primed, praised, polished, scolded and advised
to keep a house much better than my heart.

I did not want to be her counterpart!
I struck out...but became my mother's child:
a woman working at home on her art,
housekeeping paper as if it were her heart. 

Who says a woman's work isn't high art?
She'd challenge as she scrubbed the bathroom tiles.
Keep house as if the address were your heart.

We'd clean the whole upstairs before we'd start
downstairs, I'd sigh, hearing my friends outside.
Doing her woman's work was a hard art.

to practice when the summer sun would bar
the floor I swept till she was satisfied.
She kept me prisoner in her housebound heart.

She's shine the tines of forks, the wheels of carts,
cut lacy lattices for all her pies.
Her woman's work was nothing less than art.

And I, her masterpiece since I was smart,
was primed, praised, polished, scolded and advised
to keep a house much better than my heart.

I did not want to be her counterpart!
I struck out...but became my mother's child:
a woman working at home on her art,
housekeeping paper as if it were her heart.

Why Bother Aging Gracefully When You Can Age With Gusto!

I Can't Find the Identity of this Poem's Author, but My Petunia Believes that S/he Has an Exceptionally Intuitive Soul.

 

The Half-Breed

They call me a Boxer,
But I'm a Half-Breed.
Part Boxer of course,
and part people indeed.
Anyone who owns me knows it's true.
We're so close to being people,
we're like part of you.
"He's one of the family,"
you've heard people say.
"Don't know how we'll manage when he passes away."
But they'll get another Boxer,
a purebred at first.
Not the most well-behaved puppy,
but far from the worst.
Then the change will take place,
the same as before.
They'll end up with the same human
Half-Breed once more.

Featured Poet - Erika Meitner

Erika Meitner

Erika has published four books of poetry: Inventory at the All-Night Drugstore in 2003, Ideal Cities in 2010, Makeshift Instructions for Vigilant Girls in 2011, and Copia in 2014.

She is a first-generation American born and raised in Queens, NY by her Israeli father and German mother. Along with attaining her BA and MFA, she studied with poet Rita Dove at the University of Virginia as a Henry Hoyns Fellow.

I’ve been exploring interstitial, overlooked, and marginalized spaces: malls, office buildings, suburban developments, superstores, construction sites, and interstates. I am also working with the idea of women’s bodies as geographical locations and sites of inscription via sex, childbirth, and other highly physical acts.

Her work has been included in the anthologies such as Best American Poetry, Starting Today: 100 Poems for Obama’s First 100 Days, Best African American Essays, The Way We Work: Contemporary Writings from the American Workplace, and Women Poets on Mentorship: Efforts and Affections (2008).

She offers may of her works for reading on her own {website}. Click on her name at the top of this post to go to the site's home page. Here, have a couple of samples:


Big Box Encounter

My student sends letters to me with the lights turned low. 
They feature intricate vocabulary, like soporific and ennui. 

Like intervening and kinetic and tumult.  He strings words together
like he's following a difficult knitting pattern. He is both more

and less striking without a shirt on.  I know this from the time
I ran into him at Wal-Mart buying tiki torches and margarita mix

and, flustered, I studied the white floor tiles, the blue plastic
shopping cart handle, while he told me something that turned

to white noise and I tried not to look at his beautiful terrible chest,
the V-shaped wings of his chiseled hip-bones.  I write him back. 

I tell him there are two horses outside my window and countless weeds. 
I tell him that the train comes by every other hour and rattles the walls. 

But how to explain my obsession with destruction?  Not self-immolation
but more of a disintegration, slow, like Alka-Seltzer in water.  Like sugar in water. 

I dissolve.  He writes enthralling.  He writes epiphany and coffee machine. 
He is working in an office, which might as well be outer space. 

I am in the mountains. The last time I worked in an office, he was ten. 
I was a typewriter girl. I was a maternity-leave replacement for a fancy secretary. 

I helped sell ads at TV Guide.  I was fucking a guy who lived in a curtain-free studio
above a neon BAR sign on Ludlow Street, and all night we were bathed in pot smoke

and flickering electric pink light.  Here, the sun goes down in the flame
of an orange heat-wave moon.  The train thrums and rattles the distance,

and I think of his chest with the rounded tattoo in one corner and my youth,
the hollows of his hip-bones holding hard, big-box fluorescent light.

.

