Milkweed Editions

The Keening

priyanka — Sat, 11 Dec 2010 00:00:00 +0000

A. LaFaye’s The Keening is one part poem, and one part novel. Though the narrative is strong, it is the layered, considered language, and the dance with fantasy that make this novel something special. Both a modern-day ghost story and young adult novel, the book is complex, something that can’t be tied to just one genre.

This book’s protagonist, Lyza, lives with her father on the fringe of a Maine fishing village. With the family’s feet dug deep into fantasy and another foot tipped towards reality, the village doesn’t quite understand them. After her mother’s death from the 1918 influenza epidemic, Lyza has to decide whether she will head to Portland to take a college examination or stay and save her father from those who do not understand his obsessions.

Like many teenagers, Lyza is unsure of her place in the world. Often, she feels as though she has been “orphaned” from her family’s talents and creativity: her mother’s knack for sewing and her father’s carvings. This feeling of otherness or isolation is not helped by her oddball parents who are content to live away from the village. Mater and Pater, as Lyza calls them, do not care that the town ostracizes them or that they are talked about. They are comfortable in their world of sewing, carving, and creation.

Once her mother passes, Lyza’s search for her identity intertwines with the plight to save her father from being institutionalized. Soon, she taps into her family’s heritage and sees the souls in her father’s wood carvings. Like many children who shy away from the thing that makes them different, Lyza realizes that she is not unlike her father, her talents are otherworldly, and that much will need to be done to mend the wounds between her mother’s family, her father, and the different worlds between which she is caught.

The joy of this book is when the descriptions are subtle yet layered. The characterization in this novel is punctuated by sharp descriptions. For example, LaFaye writes “...Mater liked her meals with the tides—breaking her fast as it went out, setting down to supper when it came in, preferring to eat as gulls do between times—pecking at this or that...” In just a few sentences, Mater’s personality is chiseled to perfection.

If there is a misstep to the novel, it is its ending. Here, the speaker tries to wrap up each string or piece of the future: mentioning “the staircase leading up the cliff to home. To college. To anywhere the spirits and the Good Lord cared to lead me.” The final sections of the novel explain too much: The speaker’s realizations about paths—whether or not Kingsley Cove could be emptied out—seem too loud for such a dream-focused novel. The strength of the novel is diluted when the speaker puts her feet on the ground.

It’s moments like when Lyza’s Pater looks up and sees “angels in meteors” or when the writer describes her friend, Jake, and his inability to stand up to his father as “folding like a church lady’s fan” that this novel shines. The poetry in this novel is sharp and layered like Pater’s wood carvings. When Lyza finally learns not to “trip over her talent,” it’s like the glow of a lantern on a dark day. Soon, Lyza learns that if she paddles long enough, keeps her eyes, mind, and heart open, and listens to what’s around her, the shore is sure to come.

Written by: Lisa Bower, December 10th 2010

The Hole in the Wall

payal — Mon, 15 Nov 2010 00:00:00 +0000

By Lisa Rowe Fraustino

Milkweed Editions

I don’t generally read a lot of children’s literature, but I’m glad I stepped outside my normal routine and read The Hole in the Wall. Sebby and his sister Barbie live in a town that is practically deserted after Stanley Odum starts buying up the land to mine it. Their parents are constantly fighting, their older brother ran off a while back, and they’re pretty much opposites even though they’re twins. Barbie is smart and hardworking, while Sebby spends most of his time daydreaming. When a strange substance starts affecting the family’s chickens, Sebby and Barbie find out that it has some interesting (read: magical) qualities.

It’s all very fantastical and you can’t really take it seriously, but it is children’s lit after all, so that’s to be expected. It also isn’t the most well written book I’ve ever read, but it was good enough to have me interested and invested in the characters within a few chapters.

Even though Sebby is the main character, it’s Barbie who I instantly loved. She has a bit of a bossy, know-it-all attitude, similar to Hermione in the Harry Potter series, but it’s more endearing than it is annoying. You also get the sense that she respects her twin brother, despite her attitude and his carefree ways. Their relationship is at the core of the story, so it’s hard not to get attached to them at least a little.

Another thing I really liked was how their mother handles her relationship with their father. At first, it seems that she is putting up with at a lot for no apparent reason, and I was disappointed at how straightforward it seemed. But as the book goes on, her character is developed more fully. Her strength and the reasons behind her decisions starts to become clearer, and she went from being my least favorite to most favorite character by the end.

The ending was a bit disappointing in that it felt somewhat incomplete, but I can honestly say that if all children’s lit is this delightful, I’ll probably be picking up another one in no time at all.

