From the subtitle and cover blurb, I was expecting this collection of essays to reflect the diversity of spiritual paths. Instead, 90% of the essays are Pagan, with a couple of Buddhist ones and one Jewish essay. I don't have anything against Paganism, but it is not my path, it just doesn't move my spirit. There is some good stuff in here, but I found there was too much emphasis on externals, such as rituals for different occasions and Tarot cards, and not enough on the day-to-day inner work of parenting. Also, Carson's dig at stay-at-home mothers ("studies have shown that most housewives actually spend more time watching television than they spend with their children") was unexpected and uncalled for in a book on spiritual parenting. For many, staying at home with their children and accepting the sacrifices involved is an important part of their spiritual path. Finally, Carson has included an excellent section on the spirituality of biological motherhood, but has not given equal time to fathers and adoptive parents, who have different paths with equal beauty and significance.

Anne Carson had me hooked on this book within moments of reading the introduction. Her commitment to parenting, and to discovering her own path toward spiritual connectedness and understanding, is both moving and inspiring. This book is not designed to tell you how to raise your child in a spiritual home, but the collected essays are meant to inspire thought on the nature of spirtuality and what beliefs each parent may wish to impart. The different section headings, from the spirituality of conception and parenthood to early infancy and on through late adolescence, make this book relevant to people of all ages. Even if you don't have children, it is a wonderful resource for building community and for learning to share our spiritual beliefs in a space of connectedness and understanding. I find myself recalling specific passages time and again, and am often deeply moved by the philosophies and thoughts presented by the many essayists. The religious and spiritual ideas presented are varied and rich in their diversity, and the ideas for creating personal celebrations and rituals are inspiring. I cannot recommend this book highly enough. It will change the way you view spirituality and parenting a new soul.

This book filled with just what the title says - "Poems of Love and Faith". The layout is pretty and the poems themselves are beautiful. They leave you reflective, inspired and reminded of love and faith that is present in this world. Wonderful for a gift to a friend.

Susan Sontag, one of the foremost thinkers and writers of today, says of Anne Carson: "[Anne Carson] is one of the few writers in English that I would read anything she wrote." Such regard for Carson is justified. One of the premiere poets today re-inventing and rediscovering language to meet our present demands of articulation, in the true post-modernist fashion, Carson has come up recently with a collection called, Men in the Off Hours, finalist to the National Book Critics Circle Award.
Men in the Off Hours contains poems and prose pieces that lay the groundwork for various intersections of opposites: past and the present, the classic and the modern, cinema and print, narrative and verse. Here we can find the paintings of Edward Hopper turned into poems as footnoted by St. Augustine's words in the Confession, Thucydides and Virginia Woolf conversing about war, and a host of other characters summoned in the forefront of contemporary image-making: Sappho, Artaud, Tolstoy, Lazarus, Antigone, Akhmatova. They can be found in the chain of poems titled "TV Men" which re-images and re-imagines the lives of these personages, how they correspond to the contemporary definitions of the gaze, as shaped and articulated by woman-as-director, woman-as-creator.
One of the best poems in the collection is "Essay on What I Think about Most" where Carson exalts the element of mistake, both in art and in our lives. It then makes a literary exegesis of a fragment poem written by Alkman, a 7th century B.C. Spartan poet, of how it masterfully harnesses the conceit of the mistake, and is interspersed with quotes by Aristotle. The persona declares: "The fact of the matter for humans is imperfection."
"Irony is not Enough: Essay on my Life as Catherine Deneuve," on the other hand, is composed of a series of prose poems that narrativizes the days of Catherine Deneuve. Here Carson imagines herself as Deneuve, somewhere in a room in an academy in France, lecturing about Socrates and Sappho, catching all the knowing gazes by one of her female students, as the snow outside her window drives through everything like rain. The prose poems are short and episodic, almost breathless, representing the smallness of Daneuve's life, and the frailty of relationships, against a backdrop of a long, bitter winter.
Carson is at best intellectual and scholarly in this collection. Her far-reaching vocabulary touches various human endeavors like myth, archaeology, science, history. Because of this pre-occupation with facts and quotes, Carson has debunked the lyric, freeing words from imposed musicality that poetry is almost always made to assume. Her poems are minefields, nuclear antechambers, blackholes. They are reckless, energetic, centrifugal. This attitude of Carson problematizes the poem as insular and solitary, breaking up its gates to the gift of intertext, where meaning yields to multiplicity.
Told in such exquisite and piercing language, her long essay (complete with an annotated bibliography), "Dirt and Desire: Essay on the Phenomenology of Female Pollution in Antiquity," meanwhile interprets classical configurations of the woman body's and its supposed vulnerability for defilement. She calls forth thinkers from various epochs who have shaped and structured the constructs with which we define one another as members of the human tribe. She then launches into an analysis of the motivation behind ancient weddings and a fragment poem by Sappho, things that speak well of the kind of boundaries we have put up as a defense from one another, as how Carson puts it: "As members of human society, perhaps the most difficult task we face daily is that of touching one another-whether the touch is physical, moral, emotional or imaginary. Contact is crisis."
Men in the Off Hours culminates with an essay Carson has written for her newly departed mother titled, "Appendix to Ordinary Time." Carson proves that she is indeed a "poet of the heartbreak," as she remembers the simple gestures of her mother when she was still here, articulating the loneliness attendant to the experience of grief, and how she found solace and comfort from the diary entries of Virginia Woolf during her last days. She grieves: "Did she think of me-somewhere in some city, in lamplight, bending over books, or rising to put on my coat and go out? Did I pause, switch off the desklamp and stand, gazing out at the dusk, think I might call her. Not calling. Calling. Too late now..."
Carson is one of the first writers to conquer the frontiers of the 21st century poetry, the first to be able to storm through the paltry and outdated definitions of language and language-making. Here is a poet who is courageous, intelligent, and fierce but at the same time tender and forgiving toward the kind of passages we undertake, solitary or communal. She always reminds us that the love for imperfection is valid and that we are irredeemable from transience, but guides us though the maze of fear evoked by these truths, if only to discover the joy and surprise that come from being here, the ordinary time we seek to mark.
Carson's opus can well be summarized in the epitaph she used for her mother:
such
abandon
ment
such
rapture