Double Sonnet Ending in New Testament
This poem is meant to have the make and model
of a vehicle in it, include a food I dislike, a musical
instrument. He gave up the cello. There were multiple
mandolins on his worktable. An item that is broken
beyond repair? My body. That’s easy. This & this
& this. A love note that falls into the wrong hands?
Every poem I have ever written. Please stop posting
your thumbs-up sonogram pictures. I don’t care
if you’re 43. If you’re an exception or a miracle or
whatever you are. A bird of prey. His son was learning
to be a falconer. Are these like vultures? I’m not sure.
An item of lost clothing—this doesn’t happen often
now that I’m married. Remember those bras
that went missing in apartments, knapsacks, cars?

Bless that time: fear of conception. Holy ruckery
& whiskey & some guy. I drive the highway
in my Honda Civic to the phlebotomist, try to arrive
early to avoid the trainee who always leaves
the bloodless needle halfway in my arm, then
calls for help to the other woman who looks like
a former heroin addict or the Mennonite; both can
deftly navigate my scarred veins. Falcons are
the fastest moving creatures on earth. Your baby
this week is the size of a poppy seed, a sweet pea,
a black olive. I hate olives. In the lab, they play
Spirit FM & don’t know anything about me. The DJ
croons, ‘I am the vine & you are the branches. Those
who remain in me, & I in them, will bear much fruit.


SOURCES: The Poetry Foundation, Poets.org, & Erica's own site.

Kilt Monday!

'Cause let's face it,

Mondays can be so rough, hard, difficult.

A Practical Mom

 - Amy Uyematsu

 

can go to Bible study every Sunday

and swear she’s still not convinced,

but she likes to be around people who are.

We have the same conversation

every few years—I’ll ask her if she stops

to admire the perfect leaves

of the Japanese maple

she waters in her backyard,

or tell her how I can gaze for hours

at a desert sky and know this

as divine. Nature, she says,

doesn’t hold her interest. Not nearly

as much as the greens, pinks, and grays

of a Diebenkorn abstract, or the antique

Tiffany lamp she finds in San Francisco.

She spends hours with her vegetables,

tasting the tomatoes she’s picked that morning

or checking to see which radishes are big enough to pull.

Lately everything she touches bears fruit,

from new-green string beans to winning

golf strokes, glamorous hats she designs and sews,

soaring stocks with their multiplying shares.

These are the things she can count in her hands,

the tangibles to feed and pass on to daughters

and grandchildren who can’t keep up with all

the risky numbers she depends on, the blood-sugar counts

and daily insulin injections, the monthly tests

of precancerous cells in her liver and lungs.

She’s a mathematical wonder with so many calculations

kept alive in her head, adding and subtracting

when everyone else is asleep.

from: Stone Bow Prayer. Copyright 2005.

Saturday Farmer's Market - Happy Spring!

Created by Heather at Capricious Reader, and now hosted by Chris at Stuff as Dreams are Made on.

About three days ago we welcomed a new guest. An Adolescent Chicken showed up to scratch in the garden and sleep in the garage, which is open right now due to the work are doing on it.

We don't know where she came from or how long she'll stay, but she's doing a great job of cleaning up the grubs in the garden. She's also hard on any plant that isn't well established, but what can you do?

My husband is also keeping an eye out for eggs among his tools.

My California Poppies are beginning to bloom in earnest, even as most of California has already been awash in waves of orange for weeks.

My yard has never done things the same times as other people's yards. Some of my flowers bloom earlier than my neighbors', some later, and I've never known why.

But after more than twenty years, we're used to it.

 

Here are my late blooming Daffodils. The one on the left is a double and the one on the right, although the picture doesn't show it well, has a soft salmon color cup.

I transplanted my three Peonies three days ago. Unlike many other plants, they transplant well. They've more than doubled in size and this one is getting ready to bloom.

Of course, my yellow Floribunda is ramping up. (As is the white.) All the roses lost ground last year with the irrigation mishap, and I expect that they won't bloom as fully as usual this year, but they are recovering nicely.

This is a group of odds and ends that the grandkids gave me (from the supermarket). Although you can't see them yet, it includes my Easter Lilies (which are going to be very late this year) and some Daisies. 

The Orange Tree is loaded with blossoms. The whole yard smells wonderful! I hope we get an orange this year.

Poppies!

The Wild Iris
- Louise Gluck

At the end of my suffering
there was a door.

Hear me out: that which you call death
I remember.

Overhead, noises, branches of the pine shifting.
Then nothing. The weak sun
flickered over the dry surface.

It is terrible to survive
as consciousness
buried in the dark earth.

Then it was over: that which you fear, being
a soul and unable
to speak, ending abruptly, the stiff earth
bending a little. And what I took to be
birds darting in low shrubs.

You who do not remember
passage from the other world
I tell you I could speak again: whatever
returns from oblivion returns
to find a voice:

from the center of my life came
a great fountain, deep blue
shadows on azure seawater. 

And last, but by no means least, a Dutch Iris.