I’m thrilled to announce that my first collection I lost summer somewhere has just been published and is available at Amazon and through Kelsay Books.
Here are some of the great things my fellow poets have said about it.
“Melancholy, exuberance, nostalgia, fulfillment, contentment, longing – Sarah Russell hits all the spots, and there isn’t one poem where a woman won’t be able to identify in some way. She’s singing all our songs, putting into magical words things we felt so often but never knew how to tell. Deep sadness matched by laughter, gentleness, love and a sense of adventure. It was a privilege being there with her, living what she remembers, identifying with every line.”
Rose Mary Boehm, author of Tangents, From the Ruhr to Somewhere Near Dresden,and Peru Blues
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“Sarah Russell brings us into her world, a world of “dream-filled summer nights,” where “leaves are October butterflies.” Russell’s poems sing the important moments of life. It’s a song that stays in your mind, drawing you back to the poems again and again.”
Nina Bennett, author of Mix Tape and The House of Yearning
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“Sarah Russell’s poems don’t have to crawl under your skin – they’ve always been there. If you haven’t known a suicide, or gone through divorce or cancer, you’ve known the fear. If you’ve never had a love you’d marry twice if you had three lives, you’ve felt the longing. Russell may have lost summer somewhere, but she has found what makes us human.”
Alarie Tennille, author of Waking on the Moon and Running Counterclockwise
This is a strong poem Sarah, the burnt fields.. the burnt bridges .. the emotions are palpable!
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Thanks so much, Rajani.
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The feast for the prodigal is, I think, simply the act of returning home as often as s/he can…until, of course, home is no more.
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Your observation is interesting because in this case, a farmhouse nearby burned, and now gardens, sheds, the burned home, everything is like it never was. It’s just more milo or corn or cotton or whatever crop brings the best price. There’s an eeriness that abides in its absence.
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The eeriness definitely comes across. Fire is an apt metaphor. (K)
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The way you have moved the burning of fields from real to personal in the last stanza is really perfect…. to have parents aging and feeling that growing distance is so much like that.
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Thanks so much, Bjorn. Working on another poem of that ilk now. Yes, the distancing we do may be necessary to help prepare us for the death of our elders.
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I love the circular quality of this, Sarah. And it’s very moving, of course.
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Thanks a lot, Robert.
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Powerful sentiments… well expressed.
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Thank you, ZQ.
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everything is burnt and will never be the same, but new things will arise –
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Yes, Beth, but my mother-in-law’s way of life will be gone. Hers is the last generation that will keep the farm. She knows that and is hanging on for dear life.
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I identified with much in this incredibly touching poem. The “no quilts for new babies” moved me to tears. In our family, it was “no more cookies in the cookie jar”. When my daughter moved to Oregon, it was my first knowledge of burning the fields. You’ve introduced that beautifully into your poem as well. Bravo, my friend, well written!
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Thanks so much, Beverly. Yes, most young people from this tiny delta town have left. No jobs or opportunity.
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I can see her with her cat and walker, indomitable. I like the way you move from actual burned fields to metaphorical ones. I hope she has a happy 90th birthday! Sounds like tea and cake with the town will make for a happy day.
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Such a small town, and most of them were there, Sherry. A good day, thanks!
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This burning of our lives as if it all goes up in smoke so quickly brings a hard reality to me….I love how you moved into the last stanza and the personal burning….
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Thanks very much, Donna.
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Nice Sarah. I tried to “like” it but it bounced. Who knows why.
Steve
Sent from my iPad
>
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Weird. But this way I got a comment. Thanks!
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The tone reminded me of your other poem – Requital – the clear-eyed unsentimental (and unforgiving/unforgiven) view of death and its prelude – that powerful – line ‘I expect no feast for this prodigal’ and the ashes in the fields. Marvellous stuff.
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Thanks so much, Peter. A friend told me that he thought old age was becoming my muse. I think it must be true. Working on one in that ilk this week too. Hopefully, not maudlin or grotesque.
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Bringing me back to Oregon again. The stark reality in loss. Sometimes those fields ‘get away’ and then the houses and good wheat are taken. The coming back again doesn’t always work, does it…
Thank you for writing this.
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Thanks, Kris. Always nostalgic to go back, even poignant, but it doesn’t always work, like you said.
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Sigh… everything is burnt and will never be the same, but new things will arise…
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In the fields, yes, Sanaa. In life, it seems a slow decline for her.
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Very much visual and touching. She seems to be the living soul of the farmland. Burning field works as a wonderful metaphor.
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Thank you, Sumana. Yes, she is the living soul of the farmland. A beautiful way to interpret this poem. She has lived in that farmhouse for 74 years.
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I love this one and how you brought it full circle. Excellent morning read. 🙂
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Thanks so much, Al. Don’t know how you manage to read AND get your 1500 words in AND take care of a toddler. I’m in awe!
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Haha well I’m not sure how I do it either. Luckily Bunny takes a nice nap every day. 😉
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Love how the poem is contained in the fire metaphor the same way, I imagine, the burning fields are contained. A pleasure to read.
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Thanks, Ryan. Yes, it is usually a “controlled” burn, but very scary if, as Kris mentioned, the fire “gets away.” Then it’s a scramble to get it contained.
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“I expect
no feast for this prodigal.”
The depth of this simple statement statement made me quite emotional.
How oft we leave what is, then mourn its passing.
A wise and wonderful read.
Anna :o]
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Thank you, Anna. I think Thomas Wolfe summed it up in saying, “You can’t go home again.” Certainly those who “go away” from this small insular farming community are never seen in the same light by those who stay behind.
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I love the deeply conversational style of your poem. It reminds me of the times I’ve sat a day on the front porch down South and listened to the stories — family histories to shaggy dogs. It has that easy cadence; as it should.
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Thanks, Charley. High praise. I live with a farm boy from Arkansas. It rubs off, I think.
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This is brilliant writing. I find many of your poems have a story-telling aspect mingled with impactful images and insights of the here-and-now – creating wonderfully constructed, beautifully rendered pieces … such as this one. A pleasure to read!
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What a lovely thing to say, Wendy! Thanks so much.
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Sarah, this is one to read and reread. A layered story of disconnection. I especially like the last stanza.
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Thanks very much, Ali.
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Just lovely, Sarah. Reminds me a lot of Ted Kooser’s work. Thanks so much for the follow. I’ll be checking back!
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Thanks so much, Cheryl. High praise!
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