A review of G-d, Sleep, and Chaos by Alan Fyfe

Despite the profane subjects: dole queues, building sites, and the bottom of coffee cups; Fyfe elevates the ordinary to extraordinary heights with captivating imagery, and a musicality that gently lulls the reader into a meditative trance. In ‘A Song for Saint Roch’ ‘two pristine cigarettes’ are juxtaposed with ‘two (painted) apples’: elevating the former to high art reminiscent of ‘The Plastic Bag Scene’ in the film American Beauty; viewed through a poet’s lens, to seek beauty from the most mundane items.

A review of Love Letters to Ukraine from Uyava by Kalpna Singh-Chitnis

The author, Kalpna Singh-Chitnis, exhibits great empathy for the Ukrainian people. For example, in “War: A One Way Street,” the poet “driving in [her] town,” imagines “sirens blaring, tanks rolling, / and guns pointing at people resisting.” There are no doves, no olive trees and as the stanzas unfold, she becomes “a woman raped,” “a fallen soldier,” “a father in exodus.” She has the emotional range to feel what they feel, calling herself “a person, and a nation, an ally, and an adversary.”

A review of The Ones by Kathleen Latham

Pick up this collection if you’re looking for catharsis in looking back on a history of love won and love lost. It is definitely keyed toward a more mature audience, but then might have good advice for the young and inexperienced: it will be painful, but in enduring we find something so much greater.

A review of A Life in Frames by by Leonora Ross

A Life in Frames, Leonora Ross’s third novel, is the coming-of-age story of a gifted young artist and the journeys he embarks on in his quest for self-discovery and the pursuit of his dreams. The story opens with ten year old Lejf Busher lying on a blanket under the African night sky in his parents’ backyard in Otijwarongo, Namibia—exhausted, but eyes filled with dreams.

A review of Jehovah Jukebox by Joan Jobe Smith

By the time they became acquainted, Smith had quit dancing to pursue poetry. Bukowski would call her late at night and howl at her tales of being a go-go girl for seven years (“the bad luck time for / breaking a mirror, minimum sentence for a felony / conviction”). Bukowski, in his cheap L.A. apartment forty miles away “listened intently to my go-go girl tales.” Finally, one night, Bukowski told her: “You gotta write about all that madness, kid. So I did.” Jehovah Jukebox was conceived and born.

A review of City Nature by Martha Retallick

The best moments come from the struggle against solitude; with Retallick, it’s the trials-and-errors of learning to “think like water” with her co-op in a drought-filled era, of upcycling a gifted chandelier into a vine climbing gym and a sun-shaking pendant collage. Not the “much more” of products, but the “much more” of the lived-in; we are nature too. The struggle against solitude is the discovery of home, and it glints like pendants.

A review of Mother’s Day In the Empire State Or, An Answer to the Arraignment of Women by Constantia Munda

This book is a serious rippler. And readers, dare I say, will be left holding a naked baby higher and higher above their heads as they step deeper and deeper onto the rocky bottom of a raging waterway. Footing will inevitably grow faulty. Vision impaired. And eventually they’ll be submerged, needing to come up for air.