Written by: frau sally benz, November 14th 2010

Orion You Came and You Took All My Marbles

brittany — Thu, 09 Sep 2010 10:00:00 +0000

By Kira Henehan

Milkweed Editions

Orion You Came and You Took All My Marbles follows Finley, an investigator of sorts, as she fumbles her way through her latest mission and attempts to capture it all down on paper.

Though committed to its accuracy, the report is at times rambling, then repetitive, then self-edited to the extreme; in other words, not an easy read. Finley dives in to her assignment with no clear idea of what she’s meant to find, and with all the earnest desire for answers as a warped, post-modern Nancy Drew.

But this is no Nancy Drew mystery; there is no neatly wrapped up answer, no “aha” moment, no mask yanked off to reveal, “It was Old Man Whittaker all along!” Instead Finley peels away mask after mask with no progress made, never forward, only circular or even back the way she came. Through her take on the girl detective and her exploits, Kira Henehan attempts to color the classic noir with experimental, modern, often disjointed and disorienting writing, an unraveling ball of yarn playfully taking on the tightly-knit genre.

On assignment, Finley is thrust into the strange domestic world of a professor and his puppets, who exist behind a curtain in a miniature world that has a pulse and life force all its own. Her goal, as investigator, remains unclear throughout. When we meet Finley—and the hapless crew to which she is tied—they are maneuvering their way around a gray, barren, and gravel-strewn milieu. For all they know or share about their former lives, they could have been born yesterday, thrust upon this futuristic landscape with all the powers of speech and deduction and human emotions, but no remembrance or mention of a past. And yet faint threads do stitch them together in ways not yet fully understood. The twist of an ending forces Finley to question who the true puppet master is, and who among them may have been all along puppets themselves, dangling from his strings.

The remaining mash up of self-discovery, kitsch vintage surfing memorabilia, competition, potential romance, bowling, duplicity and shrimps fell flat. I wanted to be on board with this novel. I tried to appreciate every syntactical nuance or repetition to unlock the deeper meaning behind the prose. I wanted a juicy mystery, even if the style was too thoroughly “modern” for its own good.

But all told, I was left with an empty feeling in my stomach that a good book can usually fill. While this novel was interesting at times to wander the foreign landscape with Finley as she tries to solve puzzles both personal and professional, Orion You Came and You Took All My Marbles just didn’t scratch my itch for a story, the way any self-respecting mystery should.

Written by: Kelly Moritz, September 9th 2010

Seedlip and Sweet Apple: Poems

admin — Sat, 17 Jul 2010 00:00:00 +0000

By Arra Lynn Ross

Milkweed Editions

Seedlip and Sweet Apple is a poetry collection that blooms with the voice and life of Mother Ann Lee, the founder of the Christian sect deemed the Shakers for their prayerful and "ecstatic" dance. Her followers eschew marriage and reproduction, living in brotherly and sisterly communities devoted to harmony and God. The author, Arra Lynn Ross, has created a cohesive story that will capture you even if you have the barest knowledge of the real life of the religious leader. (For those of you who do want to do some prep work, you can gain reference from the PBS site American Stories, or even Wikipedia.)

In such a slim volume, there is so much depth. Ross plays with form and function, mixing prose with poetry, shaping Revolution-era newspaper articles into stanzas and weaving together bits of Gospels, Shaker writings, William Blake and even Sappho into the Mother Ann's narrative. The notes at the end of the book are a must-read, as they help the reader engage and decode the poetry even further. She also provides a list of her source material, and by the end of the reading, the reader may be tempted to read more on this incredible historical figure.

The poems themselves shine alone (in fact, "Mother Ann Tells Lucy What Gave Her Joy" was featured by the American Academy of Poets as a Poem-A-Day in March, a well-deserved honor). As a collection, the poems form an intense meditation on intimacy. It examines the relationship between lovers, siblings, and a believer and her faith. There are moments of breathtaking intimacy, where the reader feels almost intrusive in the moments of revelation. In "Abraham Left Me on a Thursday," Ross captures at once the joy and loss of the dissolution of Mother Ann's arranged marriage:

"They'll say he was a bad man, but I know how hard it is to live with God. In the flesh, in the flesh, where are you Ann? You're a spirit banging at your own rib cage. [...] he danced me across the room, laughing, the heat from his grip burning my side. I shook my head, No, Abraham, no, and he stumbled. We fell sideways to the floor, tangled, my cheekbone pressed to the wing of his shoulder, the rough weave of his hemp shirt. I could smell sweat soaking the cloth, strong with fear and sadness."

