Customer Reviews

Line Dance

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In her new collection Barbara Crooker sees life as a dance. She gives us poems about literal dancing, the kind that takes place at weddings, reunions, and proms. But under the surface there are other kinds of dances going on. There's the back and forth movement between the past and the present. And there's the shifting of relationships between family members, friends, and lovers. Nature, too, joins in, dancing its own kind of jig. Appropriately, poems about music, especially rock 'n' roll, and poems about breathing weave their way throughout this collection. Crooker's signature gifts are here again--stunning diction, surprising metaphors, and, of course, mastery of the line. This collection is "Dancing with the Stars" for people who love words.

Here's a sample poem you can dance to:

Listen,

I want to tell you something. This morning
is bright after all the steady rain, and every iris,
peony, rose, opens its mouth, rejoicing.
I want to say, wake up, open your eyes, there's
a snow-covered road ahead, a field of blankness,
a sheet of paper, an empty screen. Even
the smallest insects are singing, vibrating
their entire bodies, tiny violins of longing
and desire. We were made for song.
I can't tell you what prayer is, but I can take
the breath of the meadow into my mouth,
and I can release it for the leaves' green need.
I want to tell you your life is a blue coal, a slice
of orange in the mouth, cut hay in the nostrils.
The cardinals' red song dances in your blood.
Look, every month the moon blossoms
into a peony, then shrinks to a sliver of garlic.
And then it blooms again.

Critics describe Crooker's poetry here as "a sublime tonic against the darkness" or "spilling over with energy and movement" or "exquisite." The work in Line Dance is all that, of course. Such critical praise is justified and deserved, but leaves out two important aspects readers need to know. One, regardless of topic -- death, autism, failure, loss -- Barbara Crooker distills beauty from it. Two, her joyous words will be easily understood by readers. She welcomes readers into her world and makes them feel at home.

In "Blues for Karen" Crooker reaches out to a dead friend the best way she knows how, through words and images:

How could you die? We weren't done talking yet.
So I am trying to call you using the morning glories,
whose blue mouths are open to the sky,
whose throats are white stars,
thinking those tendrils could trellis upward,
hand over little green hand, so tenacious,
they hang on in any storm...

Crooker's use of metaphors is reader-friendly. We can all relate to her descriptions with a sense of wonder. This excerpt from "Zero at the Bone" takes us to a frozen place where the wintry season joins the unwritten lines of the heart:

The scouring light of winter
scrubs whatever it falls on,
the bright whiteness revealing
all the small incursions,
marks and stains of another year.
In the bare bones of trees, we see
old nests, broken branches, bagworm,
gall, all that was hidden by summer's
green scrim. Now we are at the heart
of things, the bone chill
of zero, the closed eye
of the pond. No secrets.

Buried within "The VCCA Fellows Visit the Holiness Baptist Church, Amherst, Virginia" is one of the sweetest, most touching and comforting ruminations on death I've ever read:

...a deacon speaks of his sister,
who's "gone home," and I realize he doesn't mean
back to Georgia, but she's passed over. I float
on this sweet certainty, of a return not to the bland
confection of wispy clouds and angels in nightshirts,
but to childhood's kitchen, a dew-drenched June
morning, roses tumbling by the back porch.

These poems represent "the thin rind of memory" protecting the juicy pulp that is Barbara Crooker's life and poetic mind. Highly recommended.

Close to twenty years ago, I read a Crooker poem, "Raspberries," in the collection, The Lost Children. Until then, I had never found such erotic beauty in a fruit ... and beauty/redemption in what scars our lives, as in "Christ Comes to Centralia," from the same collection.

With Line Dance the simple beauty remains, but each seems filled with particulars, e.g., in describing the Pennsylvania mountains, Crooker reveals: "... Blue, Allegheny, Kittatinny / Tuscarora, this big-muscled, broad-backed / hunk of a state." Or in listing the winters of impressionist artists: "Caillebotte's chimneys exhale like glamorous / women in a cafe."

Crooker's strong metaphorical language inhabits the lines, but the poems seem airy and natural. Each word is perfectly placed; the line endings are natural--not straining toward the jarring/illogical effect of much contemporary poetry; and the final lines are lessons for anyone who has ever wondered how to end a poem.

Other reviewers have mentioned the "autism poems," and anyone who reads such poems as "45s, LPs" will understand how, as in other fields of endeavour, less is more! The "less" in this and other poems that deal with the autism of her son, breaks our hearts--less is more.

And, perhaps, in this amateur review, I should end with less: Buy and Read this Book.

I've been a Crooker fan from the moment I read one of her autism poems in MINDPRINTS. While I agree with everything said in the previous review, it is the autism poems that touched my heart most in this collection. I also have a son with autism, and I appreciate Barbara's ability to convey what it is like for both the parents and the child. There is another type of "line dance" we who live with autism must endure everyday. In "The Knot Garden," Crooker writes:

". . . Our road is more circuitous:
two steps forward, one step back, a knot garden
where the possiblities diminish and the years
branch on. Too soon, we'll arrive at the alpine
altitudes where the vegetation's scarce, the flowers
tiny but exquisite, the foilage barely visible."

Barbara Crooker's poem are easy to like. She has a flair for words and images that touch the heart. It helps to read this book from beginning to end becuase she has organized the poems so beautifully around the central poem, "Line Dance."

In this, her second collection of poems, Barbara Crooker explores the territory of what brings us joy, of what breaks our hearts. Grief and love. "Grief and heart could be the same word," she suggests. "Both have / five letters; both rhyme / with blood." It's not sadness that occupies these poem, rather the idea that in spite of grief, there is joy in the simple things life offers: the swelling bud of a pink peony, grey juncos at her bird feeder, the autistic son who surprises her, the dead who dance at a wedding. Crooker has the ability to bring light into the darkest spaces; her poems burst with color: lemons and the lavish light of yellow, red hearts in windows facing a snowy landscape, brown-eyed sunflowers. There is music in these poems, in her deft use of language, in the surprising and oh-so satisfying way Crooker can bring in that last image, like a bow at the end of a performance. You will leave these poems dancing and satisfied, too, that you were allowed a few moments in the world of her extraordinary poetic ear and eye.

I'm riffing on the warm air, the wing beats of my lungs
that can take this all in, flush the heart's red peony,
then send it back without effort or thought.
And the trees breathe in what we exhale,
clap their green hands in gratitude, bend to the sky.

What Crooker has done with "dance" is splendid, so much so I will never see the word in the same manner for the rest of my life. Every poem is excellent, and all of them seamlessly unified with "la danse de vivre." Bravo to her!

Larry D. Thomas
2008 Texas Poet Laureate

Barbara Crooker does a wonderful job with words. Her poetry resinates with my personal life so well. I love her work. Keep up the good work Barbara. I would recommend this book to anyone suffering from loss or depression. It definitely lifted my spirits.

This book of poems perfectly captures the joys and tragedies of our lives. The valor and courage of everyday people are celebrated. Very uplifting and beautifully written book.