Poetry Books

Vague enough to enfuse with personal meaning. Meaningless read hard, and broad read softly. A good book if you want to sway in the romantic waters of an indefinite God, but hardly the work to peak behind the curtain. It studies the fabric. Full of delicious quotes, irresistable.

Kahlil Gibran is a very powerful, dynamic writer. He does it brilliantly each time a book goes live.

Wisdom is poetry that sings in the mind. If we could enchant man's heart and at the same time sing in his mind, Then in truth he would live in the shadow of God.

The quotes from "SAND AND FOAM" enhances the thought process and I find better understanding of the people around me.

Our god exists in ourself. It takes thought provoking book to make us aware.

What a beautiful compilation!

I read Kahlil, when i was 14.
I was astounded by his words,
and compostion.
He seemed to define them very well.
When i read this work?
i kept learning the aphorisms,
and the value of his thoughts.
I had never seen, or read another book
without some knowledge of great worth, and wisdom.
besides the Bible.
Gibrans paintings, also speak to the soul
The painting of The Prophet?
depicts a man who seems to
be an ancient, and of whom Kahlil
says he had never been without
since Lebanon .
When i first started to read Gibran?
i knew that i would read
all his works.
And they will continue
singing theyre words, and theyre thoughts
to the serinity and the solitude
of my mind.

Gibran continues to inspire me in this book. It is written from the depths of his soul and from every beat of his heart, as every one of his works are. Some readers criticize his writings becasue they say it is "too hard to understand". This is a complement to Gibran, because the most precious things in life are not supposed to be easily understood. One must read his books and reflect the meaning into their own lives in order to even began to understand. Don't be afriad to challenge yourself.

We can all only hope to live our lives with kind of heartfelt passion that this author chronicles. Truly inspired and inspiring!

The only problem was that as I read it from cover to cover, I kept crying - it was the darndest thing. But my tears fell continuously.

I thought I will write her after I have finished reading it. I can't finish it! Every time I start, I have to begin again at the beginning. I never get very far.

"A Scrapbook for Sandy" was sent to me by a dear friend who lives far away, who I don't see very often but with whom I shall always have a very close bond. I received the book after a long days' journey, too full of too many different airplanes and airports. Just as I was thinking how exhausted I was to be back in New York, I saw this large package on my desk, awaiting my return. Upon opening it, I sat for at least two hours reading and laughing, smiling and thinking, completely unaware of tasks in front of me and the exhausting trip behind me. What warmth and inspiration! What a passion for loving and living the book contains! For any of those most dear, I recommend sending a copy of Cecile Mactaggart's "A Scrapbook for Sandy" right away! They will cherish it for years to come and they will return to it often for sustenance, solace and delight!

"A Scrapbook for Sandy" is a marvelous love poem. Its author has worked her pictures and text together so that both, reinforcing each other, present a large and moving serenade.

There are several editions of this book published. They have been thoroughly reviewed, so I will just review this edition, not the material itself.

As you can see by the photograph, it has a red cover and black spine. On the front cover and the title page there is a picture of a shirtless horned man. This book contains black and white photographs, by Robert Mapplethorpe, placed just about at the beginning of every section. I do not like them and I think they are a distraction from the text.

This is a very well constructed book. The pages are made out of a high grade thick paper. On the left side of the book is the original text in French. On the right side is the translation in English, which is done by Paul Schmidt. Since I can not read French, I completely enjoyed the English version.

In the collection of prose poems and verse fragments that make up the short book A Season in Hell, begun in April 1873 in an outbuilding at Rimbaud's family farm at the village of Roche and completed by the end of August, he looks back in despair over his life as a poet. In one of the fragments, titled "Ravings number two" he talks about "the history of one of my follies. I invented the colors of the vowels!" he claims, and goes on: "I flattered myself that I had created a poetic language accessible...to all the senses...I expressed the inexpressible. I defined vertigos...I ended up regarding my mental disorder as sacred."

Rimbaud draws a picture of his affair with Verlaine in cynical terms, painting Verlaine as a weak and foolish virgin and himself as an "infernal bridegroom," a monster of cruelty. It wasn't far from the truth.

The last chapter of A Season in Hell is titled "Farewell." It has an air of exhaustion and relief about it. "I have tried to invent new flowers, new stars, new flesh, new tongues. I believed I had acquired supernatural powers. Well! I must bury my imagination and my memories. A fine fame as an artist and story-teller swept away! I! I who called myself magus or angel, exempt from all morality, I am given back to the earth, with a task to pursue, and wrinkled reality to embrace. A peasant!" A Season In Hell was finished in August 1873. Rimbaud somehow persuaded his thrifty mother to pay to have the book printed in Belgium. He sent his six author's copies to his friends and to men of letters in Paris. Many people see this manuscript as his farewell to literature. It certainly reads like that, although Enid Starkie believes that it was Rimbaud's farewell to a certain kind of literature--visionary, mystical, growing out of the selfish and hallucinatory lifestyle that had crashed to a halt only a few months before with his shooting and the jailing of Verlaine--and a commitment to something more humble and realistic. "Well, now I shall ask forgiveness for having fed on lies," Rimbaud wrote. He hoped that the French literary world would offer him the forgiveness that he was now prepared to seek, and give his book favorable reviews. He the proceeded to Paris to see how his book had fared.

Favorable reviews? He must have been mad. To those literary men, the dilettantes Rimbaud had mocked and despised a year or two earlier, Rimbaud was the insolent catamite who had destroyed their old friend Verlaine: sponged off him, wrecked his marriage, corrupted his soul and ruined his life, and then, when he had used him up, had turned him in to the police to face hard labour in a Belgian jail.

We have an eyewitness account of Rimbaud on the day when the last door in Paris had been slammed in his face, at the moment when he realized that the literary career he'd embraced so passionately was over. It was the evening of the first of November, 1873, a holiday, and the cafés and restaurants were crowded. The poet Poussin had joined some writer friends at the Café Tabourey. He noticed a young man alone in a corner, staring into space. It was Rimbaud. Poussin went over and offered to buy him a drink. "Rimbaud was pale and even more silent than usual," he later recalled. "His face, indeed his whole bearing, expressed a powerful and fearsome bitterness." For the rest of his life Poussin "retained from that meeting a memory of dread."

When the café closed, Rimbaud--who hadn't spoken to anyone all evening--set out to walk home through the late autumn countryside. It took him about a week. When he got to Charleville he built a bonfire and burned all his manuscripts. He didn't bother to collect the remaining five hundred copies of his book from the printer--they moldered there until they were discovered by a Belgian lawyer in 1901. That should have been the end of it. But Rimbaud couldn't quite let go. The following year in London he carefully copied out his prose poems, gathered together under the title, Illuminations. The year after that he tried to get them published. For the anguished but brilliant Rimbaud, giving up poetry must have been akin to weaning himself from a potent drug.

