The second full-length collection of poetry about life on the Great Plains by this popular Nebraskan poet.
Saiser won the Literary Heritage Award in 1999 from the Nebraska Literary Heritage Association and a fellowship in Literature presented in 2000 by the Nebraska Arts Council.
Her poems continue to be published in literary journals including: Prairie Schooner, Cream City Review, Laurel Review, Meridian, and the Georgia Review.
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Most Helpful Customer Reviews
4 of 5 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
Midwest Book Review - a Nebraska treasure,
By
This review is from: Lost in Seward County (Paperback)
On the back cover of Lost in Seward County, a Saiser fan states she is one of Nebraska's literary treasures. I agree. Her poetry typifies what is strong and pure among those who call Nebraska home. Ms. Saiser says in "Re-Entry":"I have your genes, your no-fooling DNA." No-fooling, indeed. Everything about this poet's work is served straight up. In one of my favorites, "Taking the Baby to the Prairie", she says: "I lift this child to grassland, to kingbird, to cedar and sumac, to long roots hidden like a deer in the draw." Her words bring prairies to life, communicate their beauty simply and effectively. In "Nine Mile Prairie, April": "The smell of plum brush so sweet it makes some exquisite nerve ache." In "Not So Much Bottom Line but Bluestem" she speaks of family ties and friendship, what's truly important. "....and I was ashamed how I had a moment before been promoting myself, trying to get ahead, selling myself when what matters is close against the ribs and next to the beating noise of the heart...." "Father" tells of tenderness and touching. "....as he showed me in Kramer's mortuary that grandmother did not mind being touched and that those dead, and living, are not untouchable if you are not afraid." And always, Marjorie Saiser paints a true picture of Nebraska, such as in "Holed Up in Valentine, Nebraska." "....I imagine the Niobrara, lying low in her white banks while this thing blows over. I imagine a Charolais or an Angus, head-down, turning tail to the wind. Out of the snowbank at the edge of the parking lot, a single stalk of dry prairie grass flops like a metronome. Thirty to forty, with gusts to 50. Life blows on." This poet has won numerous awards. I say, she won them for good reason.
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