Recommended Reading
       This page was most recently updated Wednesday, February 24, 2010

This site is dedicated to telling you about books sent to webmaster Job Conger for review. As a poet/journalist, I appreciate the talent of other writers, and consider sharing opinion a favor for you. If you appreciate the favor, if you buy their books, please consider buying mine as well.

This page is dedicated to Janet Desaulniers, who, without a clue about what I'm all about, sent me a postcard announcing the publication of her first book. After I posted an acknowledgement of the postcard, commented about the most intriguing longhand used to address it, and invited her to send me a copy for review, she did. I still don't have much of a clue about the person behind the postcard, whose hand made a lasting impression on me, but I am a richer hummin' bean after reading her book! Janet's book review follows my reviews of books by Thomas R. Jones and Marita Brake.

SINCE relocating Recommended Reading from its previous location, my scans of their covers have been lost. They will be replaced in the near future. In the meantime, please read the reviews and support the writers whose fine works are presented here.

Barbara Robinette was a member of Poets & Writers Literary Forum of Springfield, Illinois when I first met her and her husband Paul who were then living in nearby Divernon. She was an eager, smiling contributor of poems to every project engaged by that august assemblage and its shakers, and her zeal for poetry taken seriously grew in profusion and quality following their move to rural Arkansas when Paul retired at a very young age -- if his wife's looks are any indication. Sea Leafs by Moon is her first bound book of her poems though several have appeared in anthologies and orally in the CD Expressions produced by The Free Verse Poetry Group of Mountain Home, Arkansas.

Learning of the book in process, I reacted to the news as one might to a book entitled perhaps "Rose Clantics Over Bordenthwaite." The title was unique, but I didn't know what it meant. The combination was out of syntax with my lexicon as it might be with Whitman's epic Leaves of Grass. Before opening the book, I hoped there would be an explanation of the title in an introduction or on the back of the title page, but there was not, and I worried I was going to be assaulted by a bag of mystic lore of elves (not elvis and certainly not elfs.) All my trepidation disappeared after I read the first two lines of "Beloved."

Included with the book is a laminated plastic bookmark with a reproduction of the book's cover on one side and a poem, not repeated in the pages, entitled "The poet to her book." Here the author talks to "her book" as a parent might talk to a daughter or son leaving home for the first time, to rendezvous with an uncertain future. The bookmark is large enough and weighty enough to be felt immediately when fanning through the pages even though it's small enough to be hidden when the book is closed. Not that I'm suggesting Barbara Robinette is the new "Thomas Edison" of poetry, but she has improved the accessory, making it easier to use than simple card stock incarnations. Her dating the bookmark at the end of the poem fixes this book in time. I hope she produces similar bookmarks when she publishes more titles which I am confident will come if this production sells as well as it should. These literary laminates could even be sold without the book.

Before the sequence of poems begins, on an un-numbered page 3, the author shares "Poem... to you, Reader." In doing this, and in the first of three "chapters" (I can't think of a better term) entitled "Leafs," the author ingratiates herself into the reader's perspective of poetry and no doubt expands it with the 13 therein. What the author feels, shared here, is the inside skinny, what people who write creatively go through. One is entitled "To my family who are not poets" is a glimpse of astute observation that embraces everyday (a quiet living room, dogs asleep, tails unmoving on the nap rugs and becomes poetry as the author shares her witness of it. The final poem in this chapter is a combined homage to Emily Dickinson and Huck Finn, though only Em'ly is mentioned; a delightful romp.

Another innovation seen in Sea Leafs By Moon is the occasional reduction of font size so that longer lines may be printed as the author intended and not arbitrarily cut short and continued on the next because the page is too narrow. Even with reduced print size, "An Ars Poetica in Honor of Emily Dickinson's lack of an MFA...The Odd Singer's Oblong Hooray" (a title Will Rogers might have conjured if he'd lived longer) is a breeze to read and every bit as refreshing. Use of single lines double spaced in parts of and, occasionally in entire poems is innovation that works. The reason -- the desired outcome -- is apparent. Not so is inconsistent use of upper case in the titles, but that's okay. This is poetry; not a story written for the Associated Press feed to newspapers all over the world. Besides not even newspaper headlines are what they used to be.

