Thank you, Hal.
A blurb and a poem for the book (with thanks to Hal):
“There are masterful books hidden here and there, and Grief Suite is one of
them. Bobbi Lurie writes with a scalpel—clear, direct and relentless, pared
down to the bone, half-silenced by suffering. There is a surreal element
here, driven mainly by an honest groping to speak truthfully about what is
irremediable. No book I know written out of pure grief is as complete and
rigorous as Grief Suite.”—Stephen Berg
*TRAVELING NORTH*
Though you are dead now. Though I walk covered in dust through this strip
mall in Iowa. I remember the collection of tendencies that led me here. The
flat landscape. The blazing heat of cornfields. The landscape and body are
one sensation.
Everywhere the books of atmospheric pressure. This book smells like
miracles. That you were the chapter. That I was the slaughter. That sheep,
my inheritance. That you were the shepherd who lead me here. Your hand
reaching out to strike. Your hand reaching up to brush the hair from your
brow. I never knew which. I never knew when. Your hand.
The cornfields are memories. You can not remember anything. The road is
filled with dust haze. Your life is. Your death. I can not find it in this
landscape. This collection of tendencies.
Though you are dead now. Though your hand would reach to strike. Though your
hand would reach up to brush. The hair from your brow. Though light
penetrates this. It is flat. It is frozen in self-image. I must resist the
symbiotic wish. I must void the infantile condition. That region. This
region. The atmospheric pressure in the vicinity of living.
Though you seemed invincible when your body moved. Though the way your hand.
Would reach to your brow. Even though dead. Even though each wave of light
penetrates. Even though only seems to slaughter. Sheep of inheritance.
Wake up at 4 a.m. Walk out naked to the porch. Skin shimmering. The way the
word porch clings. The creaky swing. Dark lake of the body. What is always
erased. The way your hand would reach to your brow and wipe your hair away.
And it was always your hair. Always yours. And your face jutted into the
landscape. This nowhere. This clicking sound of insects. Late summer.
Bobbi Lurie
On Sun, Jul 4, 2010 at 10:38 AM, Halvard Johnson <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
> The book is not the self, bobbi. Promote away.
>
> Hal
>
> Halvard Johnson
> ================
>
> The Perfection of Mozart's Third Eye (downloadable and free) is @
>
> http://www.scribd.com/doc/27039868/Halvard-Johnson-THE-PERFECTION-OF-MOZART-S-THIRD-EYE-Other-Sonnets
>
> [log in to unmask]
> http://sites.google.com/site/halvardjohnson/Home
> http://entropyandme.blogspot.com
> http://imageswithoutwords.blogspot.com
> http://www.hamiltonstone.org
>
>
>
>
>
> On Sun, Jul 4, 2010 at 11:30 AM, bobbi lurie <[log in to unmask]
> >wrote:
>
> > My 3rd poetry collection was published a while ago. (May)
> > Please forgive self-promotion.
> >
> > http://www.readcwbooks.com/lurie-grief.html
> >
> >
> >
> http://search.barnesandnoble.com/Grief-Suite/Bobbi-Lurie/e/9781934999950/?itm=1&USRI=grief+suite
> >
> > bobbi
> >
>
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