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thrushnightingale's review against another edition
3.0
3.5 stars.
Adelia Prado's poems are sensual and alive. They are precise, they are windows and dirt warm with sunlight. You will want to sit in a kitchen with her, in the heat of candles, and hear her. You will not wish to speak, only to see her. When you leave her house, you will hear the birds better. The streets will be lit differently. A boy will run down an alley. You will greet him with a voice that is yours, but wasn’t before. It is the gift of poetry. It alters us. It makes us more humane, attentive, alive. In this way, poetry is always political, for it gives one strength and so, becomes a means of surviving.
"Serenade"
Some night under a pale moon and geraniums
he would come with his incredible hands and mouth
to play the flute in the garden.
I am beginning to despair
and can see only two choices:
either go crazy or turn holy.
I, who reject and reprove
anything that's not natural as blood and veins,
discover that I cry daily,
my hair saddened, strand by strand,
my skin attacked by indecision.
When he comes, for it's clear that he's coming,
how will I go out onto the balcony without my youth?
He and the moon and the geraniums will be the same–
only women of all things grow old.
How will I open the window, unless I'm crazy?
How will I close it, unless I'm holy?
Adelia Prado's poems are sensual and alive. They are precise, they are windows and dirt warm with sunlight. You will want to sit in a kitchen with her, in the heat of candles, and hear her. You will not wish to speak, only to see her. When you leave her house, you will hear the birds better. The streets will be lit differently. A boy will run down an alley. You will greet him with a voice that is yours, but wasn’t before. It is the gift of poetry. It alters us. It makes us more humane, attentive, alive. In this way, poetry is always political, for it gives one strength and so, becomes a means of surviving.
"Serenade"
Some night under a pale moon and geraniums
he would come with his incredible hands and mouth
to play the flute in the garden.
I am beginning to despair
and can see only two choices:
either go crazy or turn holy.
I, who reject and reprove
anything that's not natural as blood and veins,
discover that I cry daily,
my hair saddened, strand by strand,
my skin attacked by indecision.
When he comes, for it's clear that he's coming,
how will I go out onto the balcony without my youth?
He and the moon and the geraniums will be the same–
only women of all things grow old.
How will I open the window, unless I'm crazy?
How will I close it, unless I'm holy?
jenmkin's review against another edition
5.0
Adélia Prado is a masterful poet & her work breathes honesty and truths that both brought me joy and absolutely wrecked me
sloatsj's review against another edition
3.0
Some good stuff - natural, honest, passionate - but I had been hoping to explode into flames, and I didn't explode into flames.
jking236's review against another edition
5.0
Adélia Prado is a masterful poet & her work breathes honesty and truths that both brought me joy and absolutely wrecked me
quiver's review against another edition
3.0
3.5 stars.
Adelia Prado's poems are sensual and alive. They are precise, they are windows and dirt warm with sunlight. You will want to sit in a kitchen with her, in the heat of candles, and hear her. You will not wish to speak, only to see her. When you leave her house, you will hear the birds better. The streets will be lit differently. A boy will run down an alley. You will greet him with a voice that is yours, but wasn’t before. It is the gift of poetry. It alters us. It makes us more humane, attentive, alive. In this way, poetry is always political, for it gives one strength and so, becomes a means of surviving.
"Serenade"
Some night under a pale moon and geraniums
he would come with his incredible hands and mouth
to play the flute in the garden.
I am beginning to despair
and can see only two choices:
either go crazy or turn holy.
I, who reject and reprove
anything that's not natural as blood and veins,
discover that I cry daily,
my hair saddened, strand by strand,
my skin attacked by indecision.
When he comes, for it's clear that he's coming,
how will I go out onto the balcony without my youth?
He and the moon and the geraniums will be the same–
only women of all things grow old.
How will I open the window, unless I'm crazy?
How will I close it, unless I'm holy?
Adelia Prado's poems are sensual and alive. They are precise, they are windows and dirt warm with sunlight. You will want to sit in a kitchen with her, in the heat of candles, and hear her. You will not wish to speak, only to see her. When you leave her house, you will hear the birds better. The streets will be lit differently. A boy will run down an alley. You will greet him with a voice that is yours, but wasn’t before. It is the gift of poetry. It alters us. It makes us more humane, attentive, alive. In this way, poetry is always political, for it gives one strength and so, becomes a means of surviving.
"Serenade"
Some night under a pale moon and geraniums
he would come with his incredible hands and mouth
to play the flute in the garden.
I am beginning to despair
and can see only two choices:
either go crazy or turn holy.
I, who reject and reprove
anything that's not natural as blood and veins,
discover that I cry daily,
my hair saddened, strand by strand,
my skin attacked by indecision.
When he comes, for it's clear that he's coming,
how will I go out onto the balcony without my youth?
He and the moon and the geraniums will be the same–
only women of all things grow old.
How will I open the window, unless I'm crazy?
How will I close it, unless I'm holy?
motifenjoyer's review against another edition
4.0
9/10 i think, the poems may seem simple but i read them at just the right time and i love the voice in her writing
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