Book Review: What the Living Do

What the Living Do by Marie Howe, Publisher: W.W. Norton & Co. (April 1, 1999), ISBN-10: 0393318869

Rating: 4 of 5 STARS
Source: Random pick at a local used book store

There's a large bin of poetry volumes at our local used book store. I love to browse through them and sometimes I pick up one or two. They're only a dollar... not a big risk. A couple of weeks ago, I picked this one because the person who had it before me had underlined lots of verses and written copious notes throughout the book. To me, that's the best part about buying used books.
From Library Journal: "This compassionate memorial to illness and the loss of Howe's brother, John, and other friends ably depicts the growth and development of personal bonds against which "post-modern brokenness" is measured. This thoughtful analysis of elements of grief ("a living remedy") will perhaps help to ease trauma of death, as does Robert Frost's "Home Burial," but full comprehension of "cherishing" and pain after "the wake and the funeral" seems impossible. The best of these empathetic poems demonstrate a longing for wholeness and appreciation of the "terrified and radiant" mysteries of silence."

Most of these poems were about the death of the author's brother, or rather the dying of her brother. There were others about her childhood (which were pretty disturbing to me) and some just about life. Overall, the poems were beautiful and thoughtful and inspired me to just write about what I see. Here's some sample verses:

From Pain:

He rose on the surface of it like the layer of water on top of a wave
that won't break - you've seen those swells -

cold and moving like something breathing you can't see, collecting and
collecting until it seems uncontainable, heaving on and on, rising and

rising and growing bigger.


From The Gate:

I had no idea that the gate I would step through
to finally enter this world

would be the space my brother's body made



From What the Living Do:

But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the
window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and I'm gripped by a cherishing
so deep

for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I'm
speechless:
I am living, I remember you.


If you enjoy reading poetry, I'd recommend giving Marie Howe a try. If you don't like poetry, try it anyway. Reading poetry helps me look at the world with eyes just a little more open.