Every poem is three to 24 lines and presented on a single page. This is honey to the roving eye. Why? Because once the reader discovers this, there will be no hesitation to read every one at least once. I've never been threatened by a 24-line poem on a single page. Show me a poem in  two or more pages, and I begin to worry the author is turning into a "guest luncheon speaker" with a pint of points to make in a gallon of time. Hang me if you must, but I may be the only self-proclaimed American poet who has not read every line of Walt Whitman'  L's of Grass. This is not to say the author is simple. Each poem is the view from one window. This is sophisticated poetry that reaches the eyes and heart completely from one page at a time and reverberates around the soul long after that.

The second chapter, the longest, is entitled "Tree Leafs" and rightfully lauds life in her cabin in rural Arkansas with smattering references to childhood, family and friends. "Happiness" shares an "ah HA! moment" in her six-line description of her home that trumps the best haiku I've read. Well, maybe "of course" because after all she had three more lines. People who say this do not understand haiku. Many poems here are JOY in two dimensions that become more than two dimensions when the reader takes them in. Yet there's tremendous tragedy and irony: in "From Looking Out The Window" a small herd of deer approaching corn scattered on a concrete slab that had until recently been the foundation of a neighbor's house destroyed by a tornado that killed the neighbors' daughter.

Folks who have sung from Methodist hymnals, at least, know how the title of the song is often the first words sung. "A Mighty Fortress Is Our God" begins . . . you know how it begins. Other titles suggest what's coming -- "Poetic Advice" -- and most titles are separate entities, the moons  to the planets. The author introduces something new to me, and delightful: a title that the start of the poem. The poem title transcends the double space that separates it from the poem on page 54. It reads
                                                                                                    November's cat

                                                                                                    purrs on my lap
                                                                                                    on a quiet cloudy day and it.....
It goes on from there. This is nifty. Poetry should not be so obvious and comprehensible that one can read it with one arm tied behind your back. Readers should engage poetry with both hands. Barbara Robinette's poems in Sea Leafs By Moon facilitate the process and reward all who engage it with both hands.

The focus of the third and final chapter, "Sea Leafs By Moon" is revealed in the first poem therein: "Poetry and God." The author boldly ventures from what is almost universal mono-deism (reflecting the world of one omnipotent god) to card-carrying Jesusness in "Sitting by the Campfire, 30 A.D." sub-titled "the other disciple." The success of this glimpse of the disciple who stays awake at the dying campfire "while the Master sleeps" is not from the unique doctrine espoused. There is no doctrine here. Instead the reader is given an almost supernatural gift of a common situation made real in the sharing in only 16 lines, more intensely than probably possible in prose. The writing style is generous, more prosy and conversational by far than in many of her poems where economy of phrasing seems paramount and succeeds every time. The chapter is intensely spiritual and accessible to readers without being preachy or contrivingly mystical. These are vignettes; not sermons. They are as down to earth -- not aloof or vague or remote -- as the sun warming the white stone at the start of the chapter.

If there is any uncertainty regarding who the fring-frang Barbara Robinette IS when the reviewers aren't snooping into her life off the page, the focus of her picture, which   appears only after the poems, removes all doubt. Taken by her husband and accompanied by a three-sentence biography, it shows a woman with a smile broad enough to fly a Boeing 747 through and as bright as the sun. She is posing in the kitchen. . . . . For readers who missed that, I'll say it again: THE KITCHEN!  This may incite cries of "treason!" from Gloria Sternum and her sisters, but this is "t' reason" -- one of many -- this book works so well. The author is grounded exactly where she wants to be; not on rocky precipice overlooking a river somewhere in Arkansas or Tibet. Sea Leafs By Moon is a book about home, revealing the world viewed through many windows of a home well blessed. I was privileged to visit that home, to share those views. And soon after you purchase this superb first book from a promising -- and delivering -- transplant from the wilds of Divernon, Illinois, I bet you will feel the same.

This CD is presented on a "page" reserved for printed matter because that's how the featured contributions therein began life.

The late Jane Kenyon’s poetry, and the love of free-verse brought two friends together in 2003, led to the formation of The Free Verse Poetry Group of Mountain Home, Arkansas (today 12 members strong) and, with the help of husbands and friends, the production of this CD. The Academy of American Poets includes 11 poems by Kenyon (born 1947 in Ann Arbor, Michigan) at their Web site, but no information about Kenyon is included with the CD. Today the members meet monthly to share their poems, to critique each others’ poems "when asked," and to encourage each other. Considering the group’s focus on a poetry form which is relatively under-appreciated, the creation of the group in rural Arkansas is a significant accomplishment that speaks volumes for the passion, focus and discipline of its members. The group’s production of a first-class CD that shares their craft with the world is a near-miracle!

