By Jewel Kilcher
I have realized that now not all poetry lends itself to track -- a few suggestions have to be sung simply opposed to the silence. There are softer and no more tangible part[s] of our selves which are so necessary to peace, to openheartedness, to unfolding the imaginative and prescient and the religious realm of our lives, to exposing our souls. - Jewel, From the Preface Writing poems and protecting journals for the reason that early life, Jewel has been looking for fact and which means, turning to her phrases to list, to find, and to mirror. In an evening with no Armor, her first number of poetry, Jewel explores the fireplace of old flame, the fading of ardour, the giving of belief, the teachings of betrayal, and the therapeutic of intimacy.She delves into issues of the house, the relaxation of family members, the great thing about Alaska, and the dislocation of divorce. after which there are the pictures of the line, the folk, the bars, the planes, locations unique and mundane, loneliness and friendship. Frank and sincere, severe and all of sudden playful, an evening with no Armor is a skilled artist's intimate portrait of what makes us uniquely human.
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Extra resources for A Night Without Armor: Poems
It is humid and ancient. Many lovers have been taken down exalted, fallen, risen kissed by the purple finger that seeks the plum blossomed Love. I have no Lover only my pen and an answering machine back in the States which no one calls. I am told I am adored by millions but no one calls. 32 Tai Pei £ Thick night, a cobalt expanse littered with the bright shock of yellow and orange neon signs boasting their wares, dried fruit or wedding dresses in the latest style. A humid claw clings to me, every movement anticipated by this moist air, this Asian sky with its endless fields yawning unseen beneath it.
A young girl sweats, her armpits like tidy rosebuds. The businessman from Hong Kong pretends to have fallen asleep while she washes herself in the sink, the night sticking to her insides in a way she can't wash off. Iai lei 3 A warm rain swept across the streets. Filling spaces with humid quiet. White noise. Moist gauze dulling the edge of the vendors' pleas. Woman selling incense outside the temple. Huge bronze bowls bellowing smoke, the room thick with choking fragrance. Women of prayer with deep lines in their faces and blue robes blessing those who come to them seeking clarity.
Fog and rain hanging low and heavy like a damp and woolen hood. 34 O n the steps below there is a man with one leg, whose face looks carved of wood a hysteric smile parting his lips. He reads people's palms. " 36 1966 I turned off the TV. Looked out of my window to the streets below. Dry sidewalks. A line had straightened up stiff as uncut ribbon beneath a sign that read Army Headquarters. I stared at the boys' faces. They looked itchy and awkward like my brother's. I don't know what kept them in that line, the sun was hot and unrelenting.
A Night Without Armor: Poems by Jewel Kilcher