Ross doesn't canonize Mother Ann. Instead, she reveals the human being she was, rife with complex paradoxes: disgust and love, fervor and patience, the dichotomy of the spiritual and corporeal entities. It's a work powerful in voice and craft.

I also want to take a few words to acknowledge the Milkweed Editions, the non-profit publisher of Seedlip and Sweet Apple. I worked briefly in the world of publishing and am compelled to spread their message: "Milkweed Editions publishes with the intention of making a humane impact on society, in the belief that literature is a transformative art uniquely able to convey the essential experiences of the human heart and spirit. In an increasingly consolidated and bottom-line driven publishing world, [the reader's] support allows [Milkweed Editions] to select and publish books on the basis of their literary quality and message." If you care about the value of our national literature, Seedlip and Sweet Apple is well worth the investment.

Written by: Jo Ristow, July 16th 2010

The Phoenix Gone, The Terrace Empty

admin — Sun, 17 Jan 2010 01:00:00 +0000

By Marilyn Chin

Milkweed Editions

I have always been fascinated by the immigrant experience, especially within America. Being fifth generation American myself, it is safe to say I am quite removed from it. Yet I often do research and write about my ancestors, thinking about what they went through when they entered Ellis Island in New York and tried to make a place for themselves in a strange land. One hundred years ago, Europeans flooded our shores, and today, immigrants from many different countries make their way here. Their experiences are completely different from previous immigrant generations, right? Yes and no. I honestly believe that there are quite a few similarities.

Marilyn Chin's The Phoenix Gone, The Terrace Empty is a powerful account of what the immigrant faces in coming to the United States – the good, the bad and the ugly. She writes lines about Mongolians on horseback and the Chinese Goddess of Mercy, as well as buying groceries at the Safeway in San Diego. She juxtaposes images that are so different, startling to the reader, but this is only a representation of what immigrants truly experience. From one country to another, so completely different in every way: it is startling. While the poet was born in Hong Kong, she was raised in Portland, Oregon, illustrating the fact that being raised in America from childhood does not necessarily negate the confusion and complexity of the migration experience.

One of my favorite excerpts is the following, from the poem entitled, "How I Got That Name: an essay on assimilation":

I am Marilyn Mei Ling Chin. Oh, how I love the resoluteness of that first person singular followed by that stalwart indicative of "be," without the uncertain i-n-g of "becoming." Of course, the name had been changed somewhere between Angel Island and the sea, when my father the paperson in the late 1950s  obsessed with a bombshell blonde transliterated "Mei Ling" to "Marilyn." And nobody dared question his initial impulse - for we all know lust drove men to greatness, not goodness, not decency. And there I was, a wayward pink baby, named after some tragic white woman _swollen with gin and Nembutal.” _

Later in the poem she draws the two worlds together, showing the reader how intertwined they can be. In fact, one might say that these lines sum up the message of the entire collection: “The further west we go, we'll hit east;/the deeper down we dig, we'll find China.” The old world is never far, regardless of how remote it can seem. Traditions, perceptions, feelings, and thousands of years of history are always with Chin and others like her, even if they must scratch the surface to see them more clearly.

Written by: April D. Boland, January 16th 2010

Beyond the Station Lies the Sea

admin — Tue, 04 Aug 2009 17:15:00 +0000

By Jutta Richter

Milkweed Editions

Cosmos and Niner are homeless. Niner, who has been given this name because he is nine-years-old, was thrown out by a violent stepfather. After that, Niner used to sneak into his house at night to eat the dinner his mother left on the table for him. When his mother was taken away in an ambulance, the house was locked up and he couldn’t get in anymore. Cosmos, an adult, has been homeless for a long time, and has teamed up with Niner on the streets.

More than anything, Cosmos and Niner want to go to the seaside, where they can live without the worries that plague them in the city. But to do that they need money they do not have. Until, that is, they visit the bar called Caracas, where the Queen of Caracas offers to give them the money they need to go to the sea. All they have to do is sell her something extremely valuable. Of course, being homeless, Niner and Cosmos have nothing of value. They think they have nothing to sell her. Until Niner realizes he can sell his guardian angel.

Thus begins the short, young adult novel, Beyond the Station Lies the Sea. Originally written in German and translated into English by Anna Brailovsky, the story is at the same time wonderfully imaginative and deceptively simple. Spanning a scant eighty pages, it is filled with understated emotion and beautiful images while portraying the touching alliance between the vulnerable Niner and the older, streetwise Cosmos, who falters but manages to find his higher self through their relationship.