The poems rise to our ears from the fertile soil of rural Arkansas, and one can sense that soil in almost every track. I don’t know that poets in Little Rock or Springfield, Illinois could have written most of these poems though it’s obvious from "Yankee" accents unmistakable in some voices that not all of the contributors spent most of their lives in the Southland.

If one were to judge the CD/anthology by its cover, at first glance one would judge it a fine production, which it absolutely is to a point. The title above the fine photograph is exemplary. So too the statement of the group’s name and date below the picture on the front cover. People know what’s inside is "POETRY." It also made this reviewer anticipate future productions with succeeding years on the bottom line. I will want to collect the entire set. There are no liner notes or additional pictures on inside paper. A group photo, information about Jane Kenyon, a short essay about the delight of free verse poetry would have been nice, but such might have compromised the impact of the POEMS while adding to production cost. (Note to TFVPGoMHA: Maybe next year?) No time signatures are included on the back cover for each track, the way they’d be included naturally with most music CDs. If added, the CD might more easily get air play on radio stations, especially PBS, and possibly nationally. Some of the tracks merit that kind of attention.

A Different Herd by Stephen Phillip Johnson is an imaginative poem comparing the communications skills of herds of elephants with groups of "you and I."

Cuppa Joe by Jackye Swyers hits hard with every word, excellently voiced until the last word when it fades fast in three syllables. Perhaps a post-coffee-buzz come-down? Hard to say. This one is fun!

The Lost Masterpiece by Diane Stefan, written seemingly to a magnum opus in a gallery, the poem delivers a delightful surprise at the conclusion, a sleight of phrase that turns on a dime. Fine poem!

A Song of Praise When I was Five by Barbara Robinette. There is no sweeter voice in Arkansas and maybe the lower 48. The poem about enduring a scratchy dress in church and delight in returning home to draw pictures in the dirt: pure delight.

Knobbytown – Ron Miller’s voice and delivery remind this reviewer of Springfield, Illinois’ excellent poet Scott Simpson. In contrast, Miller’s voice seems to be his own, not a created affectation for a poem. The presentation sounds more like a short story than a poem until a rhyme sneaks in. I want to know Knobbytown. Others will too. Great humor, almost like a report, but too much fun for a report. It leaves me with a grin every time I hear it. Therefore it must be a poem. It’s the best delivery on the CD.

Constellations by Pat Durmon is an intimate look at married life in the country that’s ordinary there but a satisfying, rare, revelation to this reviewer. It’s a serious, complex poem, very well written.

I Must Return to the Mist by Martha Lee. An illuminating description of nature, very well expressed. "Herons, weather-fashioned from tree roots, guard the entrance of the Indian cave, barely discernable since last fall . . . . . . My eyes return . . . The foggy mist switches from rolling down river to up river. . ." This should be a short story also, written as a short story and shared with readers who aren’t likely to read free verse poetry. Lee’s poem is one of several which should be so transformed to touch more readers.

Genocide by Marie Wayland – Here is a history lesson describing an unhappy time. The author’s voice seems to reveal the entire state of Arkansas in perfection and earthiness of delivery. It is a Tolstoy voice in a Mr. Rogers world. The sound of thunder at the end of the reading is an exquisite touch; moving -- as moving as the words -- in its poignance.

When You Tell me Yes by Charlie Southerland is rushedrushedrushed but with perfect diction. This is my first poetic encounter with "right butt cheek" and "narco button." His is not a poetic voice; it is a voice without empathy; a remote, neutral voice, "matter of fact" and strangely disconnected for a poem about heartbreak. There is no sadness, no regret. The voice should underscore the circumstance. I don’t understand the production of music, fine though the quality obviously is, for what was probably an utterly whispered and silent encounter by the author and the woman he loved.

