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stories of their own special families.
Michael Kalafatas visited the Aegean islands, met many relatives and learned all he could about different diving techniques. He follows the history of the sponge trade from the Sultan's seraglio in Constantinople to the desert coasts of Australia and the more lush landscape of Tarpon Springs, Florida, where he lived as a boy. He wrestles with such difficult issues as why divers persisted in risking their lives even after they had learned how they could work less dangerously.
The personal character of much of the book adds to its appeal. In short, this is one of the best books I've read this year.
There is the context - Rave is a collection from several of her earlier works: Beginning with O, 1977 (Yale Series of Younger Poets); Soie Sauvage, 1979; Pastoral Jazz, 1983; Black Holes, Black Stockings (with Jane Miller), 1985; Perpetua, 1989; The Choir, 1989-1991; Sappho's Gymnasium (with T Begley), 1994; Ithaca: Little Summer in Winter (with T Begley), 1996; several translations of Odysseas Elytis.
Her poetry feels like an urgent, rich process of exploration and discovery that reaches to primal energetic depths to reorient, heal, and recreate the present. Her words seem to take shape from a deep energy that fires the insights and images that these words form as they come together. At other times, the words seem grounded in the specific physicality of the present, and Broumas's touch seems to listen deeply to that physicality, back to its energetic origins, and her words sound echos from these depths.
I am honored to read her poetry, and I am moved.
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If you love poetry, I highly recommend this book.
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I was writing a letter to my friend about these poems and described them as "kinda crazy, out-there." There's no punctuation, which doesn't sit well with me, but it fits with Broumas and Begley's style. These short poems are mostly strings of images with some reflection too. Connections between the images aren't made-the reader needs to make the connections for herself. But in most places it's impossible to make these connections in a way that's wholly satisfying. Sometimes it feels pleasant to let the images play themselves in my mind-it feels like my unconscious is making sense of them in a way that's vague and beautiful. Sometimes the images interact, resonate with one another, in a way that I could never describe. But other times I get frustrated, as if the writers are playing a game with meaning, and it's a game I've played before, and I don't want to play with them.
This ambiguity is obviously what the poets wanted. Everything is viewed as if through a screen or in a very hazy, bright light. There are moments of clarity that I enjoy very much. For the most part, the poems don't seem whole-they're heavily dependant on one another-but there are occasional poems that stand alone as complete. I particularly like these ones; they seem more successful.
Because of the ambiguity, this book is generally frustrating to me, but also because of the ambiguity, it's also generally a pleasure. The easy-going spirituality that attracted me to this book initially is not explored as much as I wanted, but it is an undercurrent throughout the poems, a part of that bright, hazy light.
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