"Profound, moving poems of the hard coming-to-terms with death this map of grief in the spare language of true poetry is an illumination of all sorrow." --
Ruth Stone"These poems are transformed into literal necessities by the hand of a poet who writes from a time in her life when there was nothing but necessity. The poems themselves become indistinguishable from bread, wine, stone, and staircase, and in this sense they are objects of force contemplative issue absolutely good." --
Fanny Howe"These poems, eloquent, quiet, painfully clear, rise from a profound willingness to face the irremediable. This is a beautiful book this ark built to carry survivors through the flood waters of grief and loss this ark of covenants between the living and the dead." --
Richard McCannCelia Gilbert's An Ark of Sorts is a powerful, beautifully written book with a compelling subject. In this delicately shaped series of poems, a mother recalls the passage of a year after the death of a child. An apartment in Paris is the first place of exile, then a place of refuge as the poet, with her family, mourns. Each detail in these vivid poems takes us farther and more poignantly into the city the poems describe, and into the place in the heart where the poet lives. Celia Gilbert writes in "The Secret," "'The art,' says Mademoiselle, 'lies in the way you get from one note to the other.'" An Ark of Sorts evinces that art throughout its sequence of clear images and carefully delineated feelings. --
Alice Mattison & Joyce Peseroff, Judges, The Jane Kenyon Chapbook Award Series, 1997Recently I read "An Ark of Sorts," by Celia Gilbert, published by Alice James Books. Gilbert, a Cambridge printmaker and poet, writes about the death of her child. The poems won the first Jane Kenyon Chapbook Award. The late Jane Kenyon left us poems with which she armed herself as she confronted depression and cancer, and this book follows in her tradition of touch, clear-eyed poems that make dragons retreat. Celia Gilbert's poems touched Minnie Mae and me in a way that both sears our own memories and yet offers us comfort and companionship. I have ordered five copies to give to friends who need Celia Gilbert's lean and powerful lines as much as we have. Now I arm myself each morning with one of her poems that is framed on my writing desk.
Holding On
Because the dead have no memory
we must always be remembering for them.
You learn now to live under water.
Even if you grow pale with longing
for sunlight and sunsets of violet,
you must float with the currents and be of them
and it is comforting here without the treacherous,
shifting temperatures of the earth world.
Some would call it dark
but I say no: here shines
all the light I need. Here everything exists,
though it cannot grow. -- Donald M. Murray, The Boston Globe, May 12, 1998