When a Dreamer Sighs by Monterey Sirak includes occasional rhymes, appropriate and rewarding to the ear. There is no sense of wonder in the expression but there is abundant wonder in the words. Major rich philosophy here! "A world where there’s . . . . peace between brothers" an un-necessary break here probably from coming to the end of the line and having to look at what comes next OR because the author felt that since that's how the poem is placed on the page, that's also how the poem should shared with the voice. The music maintains the tone of the poem which is not nurtured in the verbal revelation of it. The poem is Walt Whitman-esque with a superb, but hurried conclusion. This is a poem that will benefit from hearing many times, and it is likely each reprise will reveal more to like about it.

Hope (Finale) the music and performers on this track are not credited to anyone. They should be. It is very well played and in perfect harmony with what the end of the CD should "express;" neither too long or too short. It is an exquisite "sigh" in its own right and a soothing "return to earth." I’d purchase a CD of similar music at the drop of a hat. Is EXPRESSIONS less a poetry anthology because it ends with a gentle melody? I think not. Poems aren’t written to conclude a CD the way music is written to conclude a Broadway show. The music works well here.

The entire CD is a two-lane asphalt and dirt road journey through the minds and hearts of some talented poets from Mountain Home, Arkansas. I consider myself privileged to have made that journey. My bet is that after you purchase and savor EXPRESSIONS by the Free Verse Poetry Group, you will feel the same.

Carl Volkmann was director of Springfield's public library, known as Lincoln Library, before the nationally-acclaimed Abraham Lincoln Presidential Library and Museum opened a few years ago. The distinction is significant. Because of Volkmann's efforts to a great degree, Lincoln Library developed the Sangamon Valley Collection, a treasure trove of local lore from which much information was drawn to produce this fine book.

Through many of the Volkmanns' own photographs and those from other sources, readers are presented the rewarding  consequence and lore of good luck. Abraham Lincoln was a major force in this city. Today, many Springfieldians "doth protest too much," at this fact. But the authors appropriately follow the lead chapter of photos of Illinois governmental buildings with the Lincoln (rainbow, if you will) connection. If Abe had not successfully relocated the Illinois capital to this city during his service in the Illinois General Assembly, Springfield might be another Decatur, and without Lincoln, we might be another Jacksonville, not that there's anything wrong with Decatur and Jacksonville.

Perhaps because of Lincoln pride, citizen interest and commemoration of Springfield's history abounds as well. Many former residents who were "daily news" shakers and movers are now ensconced for the ages at Springfield's Oak Ridge Cemetery on the city's north side.

As the authors candidly state, this book is intended to serve as a base, a catalyst for additional research by readers and historians inspired what they share so well in 128 pages with more than 200 photographs. The quality of the black & whites is first class throughout the book. The narrative through the five chapters, bibliography and index is the same.

Though one might assume sculptures are synonymous with statues, tacit testimonials to lives of the long- demised and almost forgotten, such an assumption would be ill-founded. Included are photos of sculptures dedicated to Illinois agriculture, the art of students with disabilities and even white-tail deer. Art with titles not connecting to Illinois government but created by famous artists grace many local buildings, curious assemblages of abstracts and representationals which have attracted passing glances but little more. Thanks to the Volkmanns we now have facts aasy-to-hand. It's almost like an Audubon guide to birds. Connect the picture in the book to the one before you as you visit the city and learn.

Plaques noting the sites of famous homes and businesses abound, sharing nuggets that never found their way into a Doris Kearns Goodwin tome or Ken Burns documentary. For example, where but on page 50, could you learn about the home of widow Mrs. Julia Sprigg, the woman who baby sat for Mary Lincoln?

To the credit of all its citizens though the years, Springfield displays a happy profusion of art in its streets, buildings and cemetery. Though well served by several notable galleries over the years, the Volkmanns reveal art for art's purpose which is to be shared beyond clistered walls and private homes. The art in this book is public art, accessible most any time during normal days. Kudos to the dedicated duo for revealing to readers what most of us in a lifetime could not have discovered on our own.

Carl and Roberta Volkmann, via Arcadia Publishing, have produced a book destined to be cherished and read often, not only by citizens of this generation, but by many future generations as well.

Springfield native son Robert Gilbert has published his first romance novel, an entertaining trip to unfamiliar territory on a trail that rides so comfortably, once you settle in after the first three chapters, it's hard to get off. He credits his friend Patricia Bourne for inspiring this engaging story, but the author's intimate understanding of the characters half-convinced me that Bourne could have written this book and thanked Gilbert!

