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Editorial Reviews. About the Author. Esther was born in Milan, Illinois. She currently resides in Indiana with her husband and her two cats. She is expecting a.
Table of contents
- Read Without Glasses at Any Age : Esther Joy Van Der Werf :
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- Esther - The Poetry of Purim
- With Esther - Poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
Its solid walls protect me And embrace my inventive ego That imagines itself inside The ruthless fortress, Escorted by the people Who used to breathe its stones. How can something made for war Bring such calmness to my soul? Medieval miniatures and a red cross Disguise its true reign.
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Trembling hands grab its handle And its power starts to run through my blood. I breathe all mine fire out And my dagger accompanies me into battle. Since you were the older one, the one who was already studying grown up stuff, you would tell me all you learned at school, and history was always my favourite subject. You told me about Mesopotamia and how civilizations were born You told me of the Egyptians and their magnificent pyramids You told me about the Greeks and their great taste in cheese You told me about the Romans and how they conquered the world You told me about kings and queens, about unbelievable voyages and cruel wars.
You told me that Tutankhamun was murdered by his family. You told me that Cleopatra was more intelligent than all her contemporaries, But that history had mistaken her for another person. You told me that Homer had written about the greatest war in history, And that some dude lost himself while going back home. You told me that Augustus became immortal and that Caligula was a dick- Wait, what does dick mean, is it an ugly word? I mean, he made his horse a senator… I love horses!
Yes, I know you do, I know you do. You told me that humankind, for good or for bad, had built history with fire. The sound of drums filled my ears with glorious serenades to those times gone by. The eternal flame, -Born in the depths of the Euphrates And fed with the souls of the immortal. And I listened; I listened to every word you said. I asked questions, eager to know more, hungry to be like you, to be like them.
I wanted to become part of something one day a brother would tell his little sister about. And I went back to sleep, my head full of new worlds, full of learning. Dreams of powerful eyes and witty smiles Made her hand hold a book for the first time. On the screen, an intelligent bright red ribbon Made her wonder of her own possible shine. They give tenacity and hope To feet blistered by persistence, And fill our tired hearts With undying resistance. Shell and sweat Guide our pilgrimage, Thirst and joy Move our legs to the next village. It has undying rain And what is the worst thing about the weather?
The sun never reigns What do you like the most about their supermarkets? Chocolate is a national treasure And what do you like the least about their supermarkets? Fish is not their pleasure What do you like the most of their national dishes? Potato is their talent What do you like the least of their national dishes? Eating healthy is a challenge What do you like the most about their universities?
They have a week just to read What do you like the least about their universities? The difficulty of the subjects makes you bleed What do you like the most about their houses? They have the scent of times gone past What do you like the least about their houses? They become scary really fast. The taste of liberty What did you like the least about being there?
The reality of responsibility What did your heart miss the most when being there? I really missed home What does your heart miss the most about not being there? I realised, when I left, that it had become my second home, and I miss it all. How to describe when a single moment of intense delicacy stays eternal in time, captured by the warmth of a bright summer twilight. So, after having tried too hard and having failed too miserably, I decided not to label them and put them in the order I thought most adequate.
Although I firmly believe that we are and will forever be locked away in our minds, I do think that there is the slightest chance that someone, somewhere, writes or says or cries those words that will talk directly to the soul although we all know that words are not precisely the most efficient agents of communication. Besides, I do think that poetry is perhaps the shape those words will take or would take or have already taken.
We might as well never know. Then I'll wait for your sun to set. And watch the black pour from your eyes and take away the heaviest crown, as your sigh escapes in a shy growl, and I read the notes and count the pages in this Book of You, where words sleep and I am never found. My hand in her hand feels her tightening grasp as the last spasms shake my body and my thoughts. Our hands: the only forces in existence and between our closed palms we hold the secret truth that lies beyond every soul.
When time awakes we let it go and it runs away for it knows that we could catch it if we wanted to.
Read Without Glasses at Any Age : Esther Joy Van Der Werf :
We already have each other. Time bends to our will and we give birth to the stars. Would I glimpse your fears, bloated like clots of red, groping together in agitated silence? Or would I find your joy still untampered, untouched by that ugly thing that is the outside? And if I drilled deep enough and by chance I reached their core Would I find and open door? Would I find a door at all?
But the only thing he ever managed to recall was a will-seeping kiss and a shrinking heart as the doors of the train closed and took her away. She never looked back. You asked me once.
When I rest my hand on the cover of your small bed looking for the warmth that is now elsewhere, I realize it is now cold and I remember You are gone. And I am alone. Hollow things stare from every window, and watch in silence these No People as they walk and nod an talk in silence. If you listen closely you may once hear, the hushed rumor of their dry voices at nightfall, when No People fill their porches. Sometimes at day you can even glimpse the edge of hidden shapes against the sun as they march behind a small burning lamp that casts no light.
When you left I gazed at the mirror looking for that face I once ignored, hoping that it had somehow been stored wishing to strike with it a new accord. But your face never showed up, I tried with words and even some kissing, until I understood it would never come back, and I drew a tired gasp.
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Then I saw the words, faint like tiny ghosts, hanging there as if tied to some reflective post: Objects in mirrors may be closer than they appear. I would say that my view has changed in the sense that meaning has become a central part of the poetic experience, not only as a reader but also as a creator.
Not wanting to undermine the importance of the form, I think now that what gives poetry its primal essence is the meaning codified by the author as well as the meaning juiced by the reader, which can and should differ from the former. Form, in my opinion, helps the process of decoding and understanding poetry, but it serves the primary objective of transmitting a feeling, a view, an opinion, a meaning in a beautiful way.
The tone can be the saddest or the most uplifting but through the arrangement of words, through the musicality, which can be delicate or abrupt, it is delivered beautifully.
Esther - The Poetry of Purim
My first approach to poetry in English took place when I was 17 or An immediate connection occurred then which lasts even today. I have reread it several times ever since, going deeper in its meaning and decoding new attachments to my own experience. A few months later I read The Eve of St. Agnes, by John Keats for an academic essay I had to write. In the following courses I read poetry from different ages, but I would like to highlight Modernism as a fruitful period, in terms of personal likes.
I particularly enjoyed reading The Waste Land by T. Eliot and I guess I understood a bit of it since it meant the highest mark I got on an exam that year. Apart from the poems we read in class this year, not only in Poetry in English but also in other subjects I took, Renaissance and Postcolonial Studies, I must confess I have not read any other poems in English on my own. I have focused though on poetry written in my mother tongue, Spanish, and I have gone through the complete collection of an unfortunately deceased relative, who was an interesting and rather experimental author.
At this point on my life, some weeks before I get my university degree, I take a look back and reflect on the five years I have spent dealing with English language and literature; the first one at home, the other four far from there.
With Esther - Poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
On this reflection, on what everything has meant, the experiences lived and people met, on what waits beyond and what I have left behind, I have built my personal collection, which I am glad to include here. Both you and I have missed the warmth of a tender hug, of a compassionate talk. It was so difficult, sister, to go away from home and thrive.