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What Blooms in Winter (Inglés) Pasta blanda – 15 oct 2016

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Pasta blanda, 15 oct 2016
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Detalles del producto

  • Pasta blanda: 116 páginas
  • Editor: NYQ Books; Edición: 1 (15 de octubre de 2016)
  • Idioma: Inglés
  • ISBN-10: 1630450111
  • ISBN-13: 978-1630450113
  • Dimensiones del producto: 1.3 x 15.2 x 22.2 cm
  • Peso del envío: 181 g
  • Opinión media de los clientes sobre el producto: Sé el primero en calificar este artículo

Descripción del producto

Descripción del producto

In WHAT BLOOMS IN WINTER, Maria Mazziotti Gillan finds cause to celebrate the clarity and comfort of people and times past. This book is a praise song for all that is human and that survives despite grief and loss. It is one woman's story of an immigrant girl growing up in the 1950s in Paterson, NJ, and seeing over a distance of so many years all that she was given to carry into her life as a woman--wife, mother, daughter, grandmother, widow, and arts and eco-activist. All these experiences and people have formed her into the indomitable woman she is. Laced with humor and optimism, this book leads us to believe that flowers that bloom in winter out of hard ground have their own audacious beauty.

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5.0 de un máximo de 5 estrellas Poetic Blossoms 3 de noviembre de 2016
Por Charles W. Brice - Publicado en
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Maria Mazziotti Gillan can write poems that will hush a room, that can cause every person there to feel devastating shame, glorious happiness, or abject grief. Her new book is filled with so many magnificent poems that I didn't want it to end. I stretched out my reading over a week just so I wouldn't have to come to the last poem. Once there, I turned back to the first page and began again. Here's an example of why:

Italian Summer

This summer in Italy, you helped me up steps,
let me hold your arm as we walked
the cobblestone streets of Italian hill towns.
I wanted to give you a gift of the Italy I love, grandson.
How easy it is to believe what we want to believe
about the way people see us,
what they feel.

For years, I held onto the image of you
at seven years old in your North Carolina house.
You walked past me in your family room,
backed up, looked at me with huge violet eyes.
“I love you, Grandma,” you said.

Or the way you always grabbed your pillow
and overnight bag because you wanted to stay
with me at the hotel when I visited you,
so much sweetness always coming off you,
such an open, loving heart.

Now you’re 19 and we are in Italy together. We have
been here almost three weeks. I am happy
to walk with you, to watch you try new food.
At my favorite restaurant in Rome, we have dinner together
and you drink your glass of champagne and mine.
Suddenly, you turn to me and tell me everything
your mother and father say about me, all the things
that are wrong about me—too busy, too loud,
too enthusiastic—all the things I should have done,
and in the restaurant, where I will never be able to go again,
I start to cry.

We leave the restaurant and you take my arm.
But my throat clamps closed. I can’t speak.
How foolish I feel for believing you loved me
as I have always loved you.

Now, each night, I pray for you to do well
in your classes, to be happy, to make friends.
I love you no less,
though whenever I think of you I am sad
for this loss, a cave that opens inside me
too deep and dark ever to fill.

~Maria Mazziotti Gillan, What Blooms in Winter, NYQ Books, 2016