*****
Meals, not snacks...
A "performance poet" I know once called poetry "the snack food of literature." Well, she was young, so I forgive her. But sometimes it seems that a snack is all the current literary scene wants. They won't get it here. Djelloul Marbrook's "Far From Algiers" is the best kind of repast: every poem multi-flavored, nutrient-rich, and demanding repeated tastings. This is poetry as nourishment, the solid meal so needed in a spiritually starved, caffeinated world. Slow down, chew each bite. Feel stronger aferward.
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*****
inspiring and beautiful
What makes these poems stand out is not only their evocation of Algeria, but the pain of being denied by one's own father. At a time when we've just elected as president a man who was largely denied by his -- and at a time when far too many young people grow up without fathers -- these poems go a long way toward imparting that sense of deep, lifelong hurt that often accompanies such abandonment. I'll never casually use the word "[...]" again without thinking of what these poems taught me. Rich, warm, lovely poems that are deeply satisfying and which last a long time in the mind.
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*****
Words that enter the soul
These poems are among the most hauntingly beautiful works imaginable. They stay with me to the extent that I find myself thinking about them long after having read them. I highly recommend this collection.
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*****
Hauntingly Beautiful
These poems will stay with you long after you've read (and re-read) them. They grab you with titles such as What Good Did My Own Good Do Me? and Bitchy Nurse. What follows are hauntingly beautiful poems about belonging, not belonging and facing and owning our feelings. Mr. Marbrook shows a wicked sense of humor also. I think the next time someone asks me (as in the poem Sinistral) "And what is your background?" I will answer "I have an advanced degree in bastardy." There are many such treasures in this wonderful book of poems by Mr. Marbrook. I am looking forward to more from this talented writer!
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*****
Universal Tears!
I wept reading EXILE, page 51. While poetry, for the most part escapes me, I was touched for all of us reading about Juanita Guccione. She could have been any mother absorbed in her world at the expense of those around her. Her art was simply her world. Reading and re-reading somehow let's us understand a mother who was first an artist.
And, perhaps brings a little understanding for all whose career turns out to be first. Recommend.
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