Three for the Road

I was on a roll and then it stopped. Since I missed a few days of posting poetry, I will include three poems on this post. 

This first poem is something I found amongst my mother’s things when she passed away. It is marked unknown, but I found the author through Google. I’m posting this poem in memory of my mother and my cousin, Ann Renee Maluska, who died at the age of nineteen. Ann was born on Easter Sunday, and she would have turned forty-six years old today. Happy Birthday, Ann.

Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep by Mary Elizabeth Frye

Do not stand at my grave and weep;

I am not there. I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow.

I am the diamond glints on snow.

I am the sunlight on ripened grain.

I am the gentle autumn’s rain.

When you awaken in the morning’s hush,

I am the swift uplifting rush or quiet

Birds in circled flight.

I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry;

I am not there. I did not die.

Free Verse poetry is poetry that doesn’t follow meter or rhyme. Excuse the rush writing of this poem.

Treasures

Treasures

I thought I lost

I now have found

In the written word

and a picture to last

generations to come

Sometimes we

forget distant memories

that made us who we are

Because of all the treasures

I have found

It’s the one I carry around.

The treasure of

being a part of you,

letting that part shine right through.

I thought I would try another invented poetry form. This is a Memento, created by Emily Romano. It’s supposed to be about a holiday or anniversary, but I didn’t write about either one. The syllable count is 8,6,2 for each stanza, and the rhyme scheme is a/b/c/a/b/c. 

Unabashed Lovers

Ignore the judgmental whispers

That pour faster than rain

No worth;

Words that form on tongues like blisters

Creating endless pain

Unbirth.

To listen is to give power

Losing a bit of you

Hush now;

Stomp out the negative flower

To continue your woo

Avow.

Piecemeal and Three,

Bea

Address Unknown

This poem was inspired from a synopsis of a movie. It’s a Villanelle – a nineteen-line poem with a rhyming scheme of aba aba aba aba aba abaa. The first and third lines in the first stanza are repeated but alternated throughout and are the last two lines of the poem.

Address Unknown

Why must I hear their cries?

I arrive without question for their letters--

A friend of death in disguise.

Stories and wales heard through the skies

of quick deaths, or Death twiddling its thumbs.

Why must I hear their cries?

But I take their cherished ties

and deliver them to the graves--

A friend of death in disguise.

Some say they do despise

for the way I let them carry-on with their pain.

Why must I hear their cries?

I like to believe my actions wise

because letting go will come soon enough--

A friend of death in disguise.

It is what makes me arise,

to see hope with these lost souls.

Why must I hear their cries?

A friend of death in disguise.

Letters and Death,

Bea

Book Review – Winter Garden by Kristin Hannah

Lately, I’ve read several historical fiction books about Europe during Nazi and Stalin times. I’m not sure why, but each book has pulled me into the sorrowful past and I’ve thought about the many lives lost under extremist rule.

My recent historical journey was Winter Garden by Kristin Hannah. I never read a book by Kristin before, but she certainly made me a fan with this book.

Book Genre: Historical Fiction

Paperback: 448 Pages

Synopsis from Amazon:

Can a woman ever really know herself if she doesn’t know her mother?

“Meredith and Nina Whitson are as different as sisters can be. One stayed at home to raise her children and manage the family apple orchard; the other followed a dream and traveled the world to become a famous photojournalist. But when their beloved father falls ill, Meredith and Nina find themselves together again, standing alongside their cold, disapproving mother, Anya, who even now, offers no comfort to her daughters. As children, the only connection between them was the Russian fairy tale Anya sometimes told the girls at night. On his deathbed, their father extracts a promise from the women in his life: the fairy tale will be told one last time—and all the way to the end. Thus begins an unexpected journey into the truth of Anya’s life in war-torn Leningrad, more than five decades ago. Alternating between the past and present, Meredith and Nina will finally hear the singular, harrowing story of their mother’s life, and what they learn is a secret so terrible and terrifying that it will shake the very foundation of their family and change who they believe they are.”

What made me want to read this book?

I can’t pinpoint exactly what made me want to read this book. I recently read a few YA historical fiction, Between Shades of Gray by Ruta Sepetys because it was compared to The Book Thief. Here’s the link to my review of that book -

http://skippingstonememories.blogspot.de/2012/11/a-book-that-opened-my-eyes.html. I enjoyed both these books, so I figured I would enjoy the Winter Garden, too.