The visit of Chicago public school administrator Brian Fleming to Rio Rancho, New Mexico and his encounter with Megan Bourne are the base line of the story that includes encounters with Indian culture, small town life in the southwest and the life of a small-town newspaper.  After reading the last words, a conclusion I could not have seen coming if I'd been looking for it through the Hubble Telescope, I felt truly and posiively "delivered" -- the way a tourist might gaze back at a modern bridge across the Mississippi River and think "I don't know how all those elements came together so well, but I'm glad I made the trip across."

Megan is a writer, part-time college teacher, student of Southwest Native American cultures; surprisingly a transplant from Indiana. Between the inklings of her life in the prologue and the return to the same place and time in the Epilogue, we see why she was looking back: the seemingly star-blessed close encounter with Fleming. Here's a hint: it is a    r o m a n c e    novel.

The author clearly knows his territory: the Chicago metro area and the territory around Rio Rancho, an actual New Mexico city northwest of Albuquerque. In this fictional accounting, its school system serves children from several diverse Native American tribes. Those efforts are the purpose for Brian Fleming's mid-December visit. His goal is to learn enough during a first, short visit, as he observes the city's school materials and methods, with side-trips to Native American enclaves and shrines, to begin formulating a strategy for teaching the same rich history to Chicago inner-city students. If he had not wandered into the local newspaper office to place an ad for an assistant early into his visit to Rio Rancho, he would not have met Megan Bourne . . . . . .  and I not be reviewing a fine romance novel.

If the torrid love scenes were any hotter, each copy of this book would come with its own pair of Ov Gloves. Both Megan and Brian are formerly married; legally liberated from young vows. Romance lovers will understand that not only is discovering the joys of true lust part and parcel of the genre; engaging it as often is possible is what makes a good romance novel and not Jane Eyre warmed over with salsa and chips.  

Though a few known names filter through the fiction format (Navajo, Lone Ranger and the highway designations to name a few) the cultural elements, names of schools, foods served, could go either way. Author GIlbert narrates smoothly inside and outside the boudoir. The narrative is straight as a New Mexico highway; nothing pretentious or awkward in names and narrative. There is enough reality in Gilbert's writing for us to understand he knows what he's writing about.

Overall there is more on Gilbert's "platter" than most will "eat up" in one cozy evening's unhurried encounter. That means good value for the romance novel dollar. You won't find the book to be an introduction to the plight of Native Americans in the 21st Century, but catching just a whiff of "the scents of it all" may inspire you to further learning in that direction beyond this book. Gilbert neither decries nor deifies anyone (with the possible exception of Brian Fleming) but delivers instead an engaging love story. In the haunting afterglow of the final page, I consider my hours with Megan's Love time well spent. I bet you will, too.,

Lost Survivor is historical fiction. I say this first not to insult the book or the author, but to state at the outset something I did not understand when I read this fine effort the first time. Publisher David Pitchford – the "Pitch" in Pitch-Black – had asked me to read Lost Survivor and share my opinion of it as a story. Ten pages into the read, I knew I would review the book at this page. What I did not know was that I would do nothing else but read the book, highlighting areas to return to for comments and suggestions, for the next several hours of my life. Like the Kennedy assassination in 1963, and the terrorist attack in 2001, I found myself anchored to the tableau so rivetingly hurling itself into my consciousness. It didn’t occur to me that this was not a memoir until I read the penultimate sentence of the tale:

"His last thought as he plunged into the darkness, hidden from the enemy by the
explosion of the grenade and the tumbling of the earth where he’d been, was the
hope that one day his bones would be found and returned home."

Only then did I realize that nobody lived to tell the story I just read. As I read A Note From the Author" which followed, the truth hit me like the caress of a bootheel to my forehead, and I was glad for the truth that the preceding had been historical allegory. And after relief, strangely perhaps, laughter.

Does placing that essential information in the place likely to be read last make sense? I enjoyed and appreciated the laugh and relief following the fiction. It was redemption following the unanticipated tragedy, a "rising from the dead." As a journalist and proponent of conventional, traditional reportage, I would have recommended sharing the reality in an introductory note before the fiction. But then Patrick Duffy would never have awakened from his dream at the start of a new season of the television show Dallas after he’d been killed in the preceding season’s final episode. Fiction allows a creative crafter more latitude, and because of that, I don’t fault the talented author for his approach. After all is said and done, Thomas R. Jones is alive and a part of Springfield, Illinois today. WHEW! That was close!

