Poet Jane Munro reads from Blue Sonoma

or blue Sonoma by Jane Monroe somewhere between the directness and clarity of haiku and Yates's a naked man is but a poultry thing moves Jane Monroe's hauntingly candid explorations of the hard truths of growing old but blue Sonoma unflinching as its poems are in their wrestling with the partners Alzheimer's with memory death and dying with the inexorable advance of time achieves in engaging liveliness as a result of the poet's earthy voice colloquial wit and acute descriptive powers for Monroe language travel and art are the props in a little local theater of light and this theaters relationship to other worlds other possible states of consciousness repeatedly levin's blue sonomas painful content with wisdom and delicacy in primarily short lines of impressive transparency Monroe's writing replete with natural images of Canada's west coast celebrates even as it confronts with blunt honesty the sensuous passage through the years towards whatever transition must follow and us will we substance or reflection the question hovers over this gathering of deeply meditative and viscerally felt poems and leads us with gentleness but no apology into the realm of riveting and ultimate contemplation the old man to whom I'm married hits the sack adine after breakfast black bear out in the rain on blueberry flats is it too wet to hibernate the Muddy Creek virgin by lunch she's up the skies no lighter candles with our tea tell me can a soul fatten up for winter the old man who picks up the phone does not get your message call again please call again the cap sleeves squirrel guts on the Tibetan rug augury I cannot read you've got to talk with me I scrape glistening coils into the dustpan spit on drops of blood and spray ammonia the blood spreads into the white wool I am so sick of purring beasts don't tempt me old man today I have four arms and weapons in each hand the old man takes his choppers out when chicken sticks to them he parks them in a glass of blue phys DNA from fossil bones tells us we are siblings to Neanderthals and the small arrangements we make language travel art prompts in a little local theater of light you

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