The author of more than twenty books for younger readers and a winner of numerous awards, in this novel Jutta Richter has created a deeply touching and captivating story. Likely enjoyed by children ages eight and older, it also has much to recommend it to discerning adults.

Written by: Elaine Beale, August 4th 2009

Water Steps

admin — Fri, 03 Apr 2009 16:50:00 +0000

By A. LaFaye

Milkweed Editions

Surprisingly, this story echoed my own fear of water, which I’ve harbored ever since I can remember. I have been plagued with nightmares about water in all forms. The main character, Kyna, has suffered from an almost-paralyzing dread of water since she was three. She was the sole survivor of a storm at sea that her family was involved in.

Adopted by the couple that rescued her, she slowly learns not only how to cope with water, but bits and pieces of her adopted family’s history. It isn’t without a struggle, for her Mem and Pep, Ronan and Itha, are pretty silent when it comes to their history.

All Kyna knows is that her adopted family are Irish, bilingual, and love to swim as much as possible. To pay the bills, Pep is a writer, and Mem is an illustrator. Kyna is frustrated by their refusal to share their history. They use fabricated (so she argues) Irish folklore stories to distract her so much that she has every fairy and leprechaun yarn memorized word for word.

Despite the intense secrecy and Kyna’s fear of water, she’s a strong 10-year-old girl who actively pursues her own interests, like photography. When the family moves to an island home for the summer, she takes up with a local boy, Tylo, and explores the land, searching for the perfect shot.

Tylo is fun to hang with-except for the fact that he really believes that selkies exist—humans who can transform into seals—and that he’s seen a pod of them in the lake. It’s up to Kyna to decide whether she will follow him there, to convince him that selkies aren’t real.

The clues to the answer are always in front of Kyna, waiting for her to accept them. The answer itself helps Kyna to confront her watery fear once and for all. The ending provides a nice surprise. A quick read, Water Steps is a great addition to any pre-teen library.

Written by: Nicolette Westfall, April 3rd 2009

Reading Novalis in Montana

admin — Tue, 03 Mar 2009 00:20:00 +0000

By Melissa Kwasney

Milkweed Editions

Reading Novalis in Montana is a collection of poems by Melissa Kwasny that focuses on connections between the natural world, spirituality, and modern life. The title of the collection rightfully implicates nature and Novalis as the inspiration behind the poems. Novalis, a late eighteenth century poet and writer of Early German Romanticism, focused much his work on the belief in harmony between humans and nature, or the inner and outer worlds.

Spirituality in nature is a strong theme throughout the book. Kwasny’s respect for the outside world is obvious; the poet treats each living thing as an individual existing within its own world. In "Mule Deer," she views the deer, birds, and fish as cartographers drawing lines to suit their own needs. It is a truly refreshing view. Instead of simply coexisting, the poet reflects on what it feels like to live with these different worlds and learn from them.

It is this deep connection to the natural world that leads the poet to introspective questioning of life’s purpose. In the opening title poem, "Reading Novalis in Montana," Kwasny writes: "If, as the gnostics say, the world was a mistake/ created by an evil demiurge, and am I trapped/ in my body, abandoned by a god whom I long for as one of my own,/ why not follow the tundra geese into their storm?"

In the next poem, "Redpolls," she wonders, "What is it that I was supposed to learn?" In "Lepidoptera," she decides that "one reads the world the best one can," but still questions the purpose of her surroundings. She quotes Novalis in the opening poem, writing that "all we experience is a message." While this sounds like a comforting guideline to live by, Kwasny demonstrates it can also be maddening, only leading one to more questions without answers.

There are very few people who claim to have the world figured out. Trying to do so is the lost art Kwasny internally struggles with in her poetry. In "Is It Oblivion or Absorption When Things Pass from Our Minds?" Kwasny talks about "the throwaway life" many humans beings lead.

Trying to find answers to questions of our purpose in the world is exhausting. Most just give up and lead the lives they think they have been given. Thankfully Reading Novalis in Montana never stops asking questions or trying to find answers, reminding the reader there is more to life than one settles for or often cares to know.

Written by: Jill Hindenach, March 2nd 2009

Music for Landing Planes By

admin — Sun, 15 Jul 2007 13:39:00 +0000

By Éireann Lorsung

Milkweed Editions

Music for Landing Planes By is an intriguing collection of poetry by Éireann Lorsung. Lorsung draws from her experiences studying print making and drawing in Italy and teaching high school in rural France. Her collection of poems is woven together through her thoughtfully crafted verse and repetition of words. Lorsung skillfully comments on broader social issues through her reflections on daily activities.