As a person of Caucasian persuasion, my first reaction to the cover photograph was "Holy water buffalo effluent. Eldridge Cleaver rides again!" I expected to be lambasted throughout the book’s 216 pages by scourging inquisitional laments about the unforgivable infidelities of my Africo-Indo-European-American white brethren, and it was a relief to be spared that treatment. Does that relief mean this reviewer can ignore the racial inequalities manifest throughout US involvement in the Vietnam War. No. But that consideration is for another time and place.

The story is that of a fictionalized Springfieldian, 25-year old John Duglas, JD to friends, who sent to Vietnam as a medical corpsman and served with a US Marine recon squad. A young Brad Pitt could have played JD’s rol in a movie version of Lost Survivor except for one thing: Pitt isn’t black, and JD is.. The tale is not as challenging as a
War and Peace epic and far more mature that a reader might expect from a Rambo Does Hanoi.

When the real author was serving in the military, I was going to college. I tried to enlist in the U.S. Air Force when I thought I was failing my studies and I’d be summarily dropped from the roster at Springfield College, but after I discovered I was not failing, the recruiter didn’t mind. He had 40 more recruits waiting to take my place on his waiting list. And though I was destined not to serve because of an incapacity later discovered during my pre-induction (Selective Service draft) physical, I am of Jones’ generation. As a historian and military supporter, I know of what he writes. And I know the language. Jones learned it the hard way, and he learned it so well, the vocabulary he uses in the frequent dialogues penetrates like a dung-tipped bungee spike. This is not John Wayne’s war from The Sands of Iwo Jima; it’s Martin Sheen’s war from Apocalypse Now gritty and true to the time. A few minor malaprops might have been snared before ink met paper with an older editor at the helm. Those who know will notice them, and
those who don’t won’t, and that’s okay.

Lost Survivor is much more than a string of events. Though fiction allows a looser leash when it comes to keeping things technically accurate, the result is not a major impediment to the success of the story. At times, Jones approaches the lyrical in his revelation of the feel for the scene. Did you know that some soldiers wore no underwear in the combat zone because it was a breeding ground for mites and other discomforting veremin? I didn’t. But I read it, and I believe it.
More upsetting was the accounting of JD’s return to the US after his second and final tour of duty in Vietnam. There are elements in that description that only a veteran could write. It bothers me that so many US citizens turned their collective backs on hte brave men and women who served in-country,

Serving as a medical corpsman in this fiction, JD’s role is, I believe, unique in the Nam-spawned pantheon of literature. He is not a group leader,, and he is not a hero. In this role, Jones tells the reader as much about others who shared JD’s life before, during and after Vietnam as he does about himself. His descriptions and dialogue with the other "players" on his stage engage the reader much more rewardingly than a myopic "he did, and then he did, and after that he did" third person but all about JD approach. Jones served as a Senior Hospital Corpsman with the Third Marine Division (Deep)( Recon Company. When he arrived in 1967, he was 23 years old. When he came home from his second tour, he was incalculably older.

Many civilians don’t understand the difficulty in transitioning from life in war to life in peace. When a soldier learns that failure to retain situational awareness can mean eating a bullet and not seeing breakfast, the importance of that sensitivity will not allow many ex-military to "let go" stateside. That’s why the sound of a book carelessly dropped on the dining room table while a veteran brother or spouse watches TV can trigger (no pun intended) what "citizens" call over-reaction. How do you feel when you walk into the kitchen at 11 pm and your kid shouts "BOO" from under the table? You may share the laugh, but for many of Jones’ generation, the anger from being needlessly challenged by nothing is hard to channel instantly into a "Father Knows Best chortle." That kind of disharmony is what drove JD – and thousands of real human soldiers - back to a second combat tour. Jones explains this dymanic and this tragedy far more eloquently than I.

At the end of the story, after the nervous laugh on realizing that Lost Survivor is not a memoir, a renewed appreciation of combat veterans, consideration of the contrived war in which the author fought, and the futility of all contrived wars soaked into me like blood saturating a gauze bandage. The lessons taught in Lost Survivor should not be so easily forgotten. What JD, and TRJ, teach us can make for a better world if we permit ourselves to be so moved. To forget, to not be moved, to not care more intelligently for the course of today’s events because of what this book imparts again to us, is folly and a desecration of the future of our nation. My bet is that after reading Lost Survivor by Thomas R. Jones, you will feel the same.