Susan Sontag, one of the foremost thinkers and writers of today, says of Anne Carson: "[Anne Carson] is one of the few writers in English that I would read anything she wrote." Such regard for Carson is justified. One of the premiere poets today re-inventing and rediscovering language to meet our present demands of articulation, in the true post-modernist fashion, Carson has come up recently with a collection called, Men in the Off Hours, finalist to the National Book Critics Circle Award.
Men in the Off Hours contains poems and prose pieces that lay the groundwork for various intersections of opposites: past and the present, the classic and the modern, cinema and print, narrative and verse. Here we can find the paintings of Edward Hopper turned into poems as footnoted by St. Augustine's words in the Confession, Thucydides and Virginia Woolf conversing about war, and a host of other characters summoned in the forefront of contemporary image-making: Sappho, Artaud, Tolstoy, Lazarus, Antigone, Akhmatova. They can be found in the chain of poems titled "TV Men" which re-images and re-imagines the lives of these personages, how they correspond to the contemporary definitions of the gaze, as shaped and articulated by woman-as-director, woman-as-creator.
One of the best poems in the collection is "Essay on What I Think about Most" where Carson exalts the element of mistake, both in art and in our lives. It then makes a literary exegesis of a fragment poem written by Alkman, a 7th century B.C. Spartan poet, of how it masterfully harnesses the conceit of the mistake, and is interspersed with quotes by Aristotle. The persona declares: "The fact of the matter for humans is imperfection."
"Irony is not Enough: Essay on my Life as Catherine Deneuve," on the other hand, is composed of a series of prose poems that narrativizes the days of Catherine Deneuve. Here Carson imagines herself as Deneuve, somewhere in a room in an academy in France, lecturing about Socrates and Sappho, catching all the knowing gazes by one of her female students, as the snow outside her window drives through everything like rain. The prose poems are short and episodic, almost breathless, representing the smallness of Daneuve's life, and the frailty of relationships, against a backdrop of a long, bitter winter.
Carson is at best intellectual and scholarly in this collection. Her far-reaching vocabulary touches various human endeavors like myth, archaeology, science, history. Because of this pre-occupation with facts and quotes, Carson has debunked the lyric, freeing words from imposed musicality that poetry is almost always made to assume. Her poems are minefields, nuclear antechambers, blackholes. They are reckless, energetic, centrifugal. This attitude of Carson problematizes the poem as insular and solitary, breaking up its gates to the gift of intertext, where meaning yields to multiplicity.
Told in such exquisite and piercing language, her long essay (complete with an annotated bibliography), "Dirt and Desire: Essay on the Phenomenology of Female Pollution in Antiquity," meanwhile interprets classical configurations of the woman body's and its supposed vulnerability for defilement. She calls forth thinkers from various epochs who have shaped and structured the constructs with which we define one another as members of the human tribe. She then launches into an analysis of the motivation behind ancient weddings and a fragment poem by Sappho, things that speak well of the kind of boundaries we have put up as a defense from one another, as how Carson puts it: "As members of human society, perhaps the most difficult task we face daily is that of touching one another-whether the touch is physical, moral, emotional or imaginary. Contact is crisis."
Men in the Off Hours culminates with an essay Carson has written for her newly departed mother titled, "Appendix to Ordinary Time." Carson proves that she is indeed a "poet of the heartbreak," as she remembers the simple gestures of her mother when she was still here, articulating the loneliness attendant to the experience of grief, and how she found solace and comfort from the diary entries of Virginia Woolf during her last days. She grieves: "Did she think of me-somewhere in some city, in lamplight, bending over books, or rising to put on my coat and go out? Did I pause, switch off the desklamp and stand, gazing out at the dusk, think I might call her. Not calling. Calling. Too late now..."
Carson is one of the first writers to conquer the frontiers of the 21st century poetry, the first to be able to storm through the paltry and outdated definitions of language and language-making. Here is a poet who is courageous, intelligent, and fierce but at the same time tender and forgiving toward the kind of passages we undertake, solitary or communal. She always reminds us that the love for imperfection is valid and that we are irredeemable from transience, but guides us though the maze of fear evoked by these truths, if only to discover the joy and surprise that come from being here, the ordinary time we seek to mark.
Carson's opus can well be summarized in the epitaph she used for her mother:
such
abandon
ment
such
rapture