Winter Garden is about a mother’s fairy tale of love and survival in Leningrad, Russia during the war. There is a great overwhelming emotion I feel when I think about how people struggled to survive in Europe during Stalin and Hitler rule. Although fiction, these books about the tyranny and hatred these two leaders carried in their hearts and commanded can’t be expressed in history books ... and from my memory, I don’t recall learning about them. So, I’ve been interested in reading about what happened in Europe during the war, and how so many suffered and died without even being put in a Potter’s Field.

My Review

Kristin Hannah accomplished one very difficult task as a writer, and that is progressive character change. From the start, her characters are flawed and lost, but as the story progresses, the characters gradually change … and the mother, Anya, changes a lot. It’s incredible to read and experience a writer creating flawed characters, one to the point of dislike, and then seeing them transform to the point of liking them.  

Meredith and Nina’s mother, Anya, was never really a mother to them. She was cold and distant, but the one thing that brought them together as children was Anya telling her fairy tale. On his deathbed, their beloved father, Evan, made his wife promise to tell the entire fairy tale to his daughters, and asked his daughters to truly listen to the story. As Anya begins to tell the fairy tale, and her erratic behavior diminishes, Meredith and Nina realize the fairy tale isn’t really a fairy tale, but about their mother’s life in Leningrad, Russia.

Along with dimensional characters and learning about suffering, Kristin’s writing adds to the beauty of the story. Below are a few examples of her writing style:

“Words were like pennies, fallen into corners and down the cracks, not worth the effort of collecting” (pg. 52)

“Grief had become her silent sidekick.” (pg. 81)

“She hears a squawking sound coming through a speaker and the word—Attention—thrown like a knife into wood.” (pg. 254)

A few things I didn’t like about the book were the ending and the mothers’ relationship with the father. The ending seemed rushed and everything wrapped up too nicely. I also wondered how Meredith and Nina felt knowing their mother’s heart belonged to another, and also why their father married such a woman.

Because of these flaws, I give this book a 4.25-star out of 5.

Fairy tales and Love,

Bea

Autumn Song by Dante Alighieri

Know'st thou not at the fall of the leaf
How the heart feels a languid grief
Laid on it for a covering,
And how sleep seems a goodly thing
In Autumn at the fall of the leaf?

And how the swift beat of the brain
Falters because it is in vain,
In Autumn at the fall of the leaf
Knowest thou not? and how the chief
Of joys seems--not to suffer pain?

Know'st thou not at the fall of the leaf
How the soul feels like a dried sheaf
Bound up at length for harvesting,
And how death seems a comely thing
In Autumn at the fall of the leaf?

Burning leaves and hot chocolate,

Bea

Reading and a Writer's Speed Bumps

I was recently talking with friends about books, and they expressed their love and excitement for the book turned movie, Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen. Now I’ll admit it wasn’t my favorite book, and I don’t plan on seeing the movie. But this discussion opened my eyes to the fact that I’ve become a critical reader since I’ve been writing. The writer in me acts like a speed bump when I read—the pure enjoyment of books is replaced with a writer’s critique.

While crafting my own works, finding flaws, pulling my hair and crying that I can’t get it right, I wind up groaning when I read a published author doing what I’m trying to avoid. It goes to show that story trumps great writing, but it also goes to show that we ALL have our own tastes. If your story appeals to the majority, then you will be a great success as an author.

One of my favorite books is The Book Thief by Mark Zusak, which was also made into a movie but I don’t know the release date. You can read a review I wrote of The Book Thief on Helium. I love Mr. Zusak’s writing—his words—along with the fact that this book shows the hardships Germans went through during the Third Reich. It’s narrated by Death and one thing it says is, “I carried them in my fingers, like suitcases…or I’d throw them over my shoulder. It was only the children I carried in my arms.” When a writer can express something so beautiful and horrific at the same time they get high kudos from me.

Writers are told to show not tell—bring the reader into the story instead of telling them about it. This is one of my biggest weaknesses. Don’t introduce things into a story that doesn’t move the story along. Create flawed characters, not unrealistic ones readers can’t connect to. These are just a few things I’ve learned in my quest to become a better writer. So when I read books, my writer’s critique comes out, leaving me disappointed in books that might veer away from the writing rules—rules that are there to help a story thrive.

I miss the days where I could just sit and read a story without my inner red pen coming out, but  I have to admit it helps me in my own writing endeavors.

P.S. I believe reading The Book Thief, and living in Germany the past five months, gave me a huge appreciation and understanding of history, today’s Germany and my country.

What’s one of your favorite books?