These are the brilliant and mystical hallucinations of the original "enfant terrible" and his visionary raptures about poetry, innocence and guilt. Verbal deliriums suffused with pain and hatred, remorse and desperation, but also with a parodic, pathetic and fatalistic megalomania. The "mystical rage" transformed into pyromaniac wording. Poems in prose, of very high quality, which reflect the fury of the love-hate relationship of Rimbaud with life and Universe.

In the collection of prose poems and verse fragments that make up the short book A Season in Hell, begun in April 1873 in an outbuilding at Rimbaud's family farm at the village of Roche and completed by the end of August, he looks back in despair over his life as a poet. In one of the fragments, titled "Ravings number two" he talks about "the history of one of my follies." "I invented the colors of the vowels!" he claims, and goes on: "I flattered myself that I had created a poetic language accessible...to all the senses...I expressed the inexpressible. I defined vertigos...I ended up regarding my mental disorder as sacred."

Rimbaud draws a picture of his affair with Verlaine in cynical terms, painting Verlaine as a weak and foolish virgin and himself as an "infernal bridegroom," a monster of cruelty. It wasn't far from the truth.

The last chapter of A Season in Hell is titled "Farewell." It has an air of exhaustion and relief about it. "I have tried to invent new flowers, new stars, new flesh, new tongues. I believed I had acquired supernatural powers. Well! I must bury my imagination and my memories. A fine fame as an artist and story-teller swept away! I! I who called myself magus or angel, exempt from all morality, I am given back to the earth, with a task to pursue, and wrinkled reality to embrace. A peasant!" A Season In Hell was finished in August 1873. Rimbaud somehow persuaded his thrifty mother to pay to have the book printed in Belgium. He sent his six author's copies to his friends and to men of letters in Paris. Many people see this manuscript as his farewell to literature. It certainly reads like that, although Enid Starkie believes that it was Rimbaud's farewell to a certain kind of literature--visionary, mystical, growing out of the selfish and hallucinatory lifestyle that had crashed to a halt only a few months before with his shooting and the jailing of Verlaine--and a commitment to something more humble and realistic. "Well, now I shall ask forgiveness for having fed on lies," Rimbaud wrote. He hoped that the French literary world would offer him the forgiveness that he was now prepared to seek, and give his book favorable reviews. He the proceeded to Paris to see how his book had fared.

Favorable reviews? He must have been mad. To those literary men, the dilettantes Rimbaud had mocked and despised a year or two earlier, Rimbaud was the insolent catamite who had destroyed their old friend Verlaine: sponged off him, wrecked his marriage, corrupted his soul and ruined his life, and then, when he had used him up, had turned him in to the police to face hard labor in a Belgian jail.

We have an eyewitness account of Rimbaud on the day when the last door in Paris had been slammed in his face, at the moment when he realized that the literary career he'd embraced so passionately was over. It was the evening of the first of November, 1873, a holiday, and the cafés and restaurants were crowded. The poet Poussin had joined some writer friends at the Café Tabourey. He noticed a young man alone in a corner, staring into space. It was Rimbaud. Poussin went over and offered to buy him a drink. "Rimbaud was pale and even more silent than usual," he later recalled. "His face, indeed his whole bearing, expressed a powerful and fearsome bitterness." For the rest of his life Poussin "retained from that meeting a memory of dread."

When the café closed, Rimbaud--who hadn't spoken to anyone all evening--set out to walk home through the late autumn countryside. It took him about a week. When he got to Charleville he built a bonfire and burned all his manuscripts. He didn't bother to collect the remaining five hundred copies of his book from the printer--they moldered there until they were discovered by a Belgian lawyer in 1901. That should have been the end of it. But Rimbaud couldn't quite let go. The following year in London he carefully copied out his prose poems, gathered under the title Illuminations. The year after that he tried to get them published. For the anguished but brilliant Rimbaud, giving up poetry must have been akin to weaning himself from a potent drug.

This is a brilliant encapsulation of the rage of the artist. He has a contempt for mankind, society, it's progress, and yet can't escape society. He can be a "..." as artists where called back then, refuse to live a middle class existence, live a life of drunken debauchery, and yet that is just another societal role.
His imagery is powerful, his language self-deprecating and insanely sincere. It draws you in with its suffering.
At the end he finds his life as an artist, his passion, empty. It all ended with the gunshot to the hand that ended his affair with Verlaine. In short, he equates his artistry and homosexual affairs with hell, and a return to society redemption. This explains how he became a materialist later on in his life, a trader, even considering trading slaves.
It is a sad fate for someone who had such a poetic gift.
I still enjoy reading A Season In Hell, even after having read it many times. Ultimately, the work is flawed; it has a little too much affected insanity, angst, the sign of an adolescent work, but it is also full of pure poetry and promise.

Nick Carbo has us see New York through the eyes of a Filipino immigrant with such candor, humor, and savvy that it's amazing to me that this book hasn't been optioned for a movie! Or maybe it has? It's poetry to be sure but it's also a screenplay, a novel, a multi-genre cyber cartoon. Carbo enlarges world poetry and what it can do!

I would never have purchased this book, nor would I have even become familiar with the (frickin' awesome!!!) work of Carbos without my needing the book for a class... some classes really are worthwhile!! I recommend (highly) ANYTHING by Nick Carbos.

I've just discovered Nick Carbo. Thank God. Thank God.

Nick takes it to the hilt on this one. I felt like I was reading a suspense thriller as I get taken through the life of one Ang Tunay ng Lalaki who interacts both in the "real" world where he meets Nick Carbo but also falls hobnobs with kindred icons of advertising and lore: Hello Kitty, Orpheus from a previous Carbo poem, and Barbie. And it's only in this in between world where Carbo can take on Asian and American ideals head on.

