By Roger Housden
In his assortment Risking Everything, Housden addressed love's many elements. Now, in Dancing with Joy, he assembles ninety nine poems from sixty nine poets that remember the numerous colours of pleasure. whatever could be a catalyst for pleasure, those poems demonstrate. For Wislawa Szymborska, the catalyst is a dream; for Robert Bly, being within the corporation of his ten-year-old son; for Gerald Stern, it's a grapefruit at breakfast; for Billy Collins, a cigarette. Dancing with Joy contains English and Italian classical and romantic works; early chinese language and Persian verse; and poets from Chile, France, Sweden, Poland, Russia, Turkey, and India, plus a number modern American and English poets.Whether suggestion is what you would like, or an confirmation of what's already cheerful in existence, Dancing with Joy is a welcome deal with for Housden's a variety of lovers, in addition to an individual trying to find sheer happiness, marvelously expressed.From the Hardcover edition.
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Additional info for Dancing with Joy: 99 Poems
22 Fifteen: Jack Jack’s anger builds as Cecilia mourns. He shouts at her and slams the flywire door, searching for some contact. She is lost like a child that pain has overwhelmed sitting in a yard. Nothing works to quell the inward-spilling focus of her grief, her dark and curt replies. ‘I cannot talk,’ she says when staring down her husband’s eyes. ❧ He holds the spoon as tightly as a vice then lets it gently down into a cup, the blue-white porcelain as fine as light, Dresden-made a hundred years ago.
In cool water she’s free from her anxiety. Her forebears swam here too; she has a drawing and a diary, found in the old homestead, jammed into a hidden corner. She’s rebound the diary with glue of flour-and-water and rough muslin. It describes ‘exquisite pleasure’ through a day very much like this. A looping feminine hand writes out a life and recipes in private code, that says, ‘At last T. has arrived. ’ The entries end without revealing what was then begun or changed. ’ Still she remembers this, still she thrills and frightens and absolves herself of fear, and as the bull begins to stumble forward into a canter, she can smell his breath as a faint aroma, and the steady hands that let her go feel large as emptiness.
She hides this thought, knowing the photographs have been left to vanish in a place no-one except her enters. The dark gaze is only hers as secret and as whisper. ❧ 46 Now my great-aunt’s quiet words one day when I had stayed to kiss her wrinkled cheek, return again: ‘You’re the image of Elsie’s child— poor Emily who died so young. ’ ❧ The old homestead is made of a hewn frame, rough iron that clangs in wind, split bricks of earth once smoothed and closely pressed, that gape and bulge. Inside it’s laid with objects, long disused: a leather harness, crazy with twisted stiffness, coiling wire, saddles that smell of age.