The collection begins with the poem "Being," which sets the tone and style for the compilation as well as acquaints the reader with Lorsung's view of her life as inspiration for her writing: "every place I've been is on fire with words." And, what a remarkable life she has led. With the maturity and depth of her writing, the reader would not guess that this is Lorsung's debut collection of poetry.

Her craft is at its best in her poems "And Will Be," "Forgetting in Multiple" and "Printmaking." Lorsung's use of enjambment encourages the reader to look at the verse in its entirety and then reflect on the multiple meanings each line offers. Her poems find inspiration in nature and speak of blooming flowers and waiting out the winter thaw like "birds in the thatch." The beauty of Lorsung’s poetry is that you can read her poems over and over and discover something new each time.

Written by: Breanne Reindl, July 15th 2007

Willow Room, Green Door

admin — Sat, 07 Jul 2007 19:30:00 +0000

By Deborah Keenan

Milkweed Editions

Deborah Keenan's new poetry collection Willow Room, Green Door includes selections from her previous books - such as Kingdoms, The Only Window that Counts and Household Wounds - in addition to her most recent work. In a collection that spans a lengthy period of time, the reader gets a lovely sense of inhabiting a changing world with the poet, of walking through time, both historical and personal. This collection contains a beautiful diversity of forms and topics. There are prose poems and verse of many shapes and styles.

Some of my favorite poems in Willow Room feature sharp, intellectual responses to fine art and varied literature full of emotion and subtle wit. Some poems, such as "Night Walk": “The last lover you had before your first marriage/called a few weeks ago./You felt the heat” start out with a simple premise, then unspool to reveal much more, from the intimate to the political to the sharply witnessed sensual details: “A car goes by and you believe the silver bike/tied to the top is a Christmas tree” that make these poems ring authentic. Her poems are often sad, but strong, and often touch on female emotion and experience. I love the lines "I have not been done in by some reckless bonsai gardener/I am not an easy species" in her poem about searching for a metaphor and identity.

For me, reading these poems was like listening to a great hip-hop artist who is able to take everything they've seen and learned in their culture and stream forth a flow that puts everything in its right place. Even if you don't recognize every proper noun, they intrigue you and begin to make sense because of the clarity of their perfect contextualization. It's a piece of literature that made me want to reach out and learn more, to pay closer attention to the world that Deborah Keenan so ably observes.

Written by: Dominae Petrosini, July 7th 2007

Uncoded Woman

admin — Sat, 24 Mar 2007 14:10:00 +0000

By Anne-Marie Oomen

Milkweed Editions

Anne-Marie Oomen’s first book of poetry, Uncoded Woman, is a narrative collection centering around a displaced Southern woman finding meaning and direction in a resort town on Lake Michigan.

The “uncoding” in the title refers to a persistent theme throughout the book. The prologue very simply defines the International Code of Signals—the maritime form of communication that involves flags and pennants with shapes. Each poem title is given in both its code signal form as well as its internationally recognized meaning. While a somewhat esoteric pretext for the poems that follow, we are thrust into the life of Bead and her boyfriend/husband, Barn, who fish, hunt, curse and steal as means of survival.

Bead’s voice is strong, yet vulnerable. Although unclear what, it is evident that she is running from something, finding inadequate but needed respite in a town usually overrun with tourists. Throughout the narrative, Oomen reveals glimmers of Bead’s past: death, flight, her yearning for Southern food and customs, her perpetual fear of water, possible sexual violation and definite violence.

As with most poetry, the text is extremely dense, with a myriad of metaphors, both sacred and secular. It shows a kind of Dorothy Allison imagery mixed with a Rita Dove skill for richness and brevity. The references to the “codes” are no novelty or hook; they pull each story together, and it is abundantly clear how each imagined communiqué relates to the “down home” nature of the text. Oomen exercises an immense restraint in depicting her characters and scenery where a lesser poet would have been tempted to fall back onto stereotypes or predictable tropes. It reads earthy and vernacular, yet the verse is nothing short of virtuosic.

In fact, the virtuosity itself was both the most enjoyable and most distracting aspect of the book. At certain points, the soul of the story becomes overly subdued in the beauty of the language. While it is clear that Oomen attempts to convey the inner conflict of Bead’s life, somehow ending the book with a question seems to take away from the immense strength and drive to survive that the reader is invited to witness throughout. I cannot help but wonder whether Oomen was over-strategizing at this point, trying not to come off as too pushy or trite.

Regardless of this small critique, the book is a strong piece of poetry that I would recommend to anyone searching for an excellent portrait of a Southern/Midwest woman trying to survive.

Written by: k. terumi shorb, March 24th 2007