One of the reasons I like to review books of poetry is it gets me out of the "ME" kick that poetry is too well known for. Ask yourself this: how many poetry readings have I been to where I spoke soley of someone else's work? Someone who is alive, but that I don't personally know? Not just to say that I like their work, but what I like about it and how it inspires me? Can I, as a poet, go for a month, talking about this person's work, pushing this person's book, without ever mentioning my own poetry? Poet Karla Huston turned me on to Nick Carbo's Secret Asian Man and he's the latest poet I'll be pushing. His new book is full of satyrical irony and poem after poem makes you both cringe and laugh out loud. This is one of the few books of poetry that I'd like to see Quintin Terrantino or the Zucker Brothers make into a movie. Carbo lives in two worlds, the American's and the Filipino immigrant's. But the reflections and dichotmy don't stop there. His main character is Ang Tulay Na Lalaki, is the Filipino version of the Marlboro Man. Carbo starts each poem off "Ang Tunay Na Lalaki..." does something. Like Lyn Lifshin's Mad Girl poems this gives the reader an instant image of who the main character is in a series format. Unlike Lifshin, Carbo forces his white American reader to face up to accepting a non-white- American name. In some poems he does shorten it to 'Lalaki' within the poem, again forcing us to confront our written prejudices. Carbo plays on both sides of the prejudice field. In one poem he criticizes American film makers for having no roles for Asian American Men (only women), while in another he pokes fun at a visiting Filipino friend who's accent is too thick. He has Wonder woman fight a fetus-eating Filipino demon-goddess, picks up Barbie from a shopping bag to tell here about her about her part overseas Asian slave labor, and as Secret Asian Man, helps unite Hello Kitty and Barney the Purple Dinosaur. Even one step better is how Secret Asian Man flows. It reads in part poetry, in part story. No poem should be randomly turned to. Like reading a Richard Brautigan story and the more you read from the beginning, the more you understand the sequence. Early on in the book, Ang Tulay Na Lalaki meets up with a character, Orpheus, who tells him that he feels like a character written by poet Nick Carbo. Later on, Ang Tulay Na Lalaki takes a writing workshop from Carbo and we get to see how Ang Tulay Na Lalaki's poetry differs from Carbo's and how Carbo would run a writing workshop. To add another layer to Carbo's maze of mirrors, I got the book from someone who attended Carbo's workshop. Now I'm beginning to wonder if she is a character written by Nick Carbo? Pushing Secret Asian Man, one might only conclude that I am just an ongoing workshop exercise by Nick Carbo.

Terry Matthews, Reviewer

There are multiple viewpoints about the utility of including the Evans-Wetz controversy. However, reader, please be aware that this is actually an Apendix and not the main part of the book. Therefore, the author/scholar has no obligation to the reader, imo, as to whether to include or not. As an aside, I found the appendix quite interesting.

As to the main part of the book; ASTOUNDING. Some of the best, most lucid, crystal clear instruction on the topic.

Prospective readers of this work may wish to know that it has a descriptive subtitle -- "An Introduction to the Nature of One's Own Mind from *The Profound Teaching of Self-Liberation in the Primordial State of the Peaceful and Wrathful Deities* A terma text of Guru Padmasambhava expounding the view of Dzogchen, rediscovered by Rigdzin Karma Lingpa." In other words, it offers itself as a "postponed revelation," a terma (treasure) re-discovered and offered to the world centuries after its composition. As such it is part of a large class of Tibetan Buddhist works.

The text had previously been translated into English at the instigation of W.Y. Evans-Wentz, who published that version in "The Tibetan Book of the Great Liberation" which appeared in 1954 as the last of four volumes in the pioneering "Oxford Tibetan Series," which had begun in 1927 with another terma text, the "Tibetan Book of the Dead."

The "Self-Liberation" treatise there followed an abridged translation of one of the traditional biographies of Padmasambhava, the legendary "Apostle to the Tibetans," and one of their patron Bodhisattvas, who is regarded as the real author of this and other works. These texts were surrounded by commentaries by Evans-Wentz and C.G. Jung. The latter is probably important for students of Jung. Evans-Wentz's contributions generally reflect a lack of information about esoteric Buddhism, and a tendency to substitute material from Hindu and Theosophical sources.

Having compared the present translation (pages 9-28) with that offered by Evans-Wentz, I can say that it appears to be superior in clarity. Given the present, far more advanced state of Tibetan studies, it is certainly more likely to be accurate than the ad-hoc attempt provided by Evans-Wentz's translators. Additional features include the Tibetan text in transliteration, a glossary of Tibetan Buddhist terms, and an extended commentary. This is undoubtedly an advance on Evans-Wentz, although its devotional tone may seem cloying to some readers (including this one)

There are also extended discussions of the Evans-Wentz and Jung interpretations. The dismissal of Jung is particularly interesting; although I don't much care for Jung myself, I felt that he was not being given sufficient credit for trying to take Asian traditions as seriously as he took those closer to home. (Of course, given Jung's reductionist approach to religion, this may amount to 0 = 0.)

Of all the myriad Dzogchen texts I've read, this is the very best. It is clear, the translation is understandable (he doesn't use weird made-up circumloqutions for terms like rigpa, yeshe, rigpai tsal, etc, like some translators do), and really and truly Self-Liberation is a text which is introduces the reader to the nature of mind every time it is read.

I haven't seen John since way back 1981, when at Lama Gonpo's I loaned him a text of the Hevajra Tantra before he left for India to receive the empowerments. He's gone on to bigger and better things since then, but this early translation of his will never be bettered.

John Reynolds (aka Vajranatha) exposed me to Dzogchen thru this book. He associated himself with Namkai Norbu (who wrote the foreword) and had the assistance for this translation on others who know Dzogchen, including Lama Tharchin who I had the great fortune to hear speak once.

If Dzogchen can be applied successfully, then it must be through reading books like this one that one "reaches" that understanding.

When I was new to Dzogchen, Vayranathra's commentary was helpful. It remains so, but to a lesser degree today, but that may be due to overfamiliarity with it on my part. The appendix, which discusses how Evan-Wentz and Jung viewed Dzogchen, was never very helpful to me and I am not clear that it would benefit anyone but scholars. My assumption is to ignore Evan-Wentz translation and go with Vayrarathra's, since it was the first I encountered, it was supported by some Dzogchen teachers, and it excited me about Dzogchen.

Since that time, having read "You aee the Eyes of the World" from Longchenpa, Self-Liberation is no longer my "favorite" Dzogchen text but it continues to seem to be one of the three most important I know of, these two and the other one being the Bon text "Heart Drops of the Dharmakaya". I confess that my practical understanding of these texts remains small after about 10 years of studying Dzogchen on and off, but it does seem to me to remain one of the more important possible ways of facing the world constructively.

Vajranathana has continued his studies of Dzogchen (both in Tibetan Buddhism and Bon) and remained closely associated with
Namkai Norbu. My impression is that he is one of the most, if not the most, reputable scholar/translator of Dzogchen. His other translations include "The Golden Letters" and "The Cycle of Day and Night". I'd suggest reading "You are the eyes of the world" postponing the introduction and commentary but rather reading first the main text of "Self-liberation through seeing with naked awareness", also postponing its commentary and seeing what effect they have on you. If they make sense, you may be on your way to being benefited by Dzogchen in a way you could never have anticipated either yourself or by what modern day writers try to tell you. My bias is to trust the modern translators and ancient text writers for the time being and see where that leads me, because the translators may be constrained by the ancient texts and the ancient text writers may be had less to gain in worldly ways then some modern teachers.

