here, a taste
(click links)
charmingly mannered yumminess
and spirited brilliance
from
Jennifer LaRue Huget
an absolute delight:
[due in stores 09.09]
In The Trenches
I snatched two poppies
From the parapet’s ledge,
Two bright red poppies
That winked on the ledge.
Behind my ear
I stuck one through,
One blood red poppy
I gave to you.
Issac Rosenberg
self-portrait, Rosenberg
Rosenberg was in South Africa, visiting a sister, when war broke out in 1914. He seemed to believe that the war needed to be prosecuted vigorously in order for the world to get past it, and he returned to England to volunteer.
Part of his motive was economic: He wanted his mother to have the paltry few shillings a week she would get from the army as his next of kin, a measure of how dire the family's financial straits continued to be...
To read of Rosenberg's privations -- the ill-fitting boots, the appalling food -- is to get a rare picture of the enlisted man's lot in World War I. (Most of the other war poets were officers.)
Rosenberg was killed by a German raiding party on April 1, 1918, near Arras, France, during Ludendorff's big spring offensive.
Throughout the war, Ms. Wilson shows, Rosenberg's poetry had been going from strength to strength. One can only imagine what he might have produced if he lived beyond the armistice.
Ms. Wilson is a marvelously well-informed guide to this tragically brief and artistically rich life.
She closes with haunting words of Rosenberg's, discovered among his belongings after he died:
'How small a thing is art. A little pain; disappointment, and any man feels a depth -- a boundlessness of emotion, inarticulate thoughts no poet has ever succeeded in imag[in]g. Death does not conquer me. I conquer death, I am the master.'
"...The man in their gift shop was an experton the Sisters’ long struggle to find a wayto serve the Christian Church and Candombl.The eldest Sister is called 'the Perpetual Judge';every seventh year, she becomes the bridgeon which the Virgin Mary crosses back,sorrowing love incarnate in a blackninety-odd-year-old woman facing deathand saying Magnificat with every breath.We drove out of the valley looking backon lightbulbs which intensified the thick,incomprehensible, mysteriousdarkness of the unknown. Grown seriousand silent in our air-conditioned van,we rode back into the quotidian."
from Cachoeira,