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From the doorway of his damp, cold and bare hut where he meditates, his face emanates a holiness that is inclusive, a richness of spirit that rises above our shadows, our petty quarrels, our hunger for power and material wealth, untouched by the passage of time, war and enmity, surrounding us with warmth, and the depths of his understanding.
Here the jumbled stones are rounded by their travels in the ocean, stones whose journeys may have begun. She has also published many non-fiction books.
Refugees and names Previously published in Up the Staircase Quarterly. That it will be hounded, shamed and replaced with a brand new name, given by members of the host country with their rubber-stamp on it. That it will be stripped of all of its meaning, all of its history. His first day at school in his new found host country, my father gets scolded by the Hindi teacher,.
No such thing as Taran , the teacher remarked, the correct word is Tarun — meaning young. Now repeat after me. He was to remain Tarun , from this point on. My grandma was then pregnant with my father.
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To get it started, it had to be kicked. My father loved driving it. He also loved telling me the nuts and bolts of navigating Delhi—where each place was. The same start, the same end. Never once missing a beat. Now with his old house gone and.
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With no lullabies to sing, no stories to tell, no songs remembered, I rock the cradle gently, hoping it will stop you from crying, but you continue to cry. I lift you up, bring you back down again, kiss you on your cheek and then back up again.
I do this several times, hoping it will stop you from crying, but you continue to cry. I try to feed you. Pat your tummy. Talk to you. Play with you.
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But none of this works, as you continue to cry, you continue to cry, cry, cry, cry, cry, until Amma speaks to you in your tongue — the mother tongue. You harvest scallop shells and arrange them like gems on a gray velvet cloth. Their undulating edges cut you open and out pours ocean brine. The shore, that hall of waves, claps astonished all night. At the inn of the sea, the sheets lap on your drowsing form, and you wonder why you stayed on land so long. You wrap your arms around pillows like mossed boulders. In the afternoon, you become the bouquet on the table.
Here at the summer inn, the physical world bursts out wild every day. As if evil is just an aberrant weed in a vast undersea forest that can consume every quirk and blip. On the other side of a curtain moving in a breeze of breathing is the place where you hold your breath as you dream. On the other side, just there, I see the gone ones digging in unearthly ground, planting the seeds of the future. Purple and golden blooms immediately unfurl in trumpets.
No waiting, no growth, just there. I hear my vanished beloveds murmuring. Arabesque First arabesque: stand on the right leg with the left leg extended, right arm forward at eye level, parallel to right shoulder, left arm at the side, slightly behind and below the shoulder. An ornamental design of intertwined flowing lines, as in Arabic or Moorish decoration.
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Learn that practice is dear, find art in endlessly aiming. Arabesques earned by each inch. Bend and hold. The stretch wins opulence. In the changing room afterward rehearse the weight of your legs, lifting to unroll the tights and pull on jeans. Read the poem and image " Double Exposure " pdf format :. That is to say, for me, reading the book twice, three times, ten times, has layered its subject s further and further behind the sighting of the opaque lens, while simultaneously bringing more layers to the surface.
Octopus Magazine , 4 Dec. The photography and poetry are haunting. The poems, like their photographs, begin with still objects, with ourselves outside, looking in through time and culture.
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Suddenly the scenes come alive and we see a surprising compassion and beauty rise up. Each poem holds startling links between the floating samsaric world and a calm inquirer. We are looking at a by-gone Japan; we are looking at our current selves. These poems, with their grave cadences and moral clarity, in the end counter the blinding white light of disaster that suffuses them. The poems are elegant, elegiac meditations on the nature of personal history and mortality. In the book as a whole, the continuous and arresting conjunctions of past and present give The Book of the Floating World a quality of timelessness.
Part moral memoir, part imagined life of the father, part imagined history, part solid history, this unusual combination of verbal and visual—of the then seen from the perspective of now—makes a rare and interesting book.
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Loosely based upon photographs of Occupied Japan, The Book of the Floating World ranges across a war-ravaged landscape, from a shattered Tokyo to scenes of a depleted countryside, with a close examination of the lives constructed out of that ruin. The Book of the Floating World explores the photographed moment—and poetry—as a peculiar and arresting instance of witness. Threaded throughout this collection is a set of interrelated meditations upon history, violence, war, memory, and art itself.
In their clarity and openness, these photographs frame the struggle between old and new identities taking shape in the postwar era. This new edition of The Book of the Floating World represents a ground-breaking collaboration between the visual and the literary in a format that traces the hidden connections between past and present. Jon Thompson is an associate professor of English at North Carolina State University, where he teaches courses in twentieth century literature.
In addition to his publications in poetry, he has published Fiction, Crime and Empire University of Illinois Press, Through close examination of the stories of these writers, Building Genre Knowledge articulates a theory of genre knowledge development that allows for complexity across individuals, communities, and tasks.
After first outlining an accessible model of genre knowledge that encompasses multiple knowledge domains, the book explores the ways in which writers develop increasingly sophisticated genre knowledge as they move through their graduate education.
It will therefore be of great interest to researchers and practitioners in both first and second language writing studies. Christine M. Tardy is an Assistant Professor of Writing, Rhetoric, and Discourse at DePaul University in Chicago, where she serves as Graduate Director and teaches courses in writing, teacher education, and applied linguistics. She has taught English as a second or foreign language in the U. She has published extensively in the areas of genre and discourse studies, second language writing, and academic writing instruction.
The poems pull vivid imagery from the deepest layers of the unconscious, postcards from a sleepwalker unable to find rest, waking again and again in the wrong story. Who is alive and who is dead? The poems care nothing for the events or ordinary logic of life on land.
It is as if Savett created each line with an extraordinary lung capacity, so that her poetry can live at the bottom of the ocean of the unconscious —enabling us to live there, too. The poems shape a brilliant coral reef discovered in the waters of a turbulent dream. I read Child in the Road as one long poem, lyric, meditative, wheeling, fierce; for all its richness of language, it seems to be reaching for some place beyond language, from which to mourn the death of a young child:. Cindy Savett teaches poetry workshops at mental institutions in the Philadelphia area and has published her poetry in a wide variety of journals.
Born and raised in the Philadelphia area, she currently lives in Merion, Pennsylvania, with her husband and children.