Well, that's just my two cents on how I have approached Dzogchen. It isn't certain to me yet that anyone at any time has really applied these teachings constructively: it may be a well-meaning comfort system and it may be a long-lived deception. That it means something to indicate I am conscious in a way that seems incredibly creative, without boundaries, and with staggering presence I won't argue with, but that may be natural aspects of what we find as our consciousness and being in the world, it doesn't mean that anyone is a master of it or that it is some great perfection that already exists but for which I should pay people to confirm. Be wary and enjoy this creative ride and be glad, as "Self-Liberation through seeing with naked awareness" points out that your present thoughts will liberate of their own accord and not clutter your mind for too long.

This book is a commentary on the titled Terma text. The text is terrific (worth 5 stars), reminiscent of Norbu's "The Supreme Source" or Longchenpa's "Precious Treasury of the Basic Space of Phenomena." While addressing Dzogchen's Trekchö view, it includes very interesting & refreshing statements. It uses "empty" differently than other books & Mr. Reynolds commentary--not signifying dependent-arising (or interdependent) but actual emptiness (page 13, stanza 8): "Since it is empty and not created anywhere whatsoever, it is the Dharmakaya" and (page 14, stanza 10) "It is certain that the nature of the mind is empty and without any foundation whatsoever. Your own mind is insubstantial like the empty sky...It is certain that self-originated primal awareness has been clear (and luminous) from the very beginning."

Per most Tibetan to English translations, it seems literal vs. figurative (i.e. concerned with an "accurate" translation rather than with reader understanding). Mr. Reynolds states (page 115) "what is important at this primary level is to discover what the masters of the Dzogchen tradition actually say about their own tradition." I disagree. The most important thing is for the reader to UNDERSTAND Dzogchen and be enabled to practice it. For example, "nature of the mind" and "mind" are intermixed in a confusing manner. The author's explanation of his choice (pages 47-8, stanza 6) is unconvincing vs. his alternative, "Mind Itself," Padmasambhava's term "intrinsic awareness," or the commonly used "ground of being." Per other texts, "meditate" is translated as meditate upon (transitive), so Mr. Reynolds uses "contemplate" in stanza 8. That's fine, but in English "meditate" is a dual verb, it can be either transitive or intransitive (check your dictionary). Indeed, Padmasambhava states (page 13, stanza 8) "you are meditating without finding anything there to meditate on" (inferring intransitive meditation).

In his commentary, appendix, and notes, Mr. Reynolds provides concise and precise explications of standard Dzogchen, Vajrayana, and Buddhist doctrines-though scattered in location and more like Apologetic vs. explanation-largely to justify extensive criticism of Evans-Wentz' (E-W) prior translation, in "The Tibetan Book of the Great Liberation" with Jung's Introduction. Some criticisms are well-founded. Mr. Reynolds greatly details Evans-Wentz' life, Vedanta, & Theosophy. He seems to take a Sensate view (Myers-Briggs Type "S": preference for details, low level of abstraction, past vs. future). Strangely, several of Mr. Reynolds' criticisms appear to conflict with the Terma! The text is VERY interesting in that (page 12, stanza 6) Padmasambhava provides many synonyms for intrinsic awareness such as--the Self, the Mind, Alaya, etc. Yet, Mr. Reynolds criticizes E-W for using virtually the same terms.

But, Mr. Reynolds rightly criticizes some E-W excesses (e.g. implying that Rigpa as "the dew drop slips into the Shining Sea", poetic but not entirely accurate) and claims E-W inserts Hindu, Vedanta, and Theosophist views into Dzogchen (ignoring the possible influences of Western mysticism). But most Westerner readers must translate Eastern terms into understandable language-not just English, and analogy facilitates communication. Any differences (e.g. between Cosmic Consciousness and Rigpa, page 103) would need explication, but differences among Brahman (Upanishads), ground of being (Dzogchen), and Ein Sof (Kabbalah) seem elusive. IMHO, Mr. Reynolds overrates such differences due to his low level of abstraction viewpoint. He writes as an historian, not a scientist. He seems unable to comprehend that there are differing perspectives-like the colors coming from a prism or facets of a diamond (Vajra). A true master can step out of his/her culture to see the pristine truth sans bias. I'd recommend reading "Mind at Ease" a Mahamudra text by the English-speaking Tibetan Traleg Kyabgon.

Mr. Reynolds points out several real errors in Jung's Introduction (e.g. the asserted lack of Buddhist critical psychology & philosophy--page 148, note 53), but his grasp of Jungian psychology is deficient: he misinterprets Jung's mapping of Buddhist deities/Samboghakaya onto the unconscious when Jung clearly refers to their peaceful/wrathful duality (e.g. Manjushri/Yamantaka) vs. Mr. Reynolds realm-gods. Mr. Reynolds misunderstands active imagination and the difference between psychotherapy & individuation. Contemporary Tibetan masters (e.g. Thrangu Rinpoche, Tulku Urgyen Rinpoche) admit such deities can be/are mental. Mr. Reynolds seems oblivious to the mythological, allegorical, symbolical, and sometimes anachronistic aspects of Tibetan Buddhism which are normal components of religions--Mt. Meru is not the center of 4 continents (page 106), whether the Buddha knew it or not (who knows?). Also, Mr. Reynolds strongly objects to Jung's "a slavish initiation of Buddhist practices by Westerners is bound to be fruitless, if not dangerous" which seems self-evident to me. What's oddest about this book is what's missing:
-- the differences between Christian Bhakti Yoga (of devotion) vs. Dzogchen Jnana Yoga (of wisdom)
--the connection between the "other shore" (pages 145-6, note 47) with the standard Buddhist simile of the Yanas as boats across the sea of Samsara, not to mention Jung's night-sea journey.
--the differences between Gelugpa (to which Mr. Reynolds seems to refer) and Kagyu Mahamudra.
--that the Buddha's era has been reevaluated into the 5th century BCE instead of the 6th or 7th
--the similarities of some of E-W's statements to Vipashyana meditation
--that E-W/Jung's use of "Alaya" could refer to Absolute Alaya (as in the Terma)-page 113.
--that symbols are psychological in both East and West-page 146.
--the openness of Vajrayana (e.g. the Lojong mind training a la Pema Chödrön's many books/tapes)
--the Maitri and compassion at the heart of Mahayana Buddhism-including Dzogchen
--the awesome mind-expanding view of Dzogchen vs. (page 113)-seeing the forest vs. the bark of a tree
--the simple beauty of Mr. Reynolds prior (wonderful) book, "The Golden Letters"

When I was living in the Philippines, my dad brought this with him from the States (I asked for it). I read it in a day and a half. Going to a school I hated and feeling trapped and boxed up, being an outcast, was a lot easier with this book (and a guitar, but mostly that came afterwards). This was my first Bukowski book and I love his work. I wanna read everything they've got of him.