ERRATA: In 1967, I was a kid with a guitar, playing my own folk songs at the Something Else Coffee House and aping Phil Ochs, Bob Dylan, Tom Paxton, Paul but not particularly Peter and Mary. One evening I heard a young lady with a guitar and a voice like thunder outer China 'cross the bay. Her name was Marita. She was writing poetry also. After a run of several months, the place closed and we went separate ways, "somewhere else" you could say.  Pictures from that era are posted at http://www.aeroknow.com/sech.htm   A short 27 years later, Marita approached me as I sat writing poetry at Capitol Cafe and bought my first book. Yes, it had been a long time, and she was still playing guitarhaveanicelife. A short 10 years after that, Marita emailed me about a mutual friend's dad's demise, and we have reconnected more frequently over the e since then. I reviewed her two CDs ( http://www.aeroknow.com/ears.htm ) and am happy to do likewise with her first book of poetry here.
    There's a comfortable feel to the book as it comes out of the envelope. The paper is not the brite white Xerographic 20-weight that seems to rule in chapbook circles. It's an earthier, tan marble hued stock. The same paper type as a heavier cover, works great with the color photograph and typography. The presentation of poems over some of the photographs inside compromises their readability because of the poor contrast between pic and type. Case in point: "Nature" on pages 26 & 27.   Presenting the poems in a white(ish) reverse print would have cured the contrast problem, but it's an infrequent hiccup in the process of digesting Marita's foods for thought. My advice is MOVE CLOSER TO THE SUN COMING THROUGH THE WINDOW or READ UNDER A 100 WATT BULB..  The brightening of the same picture used in spreads on pages 6/7, 8/9, 10/11 is a nice idea. sharing continuity with the poem "The Three Graces" which also traverses the same six.
   Final note about graphics: When I'm browsing the latest Victoria's Secret catalog, I never wonder about who's posing for the photographer, but for some nutty reason, I wonder about names as I peruse this book. It's probably wise not to name the women pictured, especially with smarmy book reviewers lurking in the hinterland. But I must say, I wonder.
   You were wondering about the  p o e m s ? If it's true as Whitman says, that "Out of the dimness, opposite equals advance," then it's obvious in the first poem, "My Temple," we have discovered e.e. cummings opposite when it comes to Capitalizing Every Word In Sight.   So What, You May Ask? It's Marita's Book, And She Can 'xpress herself any way she likes (at least until the Dubya DC thought police declare the technique subversive and cleanse the arrows of her ways). I agree, it's Marita's book, I know many poets who follow e e more often than M.B., and if you let the erratic  Upper Case USAGE taint your take on the fine words and phrases, well, Bucko, that's just your LoSs.
    BTW, "The Three Graces" is a poignant summation of our ache -- make that our age.
    There are truths in these poems. The placement of the particular photograph on page 16 with "A Prayer" opposite shows a whale of a lot of forethought. This is not a radomed compendium. The truths seem largely estrogen-driven, intended for estrogen-driven readers though even testosterone-addled sensitivity can understand and appreciate them without being threatened by them.
    Case in point:

 We Are
Living Holograms of Earth
Flesh From Food
Made of Soil
Veins Flow
With Sea and Sky
The Air We Breathe
Briefly Borrowed
 
I can't help imagining that the ghost of old Walt W. would nod in harmony with that page 21 poem. I sure did.
    There is humor in some of her poems, but every one is a mature effort. There are no whimsies, no popcorn for the heck of it throwaways. If this were a series of tunes, I would say they are all "A-side singles." As a poet (which I call myself because it explains why I can't find a real job) I can tell you I can't say the same about all the poems I have created.
    Untamed Hearts is a first-class first effort by a songwriter/poet with an established rep for competency and creativity. Its brevity in relatively inexpensive chap book form is also an excellent approach to premiering her art in print. Some books I return to the shelf after reading them, thinking, "Well, that fills quite enough of the great gaping maw of me for a while." Marita Brake's effort leaves me wanting to read more NOW and eagerly looking forward to her next book. Odds are it will be as welcome, and appreciated as Untamed Hearts.
   

   If you have a book of short stories or poems or a CD recording of same  which you would dare entrust to me for review, send it to Job Conger, 428 W. Vine St., Springfield, IL 62704-2933

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