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“Here is a poet for the new millennium, a writer with deep poetic insight and a stunningly creative use of language.” Marion C. Smith, Phoebe, Journal of Feminist Scholarship State University of New York at Oneonta
“I do not know of another poet writing today who brings me closer to myself.” Grace Cavalieri, Producer and Host of NPR’s The Poet and the Poem
“Campbell has achieved a breath-taking miracle of language.” Nikolas Macioci, Judge, Pearl Poetry Prize for Reflections of a White Bear
“…a wonderful collection from depictions of childhood and family happiness to globetrotting, to married life and the joys and sorrows of old age…the trek we all must take as we !" Robert Cooperman, Winner of the Colorado Book Award
“ is an intricate tapestry of one woman’s personal history, radiant with such skillful weavings of language and images, places and times that Campbell evokes the luminosity of not only her world, but of all our own worlds loved and lost.
Turning Points: A Memoir Anthology
By the Evergreen Writers
Everyone has a story, a lifetime of memories to preserve or share with family and friends. The smallest memory holds fascination for someone. As technology changes the way things used to be, as small towns and farms give way to urban neighborhoods, as friends and family come and go, it is vital to record our point in time.
Memoir represents a slice of life in which authors reflect upon intimate issues, family stories, specific events or personal relationships. It is a glimpse of the past, vividly recreated through creative writing.
In Turning Points, readers will join a soldier lured by the mellow tones of a clarinet caressing a New York night; savor coq au vin steeped in garlic and blotted from the plate by hunks of a crusty Parisian baguette; visit great-grandmama’s boudoir, redolent of rosewater; accompany a new mother immigrating from war-torn London to far-away Canada; travel back in time to the Civil War with a great
SOILED DOVES A FISH NOBODY KNEW
Acclaim for Carolyn Campbell-
My Villages is an intricate tapestry of one woman’s personal history, radiant with such skillful weavings of language and images, places and times that Campbell evokes the luminosity of not only her world, but of all our own worlds loved and lost. My Villages is a love song to a full and beautiful life written by a poet at the apex of her writing life.”
__ Kathyrn Winograd, Author of Air into Breath and Phantom Canyon: Essays of Reclamation
“The appeal of Reflections of a White Bear is in the compelling panorama Campbell chooses to draw…the overall effect is symphonic in the way disparate elements are brought together into a unified whole. Reflections has all the amazing life force of a courageous mother on the own in the world.”
___Ted Kooser, The Georgia Review
granddaughter, who encounters her war-weary ancestor; share the sadness of a young woman on her way to a home for unwed mothers; laugh with a hospital administrator destroying forbidden wine in the deserts of Saudi Arabia; learn the harshest reality of a husband’s tour of duty in Vietnam; and suffer alongside civilians caught in the brutality of World War II.
The authors of these memoirs have enjoyed revisiting their pasts and recreating them. Hopefully, they will inspire you, too, to reflect upon your own rich lives and to write the stories lingering in your hearts.
These are precious memories which need to be preserved.
It is open market day, the feira.
Jason and I will shop for trivia,
perhaps cut flowers, a ripe papaya,
a pair of booties, a new comb.
Rosa will buy the rice and beans
and see to the slaughter and pluck
of our daily fare.
I will move in the river
of shopping bags, fleshy bottoms
and strong, brown arms reaching
across oceans of oranges,
red apple patches and green-leafy stalls.
I’ll move through scattered eyes, and the
lies over kilos of spices, slippery squid,
hairy brown roots, straw-matted eggs
and dung-matted dogs looking for scraps.
By noon, the feira will be gone,
packed up in trucks, the street swept clean,
and Rosa, Lupe, Maria, Dalva – all
the neighborhood criadas, will cook
feijoada, soupy black beans,
black beans, black beans, black beans.
A Fish Nobody Knew
Fish tail, black and oily
as feathers in a slick,
drapes over the rosebud rim
of a Haviland plate.
A gold tined fork rests there,
a shiny warrior
under a sunny chandelier.
An escaped pea
and a squeezed lemon
witness the carnage --
a comb of fine bones hooked
to a spine embracing a void
of new oxygen, all flesh gone,
swimming now in another brine
on the stained white plain,
scattered eyes, foil
fragments, bits of pale bone
and a smile picked clean.
There were lonely summer days
wandering my backyard, tracing
my paths around low hanging shrubs,
the coal-bin side of the house,
the neglected rock garden by the garage,
hot, empty days with no one about.
The alley held some hope of adventure –
picking a hollyhock blossom,
kicking a can, stealing a plum
from the cranky lady’s tree,
finding a piece of colored glass,
and always an ant hill to destroy,
watch the damned curl into a crushed ball
or a crippled life end.
I was God on lonely summer days –
Judgement Day for a colony of innocents.
I watched the every-which-way panic of ants
the desperate digging in and out
of their dying labyrinths and the long line
of nannies carrying white bundles
from the nursery, carrying the offspring to safety.
I did not know then
about burned out villages and ghettos,
mothers running to the woods carrying
bundles of babies and terrified young ones,
the march of monster feet through neighborhoods,
incinerated victims curled and smoking in ashes.
Looking at the decimated ant hill,
I imagined the underground alarm, the scramble
to save the queen. I watched
until I felt sorry for what I had done with my
hateful Buster Brown monster shoe,
too late to apologize to such a tiny creature
living and breathing on a hot, summer day.