In the previous review I was telling that this book was published in spanish but ONLY the stories, not the poems. I can't understand why the guys at Anagrama did this. I cant understand why none of Bukowski poetry books are published in spanish either. And I say that this book is good, not Buk best, but good. (you'll wonder why 5 stars then? Because the good books deserve 10 or more stars)

Este libro apareció en Anagrama como "Hijo de Satanás", pero sólo conteniendo los cuentos, lo que es una verdadera vergüenza. Es incomprensible por qué mutilaron un libro. Tampoco alcanzo a comprender por qué la poesía de Bukowski es ignorada olímpicamente en castellano. Ah, este libro es muy bueno, leanló, etc., o sea.

HE WAS never a very good suicide. 'I gave it a go now and then but something always used to go wrong.' As we stand on the brink of war and global recession, what better than to trash the poll tax demand, order a hat trick of tequilas and settle down with an uplifting collection from Bukowski? These poems and prose are so clean and sparse one almost wants to rummage through Bukowski's bin for all the adjectives and adverbs. They are cut-throat tales of the back alleys of America, ergo the West, of a world more dire than that of Ivan Denisovich.

Of course, Bukowski always has a companion, wherever he walks there is always another, wrapped in brown mantle, beside him. But it's only a chemical. It produces a kind of gin-soaked doggerel that is surely the perfect form to describe sleeping on park benches, working the assembly lines, and pensioners with a dollar to their name who pull triggers to alleviate terminal disease. Tragic humour is strewn liberally. In one poem, the Barfly who thanks to Mickey Rourke now drives a BMW, muses on suffering for art as he fingers his Gold Card. He writes of how the critics prefer the poems about him freezing and starving on cheap wine.

With his easy transition into post-Hollywood prosperity he has shown himself to be not just another angry young man although his 'difficulties with women' as the press release puts it, show him to be no less misogynistic. But luckily, the years of body-abuse have not affected the clarity of his vision. It is of a people for whom the word 'change' means distraction, for whom thinking is painful. They move in circles of hopelessness. This sometimes infects his words with the sour, if inevitable, tang of decadence. But then, as he himself demonstrates in his poem Nowhere, most English-language authors are writing dross. With so little competition, he can only soar.

(from 1990 and by the author of "The Dream of the Decade - The London Novels")

This is my second favorite volume of Bukowski. I know this because it has the second greatest number of pages dog-eared over so I can find them again.

Why do I like it? OK, it is because when I read most modern stuff, or watch modern films for that matter, I wonder what planet they are living on. It is seldom anything I recognise. When I read Bukowski, either the poems or the short stories or the novels, I recognise the real world. It is just so damn refreshing to see that there is someone being published that is not totally disconnected with reality- at least working class reality.

Will you like this book? Well, skip to page 282 and read "the masses." If you don't like it, then you ain't going to like the rest....

There is another reason that I like this book. It emphacises that the old horseplayer beat the odds and actually made it into his seventies. He "Buk'd" some steep odds there....

Is there anything or anyone to compare to Shakespeare? You can never just read Shakespeare or even begin to feel the passion of his Sonnets until you get to know him. This is truly a wonderful edition of his work and a perfect gift for the lover of his writings. Poetry such as this Elizabethan prose is no longer written , the emotions,passions,tragedies are from yesteryear but as magnificent today as they were so long ago when such expression was a way of life. An excellent addition to any collection of prose or Shakespeare.

Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit,
To thee I send this written embassage,
To witness duty, not to show my wit.
(Sonnet 26.)

How to do justice to the legacy of literary history's greatest mind - moreover in such a limited review? Forget Goethe's "universal genius" and his rebel contemporary Schiller; forget the 19th century masters; forget contemporary literature: with the possible (!) exception of three Greek gentlemen named Aischylos, Sophocles and Euripides, a certain Frenchman called Poquelin (a/k/a Moliere), and that infamous Irishman Oscar Wilde, there's more wit in a single line of Shakespeare's than in an entire page of most other, even great, authors' works. And I'm not saying this in ignorance of, or in order to slight any other writer: it's precisely my admiration of the world's literary giants, past and present, that makes me appreciate Shakespeare even more - and that although I'm aware that he repeatedly borrowed from pre-existing material and that even the (sole) authorship of the works published under his name isn't established beyond doubt. For ultimately, the only thing that matters to me is the brilliance of those works themselves; and quite honestly, the mysteries continuing to enshroud his person, to me, only enhance his larger-than-life stature.

The precise dating of Shakespeare's sonnets - like other poets', a response to the 1591 publication of Sir Philip Sidney's "Astrophil and Stella" - is an even greater guessing game than that of his plays: although #138 and #144 (slightly modified) appeared in 1599's "Passionate Pilgrim," most were probably circulated privately, and written years before their first - unauthorized, though still authoritative - 1609 publication; possibly beginning in 1592-1593.

Format-wise, they adopt the Elizabethan fourteen-line-structure of three quatrains of iambic pentameters expressing a series of increasingly intense ideas, resolved in a closing couplet; with an abab-cdcd-efef-gg rhyme form. (Sole exceptions: #99 - first quatrain amplified by one line - #126 - six couplets & only twelve lines total - #145 - written in tetrameter - and #146 - omission of the second line's beginning; the subject of a lasting debate.) Their order is thematic rather than chronological, although beyond the fact that the first 126 are addressed to a young man - maybe the Earl of Pembroke or Southampton, maybe Sir Robert Dudley, the natural son of Queen Elizabeth's "Sweet Robin," the Earl of Leicester - (the first seventeen, possibly commissioned by the addressee's family, pressing his marriage and production of an heir), and ##127-152 (or 127-133 and 147-152) to an exotic woman of questionable virtues only known as "The Dark Lady," even in that respect much remains unclear; including the nature of Shakespeare's relationship with the two main addressees, regarding which the sonnets' often ambiguous metaphors invoke much speculation. #145 is probably addressed to Shakespeare's wife; the closing couplet plays on her maiden name ("['I hate' from] hate away she threw And saved my life, [saying 'not you']:" "Hathaway - Anne saved my life"), several others contain puns on the name Will and its double meaning(s) (exactly fourteen in the naughty #135: "Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy Will;" and seven in the similarly mischievous #136), and the last two draw on the then-popular Cupid theme. Sometimes, placement seems linked to contents, e.g., in #8 (music: an octave has eight notes), #12 and #60 (time: twelve hours to both day and night; sixty minutes to an hour); and in the famous #55, which praises poetry's everlasting power and as whose never-expressly-named subject Shakespeare himself emerges in a comparison with Horace's Ode 3.30 - in turn written in first person singular and thus, denoting its own author as the builder of its "monument more lasting than bronze" ("Exegi monumentum aere perennius") - as well as through the number "5"'s optical similarity to the letter "S," making the sonnet's number a shorthand reference for "5hake5peare" or "5hakespeare's 5onnets," echoed by numerous words containing an "S" in the text.

