Author: | Carol Muske-Dukes | ISBN: | 9781480484832 |
Publisher: | Open Road Media | Publication: | June 10, 2014 |
Imprint: | Open Road Media | Language: | English |
Author: | Carol Muske-Dukes |
ISBN: | 9781480484832 |
Publisher: | Open Road Media |
Publication: | June 10, 2014 |
Imprint: | Open Road Media |
Language: | English |
Poems on the power of memory and the shading of past into present
In this enthralling collection, National Book Award finalist and former Poet Laureate of California Carol Muske-Dukes composes a lyrical autobiography, tracing her family history from the Dakota prairie to her new life as a young mother in Los Angeles. In “The Separator,” Muske-Dukes writes of her grandfather, a wheat farmer, winnowing, threshing, planting a future in the deep black soil of Wyndmere, North Dakota. In “Biglietto d’Ingresso,” she recalls a perfect day in Tuscany, spent with her future husband in a town overlooking a wine valley. “August, Los Angeles, Lullaby” is a lulling yet harrowing description of the wonder of a mother holding her newborn child—and her own fragility, encountering mortality—as a hummingbird touches the hourglass of the feeder outside the window . . . then is gone.
Poems on the power of memory and the shading of past into present
In this enthralling collection, National Book Award finalist and former Poet Laureate of California Carol Muske-Dukes composes a lyrical autobiography, tracing her family history from the Dakota prairie to her new life as a young mother in Los Angeles. In “The Separator,” Muske-Dukes writes of her grandfather, a wheat farmer, winnowing, threshing, planting a future in the deep black soil of Wyndmere, North Dakota. In “Biglietto d’Ingresso,” she recalls a perfect day in Tuscany, spent with her future husband in a town overlooking a wine valley. “August, Los Angeles, Lullaby” is a lulling yet harrowing description of the wonder of a mother holding her newborn child—and her own fragility, encountering mortality—as a hummingbird touches the hourglass of the feeder outside the window . . . then is gone.