Anne Carson recently won a MacArthur, the "genius" grant, and deserved every penny of it, in my opinion. Yes, this book is crammed with historical allusions and persona poems in one form or another. No, it is not emotionally involving. And yes, occasionally she skates the fine line between postmodern cleverness and gimmicks, with all of the "tv scripts" and so forth. Nevertheless, the quality of writing and intellect at work here is absolutely stunning--and makes Anne Carson one of the most exciting, adventurous, and brilliant lyrical poets I've been reading. Unlike the "glass" essay in "Glass, Irony, & God," you will not get anything remotely resembling an intimate first person narrative here. If that's the kind of poetry you're looking for, this is definitely not the book for you. On the other hand, if you're looking for expanded possibilities in lyrical writing--the lyric operating in an intellectual/philosophical arena--or you enjoy experimental lyrical poets--then this book is well worth the money. It's a sheer tour-de-force in intellectual imagination and breathtaking lyrical lines that spin intelligently, if not emotionally, as some of the reviewers here have cited as a criticism.

The storyteller in the The Beauty of the Husband is a woman who may or may not be Anne Carson, recalling a failed marriage with a beating mind. The memories set down here - jolting, raw, journalistic, poetic are bled onto paper to form a succession of 29 highly literate and evocative ink blots. "How sharp the point of this remembrance is" according to Shakespeare. But enough exegesis - put on Piazzolla, read this book and answer for yourself what a lover wants from the beloved. Start with a little beauty and truth...

Anne Carson has written a beautiful book of poems/tangoes that somehow tell the story of a marriage without actually telling a story. We have fully realized moments, conversations (Carson writes amazing poetic conversations, here and in her other works), events -- without all the connections in between. And yet these moments are woven together, internally and from one tango to the next, with language used as the steps of a dance, providing motifs and figures that carry the reader from one page to the next. Dance, games, rules, war, the rules of war, love, beauty, truth, lies and betrayal -- all of these themes run in and out of the complicated pattern of steps. The technique always serves the lyric, however, and we never lose sight of the feelings Carson wishes to evoke. You feel the separate pains of each betrayal (her betrayal of her mother, the not-yet-husband's failure to appear for their wedding, his first infidelity, each subsequent lie), but despite the pain there is no bitterness in this book -- in fact, Carson's final advice is to "hold beauty." Just as you cannot tell the tale of the lover without telling the tale of the beloved (as the final poem ironically suggests), so, perhaps, you cannot have love, beauty and truth without their opposites. Carson, plainly, is on the side of beauty.

In "The Beauty of the Husband," Carson continues her exploration-- begun in her 1986 book, "Eros the Bittersweet"--of how love, beauty, knowledge and pain intersect. This project continued through "Glass, Irony, and God," and "Plainwater." "Beauty" can only be understood in that context; those who take "Autobiography of Red" to be her most representative or best work are missing the point, as are those who want to find in Carson a "poet." She is not a poet, and will inevitably disappoint those who expect her to be. She is really a phenomenologist. Her language only *sounds* poetic, because she is forcing language to a new task, namely to bring you into direct contact with a phenomenon--the pain beauty inflicts. In this very specific sense, Carson is a Platonist. Plato took Beauty to be irretrievably lost to us in this life, but desperately remembered and wanted. Beauty causes pain because it at the same time attracts and thwarts me. Anne Carson dealt with this anguish theoretically in "Eros;" "Beauty" is one more variation on that theme, where "the Husband" is the narrator's loved reminder of true Beauty. His beauty makes her want to know him (sweet), but he always spins out of her grasp (bitter). That is the *fact* of love: to read this book is to taste it on your own mind's tongue.