Of indescribable linguistic beauty, elegance and complexity, Shakespeare's sonnets owe their timeless appeal to their supreme compositional values, the universality of their themes, and their keen insights into the human heart and soul; as much as their transcendence of the era's poetic conventions which, following Petrarch, heavily idealized the addressee's qualities: a form new and exciting twohundred years earlier, but encrusted in cliche in the late 1500s. Indeed, Shakespeare's "Dark Lady" Sonnet #130 owes its particular fame to its clever puns on that very style, which went overboard with references to its golden-haired, starry- (beamy-, sparkling, sunny-) eyed, cherry- (strawberry-, vermilion-, coral-) lipped, rosy- (crimson-, purple-, dawn-) cheeked, ivory- (lily-, carnation-, crystal-, silver-, snowy-, swan-white) skinned, pearl-teethed, honey- (nectar-, music-) tongued, goddess-like objects. "My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;" the Bard countered, proceeded to describe her breasts as "dun," her hair as "black wires," and her breath as "reek[ing]," and denied her any divine or angelic attributes. "And yet," he concluded: "by heaven, I think my love as rare As any she belied with false compare."

Arguably, Shakespeare's very choice of addressees (a young man - also the subject of the famously romantic #18: "Shall I compare thee to a summer's day;" the first of several sonnets promising his immortalization in poetry - as well as the "Dark Lady," in turn introduced under the notion "black is beautiful" in #127) itself suggests a break with tradition; and compared to his contemporaries' poetry, even the equally-famous #116's on its face rather conventional praise of love's constancy ("Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments"), echoed in the poet's vow to vanquish time in #123, sounds fairly restrained. But ultimately, Shakespeare's sonnets - like his entire work - simply defy categorization. They are, as rival Ben Jonson acknowledged, written "for all time," just as the Bard himself immodestly claimed:

'Gainst death and all oblivious enmity
Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room
Even in the eyes of all posterity
That wear this world out to the ending doom.
(Sonnet 55.)

This is an amazing book - excellent for the student of Shakespeare. Wonderful reference and resource book to keep on hand. More information than any other collection of sonnets I've seen.

I once had a philosophy professor who memorized a new sonnet every day, perhaps because he felt there is so much to learn from each one. Unpacking a sonnet, really making it your own, is a beautiful and intensely laborious process.

Booth helps. This edition gives the sonnets in a clean, contemporary, sensibly edited typeface, and on the facing page a facsimile of the 1609 edition of the sonnets, so you never have to choose between readability and historical rececption. You get both. Plus, Booth gives precise supporting material for each poem, crystallizing a few hundred years of thought and meditation into an easily referenced appendix. Best part: it's cheap and there are tons of used copies around.

Good stuff!

Who is to judge Shakespeare? Here all I can question is the medium. I purchased this book expecting normal sized print as it is a dimensionally larger than average sized paperback. Ironically however, the print in this edition is rather smallish, compressed, and often smudged throughout the book.

If want want a scholarly text this is a good one. However, if you wear reading glasses and simply want to read Shakespeare's Sonnets in a relaxed way without squinting, you may want to look elsewhere.

In Hacker's introduction, she states that Khoury-Ghata has said, (in reference to her own writing) "the rhythms and tropes of her poetic line are as much influenced by the sound of spoken Arabic and Arabic poetry as they are by the comparative austerity of French verse". (x) The catch is that the poems are translated into English, so in my reading of the book, I can almost guarantee that certain rhythms were lost that may have contributed to certain emphasis that I missed. However, that being said, the poetry was well written and made wonderful points about people's speech in general and then specifically for and about women. The first section's translation was probably the most on target in the translation, given that the focus was on words and could be applied to all languages. However, the poetry has now been, in a sense, through two translations, one direct and one indirect. My small amount of knowledge about the French language compared to English is the consonant values, so, as I said before, the emphasis was probably lost. The second section, "she says" is more focused on women with references to "sex, grief and death." One intriguing repetition is that of "she says", "she understands", because regardless of a language barrier, or things lost in translation, or any other barrier, many women and even men can play the role of the aforementioned "she", so the book opens itself to a larger audience, even to men. One of the best sets of lines is on page 89: "She taught it the twenty-one ways to walk against the wind / and how to get up before the lamp without offending it // It kept a sorrowful silence confronted by the first snow/ and the woman's first white hairs / convinced that God was wasting his stock of chalk". "It" being a traveler and painting a picture of saving a woman, which "it" may not even be. She presents the grief of aging, of fear, of waste, of worth. Lastly, the continuing words with absolutely no punctuation bring forth the common theme that the battles with sex grief love and hurt are interminable.

On first reading of Vénus Khoury-Ghata's She Says I feared that I must somehow be intellectually stunted. I didn't get it and I mean that in the worse sense of the phrase. I found myself reading page after page wondering when I would get it. I then became angry at her for writing an entire collection of poems that I, an MFA student, did not get. I thought perhaps something crucial had been lost in the in the transition between Khoury-Ghata's maternal Arabic thoughts, her school-bred French écriture and Hacker's English. So I read the poems backwards, read the original French texts (I'm mostly bilingual) and still I was lost. So I had an herbal remedy. and a bubble bath. My mind began following the archipelago of bubbles floating in my tub water and I had an epiphany. I grabbed the book again. My mind had been tight, constricted and rigid, a state not conducive to playfulness. My very being had worked against the poet. This time I let her words play with me, rearrange me. And I got it.
Her poetry rests in a sacred place where words do not wish to be disturbed into order, where chaos reigns. And yet each poem resonates with a concreteness, a sadness. a stream draws a closed circle around her house/once stepped across the water turns like bad milk. (p. 73) I feel a sense of regret and mortality in her final lines. It's as if she knows the potentialities in our self-expression. The sadness I feel is our knowing that it can only exist here, confined within these pages.
At times I considered that English is too limiting a language to ever convey Khoury-Ghata's thoughts. This seams certainly true with the poem that begins "Les morts dit-elle/sont clos sur eux-mêmes comme le sang." (p. 64) "Morts" could easily be read as "mots" the French word for "Word," so that the English translation would read, " The words she says/are closed in upon themselves like blood," instead of "The dead she says." And yet there are places where the English translations resonate more strongly. On pgs 16-17, the sounds in "letters buried in their silicate vestments/become silenced sounds in the silenced silt" reveals more than in "des lettres enfouies dans leur vêtement de silice/devenues sons éteints dans la vase éteinte."
I envy Khoury-Ghata. Living in the space between two languages is in many ways a literary blessing. Her natural detachment from the French language allows her to play with words in a way that most of never could. I am reminded of Natalie Goldberg's thoughts on writing in her book Writing Down the Bones. She says that if we think "cut the daisy from my throat," then that is precisely what we should write down. But we censor ourselves, and in doing so we limit ourselves. Khoury-Ghata is consciously fighting against our urge to order and make sense of our words. She writes "One marries the words of one's own language/to settle down/ traveling is for the others/who borrow lines the way they take the train." It is this traveling that I envy, her ability to stay "single" when we are pressured to settle down with our language. Only through de(con)struction of our own language can we rebuild it in our own image, which might be feminine, androgynous, hyper-sexualized, depending on the creator. The idea is that it becomes our own and frees us. I realize now my anger was envy...of her ability and willingness to (re)construct herself.

I thought this book was fabulous! It is not often that we encounter, either in literature or in art, a marriage of surrealistic imagery with sincere emotion. Frequently, it seems that when surrealism becomes a major component in a literary work, the result is a barrage of strange and disconnected images holding little meaning beyond the apparent. few writers are able to instill such works with true heart and soul as does Venus-Khoury-Gata. The fantastic images that fill the pages of her book are rich in layers of metaphorical meaning, vibrant with the feeling she attaches to each. She thereby miraculously transforms these unexpected and dislocted objects--a "drainpipe" connecting the mouth of the petitioner to the ear of God, the "toe's" of apple trees--into vehicles of the soul which she definitely bares here. Much is to be said, as well, for the undoubtedly challenging job of translation completed here by poet Marilyn Hacker. The effort involved in such a feat, not to mention the result, dazzles the mind.

Venus Khoury-Ghata exemplifies a true denizen of a multilingual and polyphonic world with her ability to swing back and forth between languages and, thus, disparate modes of thought to establish a new and unique manner in utilizing language. Marilyn Hacker shares a similar space by being Khoury-Ghata's translator in She Says. As a renown poet, herself, Hacker is able to also inhabit a transliminal lingual and literary area by moving from American English to French to read Khoury-Ghata, but has to return to English with her subsequent translation of Khoury-Ghata's verse. She seems to do this seamlessly as her translations of the French follow as comfortably as possible and Hacker's voice remains a whisper in those transliterations.

In She Says, Khoury-Ghata moves in between languages and worlds, the real and the surreal, and she uses words and phrases that spark the imagination and disrupt our usual tropes. On p. 67, she writes -
"Because there's no shortage of summers
the days are like conceited generals
the nights like flashy women
the moon is the tool they work with
it regulates their urges and their blood"

"But it sometimes happens that they dream a bit of widowhood and darknesses
The sesame seeds sewn in their skirts weigh down their shadows
the lampposts bow gently as they pass by
and the fireflies part the air with their two hands"

Khoury-Ghata's lack of punctuation in She Says helps her verse to flow like billowing clouds. Her use of negative space is sparse and purposeful and serves as her only actual punctuation. I found her economic use of verse to be both fascinating and inspiring.

As Khoury-Ghata states in the proceeding section titled "Why I Write in French," she quotes Andre Brincourt who says that "`the Francophone culture is rich in the diversity of the tongues which nourish it.'" She is staggering in her ability to flow between languages and modes of thought and this I believe will help to strengthen the French language overall. She Says is a good portent for those of us who are still trying to deal with the imposition of colonizing languages and the resulting trauma in trying to reconcile maternal and former tongues with the new dominant language. Language must be dynamic to mutate and evolve, otherwise it becomes stagnant and dies. And along the lines of Brincourt and Khoury-Ghata, I believe that such tension between dominant and non-dominant languages can only serve to strengthen language in general and increase the level of communication among the human species. As Khoury-Ghata writes, "Writing in Arabic by means of French doesn't prevent me from listening attentively to the latter..." These are words to live by as someone who also seeks to broadcast the different cultural signals that every individual receives.

Venus Khoury-Ghata is a master of words. She swims in language, dives in her alphabet soup, and splashes us until we drip. She Says is a compilation of poems that converse with each other, wink at each other. Each poem bursts as you read it, like bubble wrap, when you squeeze one of its tight bulbs.

Before I started reading She Says, I skimmed the book, and was struck by the fact that the poems do not have titles. Well, the first line of each poem serves as a title. In the table of contents, these lines stand under each other, and read as a poem:

Words
-In those days I know now words declaimed the wind
-Words
-Where do words come from?
-How to find the name of the fisherman who hooked the first word
-The prudent man looped his family to his belt
-Language at that time opened fire on every noise
-What do we know about the alphabets which didn't survive the rising of waters
-The words which spring up on the borders of lips retain their terrors
-Words, she says, used to be wolves
-Words, she says, are like the rain everyone knows how to make them
-It was there and nowhere else
-The rain had few followers at that time
-Guilty of repeated forgetfulness
-There are words from poor peoples' gardens that crossbreed iron and thorns

Before I actually started reading the book, I was reading it.

Though some have mentioned that She Says lacks punctuation, or that Khoury-Ghata's use of negative space is her only punctuation, I noticed the use of question marks. This fact begs the question-why question marks, and not periods? Perhaps because periods seal declarative sentences, and Khoury-Ghata does not want to seal the issue of language--its potential and transcendence; she wants to unfold it. She is not declaring, she is asking.

Why not use commas (they do not seal)? Commas make a reader pause, and Khoury-Ghata is working with impulse. She Says cannot have commas, like a rollercoaster cannot have commas. The lack of punctuation also makes words, thoughts, and ideas bleed into each other, much like our thinking process. Khoury-Ghata is thinking on paper.

She Says is a book you have to read and reread. The images are exquisitely chosen and precisely placed, yet it appears effortless. These poems feed you. After reading them, you are full, satisfied, like a three year old after eating a bowl of alphabet soup the size of its head.

I love "The journeys" it takes my mind, heart, and soul through. Her "voice" has colorful and interesting shadows in it, and I'm still swimming in the "Rivers."

I thoroughly enjoy the poems, particularly "A Nu Love Space Demand" & "Letter to Your Proposition". I also thought "Out of my Queen Self" was very deep and showed a unique literary prowess not seen in a long time.

"Shedding Light from My Journeys" is a book which gives passionate feeling to the reader. Through the reading I was deeply moved by many of the poems. Especially by the poem titled "Journeys" which is a reality everyone can relate to.

Shedding Light From My Journeys is an intimate look into the mind of this gifted young poetess. Powerful words of wisdom come spilling off of the pages. After each poem, the reader is left with something to think about. Frazier has given the reader encouragement, chastisement, empowerment and the strength to try again another day.

Frazier speaks about this era, but the reader can tell that there has been influence from eras past. Shedding Light From My Journeys is a contemporary, yet nostalgic look at who we are as a people. This collection reminds of our past and the irony of continued mistakes in our future.

SHEDDING LIGHT FROM MY JOURNEYS is exactly what DuEwa M. Frazier does with this extraordinary book of poetry. The book is divided into five sections, each of which takes the reader through various life experiences. The sections, "Journeys of Love," "Journeys of Self," "Journeys of My Sisters," "Journeys of My Brothers," and "The Epic Journeys," each contain poems that relate to the experiences of everyday life. Although all the poetry is intriguing, my favorites include, "Letter To Your Proposition," "No Yells Girl," and "MCs-No More Video."

This is an excellent book of poetry that has a little something for everyone. The poems depict life today and also have a somewhat historical perspective so that the reader sees the past, the present, and hopes for the future. I look forward to reading future works from this author, including her upcoming play Me and Zora.

Sharon Gilchrest O'Neill has assembled a collection of thoughts, quotations, and short exercises about grieving, inspired by work with the Connecticut Hospice, Inc. Each page contains a single thought or quotation, or a chance to express the reader's own thoughts or feelings about a particular topic. The book is divided into sections like Memories, Treasured Possessions, Happiness...Sadness, but it's sometimes unclear how the pages in each section relate to the section topic.

What struck me most about the book was that it would offer someone mired in the chaos of grief short bursts of thought, not requiring sustained reading or focused attention. For someone looking for a narrative thread, or a unifying philosophy, this book is not the place to look. I couldn't help but contrast it with Joan Didion's Year of Magical Thinking, a treatise on Didion's own process of grief, of working through the stages of feeling, thought, and emotion.

O'Neill's book, in contrast to Didion's treatise-like work, gives us bursts of thought, short quotations, and the chance to jot down a few of our own thoughts. About the quotations: I am often disconcerted by quotations in a book like this, where people are quoted out of context, and the reader is given nothing to put the quotation in context. Sometimes the quote is from someone familiar, like Carl Jung or Sinclair Lewis. We may not all be familiar with Jung's or Lewis' work, but we have something of a framework in which to place them. We can find their writings, read their novels. But, who is John Gray, and how does he relate to the experience of grief?

The writings of the author seem to be designed to provoke movement in grief, to give the grieving person a different perspective, a way to begin to think about how life has changed, and will change more.

Armchair Interviews says: For someone who needs some inspiration, a sense that they are not alone in this experience, and a way to find brief, accessible musings on grief, this book could be very helpful.

This book is a wonderful tool for those of us who are "challenged" when it comes to providing emotional support to others at a time of loss and desire to do more than give/send garden variety bereavement cards. Because the book is spiritually uplifting rather than oriented towards religious beliefs and teachings, it is appropriate for giving to everyone from business associates to close friends and loved ones. A nice touch is a page near the beginning of the book where the sender can dedicate the book to an individual's memory.

I wish I had a copy of "Sheltering Thoughts" to read after my dad died. His sudden passing was confusing and numbing to me and all of my family.

I now keep this collection of inspirational thoughts close at hand. Its passages continue to give me a great deal of comfort whenever I'm missing Dad.

This book is my first recommendation to anyone experiencing the deep feelings of grief and loss.

Genre: Grief/Inspiration
Title: Sheltering Thoughts
AUTHOR: Sharon Gilchrest O'Neill
For life and death are one,
Even as the river and the sea are one.
Kahil Gibran

Losing a loved one is part of life but a most difficult and emotional time for all of us.
Sharon Gilchrest O'Neill has experienced grief both personally and professionally. As a psychotherapist and consultant, she joined the caring group of professionals that founded the first freestanding hospice in the United States. This book is the result of years of professional experiences with those that have passed on and those that were left behind.

Sheltering Thoughts is the ideal little book for someone who has recently experienced the loss of a loved one. Although a sympathy card is appreciated, this book will help them deal with their grief in a positive way. Each page is filled with inspiration, encouragement and support. The rhythmic poetry and lyricism make this book an enjoyable read in a difficult time. Famous quotes add interest and retrospect to the message.

Filled with heartfelt emotion and a depth of understanding that only one who has worked with the grief stricken could have, Sheltering Thoughts is well written and well presented in 147 pages. The book is small enough to keep in a purse or pocket enabling it to become a comforting traveling companion. A portion of the proceeds will benefit hospice work.

Recommended by Reviewer: Shirley Roe, Allbooks Reviews.


Title: Sheltering Thoughts
Author: Sharon Gilchrest O'Neill
Publisher: Tate Pub.
ISBN: 1-9332904-3-9
Pages: 147
Price: $10.95 Feb. 2006

Like most `Baby Boomers', I find myself at more funerals than weddings lately, so (following the suggestion of an earlier reviewer) I have started keeping a couple of copies of Sheltering Thoughts on hand and at the ready. I never know what to say at funerals (what can you say?), so I simply give this gift book filled with words of comfort, support and peace. The author's hospice and family therapist experiences and sensitivities are evident in her tasteful assembly of sayings, poems, and lyrics and in her own personal comments as well. When I read it myself, I found it to be a very moving read that stimulated a surprisingly peaceful contemplation of my own mortality.

One of the things I like most about this book is the feedback I get from the recipients. Different people are comforted by, and hence remember, different passages but the book seems to be appropriate for anyone regardless of their religious beliefs (or non-beliefs), and in that delicate regard this book is a safe and universal gift.

The appreciation from recipients (three so far) has been heart-felt and they said that they too will give it as a gift when the situation arises. It appears that Sheltering Thoughts fills a void not addressed by the traditional bereavement approaches. It is more distinctive, intimate and lasting than a card or flowers, and it is easy to mail when I cannot attend personally. It was written just in time for my generation.