If It We Lisa Zaran 9781929878826 Books
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An honest portrayal, emotionally charged, written from one mother's perspective on the effects of addiction.
If It We Lisa Zaran 9781929878826 Books
It is hard to write a review about a book of poetry written by and about the mother of a heroin addict and what it's done to both of their lives. I sit here more concerned about whether Ms. Zaran's son has come out the other end and is in full recovery rather than which poem or line is better than any other, or what kind of art has been produced here. I suppose, however, that is in fact a reflection of the quality of the art/poetry itself which is accessible, raw, honest and yes, indeed quite poetic. I read this quite readable volume twice straight through and am sure I will pick it up again in the near future as I go about my life. It feels stupid to have favorites with a book like this but I'll mention two things, neither of which have I seen mentioned anywhere, either in reviews here or in the multiple introductions to the book. First is the short poem "Breath", which finishes with the devastating lines, "my son is a house for heroin. my son is room after room, withering on frail construction." Literally took my breath away when I first read it though I'm not sure that was the intention of the poem's title. The second is a line which stuck with me from the moment I read it, and somewhat goes against the often agonizing tenor of this volume of survival. It's in the poem "Aftershock" and you can miss it altogether if not paying attention: "What is love if not a hundred passings at once?" You can substitute hundred with thousand or million or infinite but the point remains the same and in the context of this book, what is the love of a mother for one of the two most precious things in her life (she has a daughter as well) but a "hundred passings at once" going on and on, back and forth, with no end beckoning nor desire for it. This book will give strength to both those affected by loved ones' addictions and by addicts themselves, and also to those wishing simply to be inspired by the human spirit and its capacity to endure, withstand and just to dig in one's heels and fight. Now I'm just starting to sound mushy and I apologize but this is a good one, and I highly recommend it.Product details
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If It We Lisa Zaran 9781929878826 Books Reviews
How do parents, friends, codependents, family and society cope with addiction? Some collapse, some, ignore and shun, some turn a blind eye, and some weep the tears that at least indicate that some small part of an aching heart and mind so evidence of survival continues to shout `alive'.
Lisa Zaran is a mother whose son one day was an empowered, promising, healthy young 18 year old and the `next day' was a wasted, criminally minded addict whose only motivation was finding the next fix. What this book represents is a series of poems and beautifully rendered artistic photographs that set the mood for the anguish yet abiding love the author felt for her son as he sank in the dense mud of addiction. The title poem for this collection sets a tone
IF IT WE
Memories. Inside the box
a gift is waiting. Outside
we stare, empty handed, songs
exploding against our skulls.
Heaven's groan terrifies us
in our sleep. The house of breath,
said the Lord, turning all serious.
Let not our labors be in vain.
Here comes the alarm clock.
Here comes your arm, heavy and warm,
across my back. Here comes
your morning kiss equipped with morning breath.
At dawn I see the world
with a compound eye. I do not know
who bruised the lawn, who kicked the sky
into muggy contemplation. I'm only human.
I remember things form a lower point.
A place of lanterns dimly lit.
Though bells keep ringing in my head.
And people seem like long farewells
blanching in the distance.
But in terse thoughts she defines process and effect as well as any poet. Preaching, no. Sharing hurt, yes as in the following tow brief poems
AUDIENCE
First there is the nobility of right.
Wrong is just an afterthought,
a stone's throw from oblivion.
Tomorrow may come
as no surprise. Yesterday may flake
off its chapped skin.
Demise is akin to forgetfulness
As remembering is akin to pain.
My son is addicted to heroin.
SINCE
rehab, it's different now.
No random traffic
to wake me from
a terrible dream.
Just the sound
of scanty leaves
fluttering in between
the breeze
and maybe a bird cry
now and then
to steal me from my panic
PUNISHMENT
When using, you are not the same.
That sublimity of an altered state,
you are not the same.
Do not talk to me about faith or
the hierarchy of trust. Do not bring
the slow jibes of your bright desire
into my house of sorrow.
I'll lock all my windows.
I'll bust all the light bulbs.
I won't recognize your voice
calling mother through the door.
And these few poems are but a snap of the spectrum of the emotions and thoughts and response and the pain and the undying love that this mother feels for her son - her heroin addicted son. But these poems make no excuses, they face the realities of daylight so informed, and they ask us to whisper a supportive sense of understanding as Lisa Zaran makes anguish into art. Grady Harp, August 12
It is hard to write a review about a book of poetry written by and about the mother of a heroin addict and what it's done to both of their lives. I sit here more concerned about whether Ms. Zaran's son has come out the other end and is in full recovery rather than which poem or line is better than any other, or what kind of art has been produced here. I suppose, however, that is in fact a reflection of the quality of the art/poetry itself which is accessible, raw, honest and yes, indeed quite poetic. I read this quite readable volume twice straight through and am sure I will pick it up again in the near future as I go about my life. It feels stupid to have favorites with a book like this but I'll mention two things, neither of which have I seen mentioned anywhere, either in reviews here or in the multiple introductions to the book. First is the short poem "Breath", which finishes with the devastating lines, "my son is a house for heroin. my son is room after room, withering on frail construction." Literally took my breath away when I first read it though I'm not sure that was the intention of the poem's title. The second is a line which stuck with me from the moment I read it, and somewhat goes against the often agonizing tenor of this volume of survival. It's in the poem "Aftershock" and you can miss it altogether if not paying attention "What is love if not a hundred passings at once?" You can substitute hundred with thousand or million or infinite but the point remains the same and in the context of this book, what is the love of a mother for one of the two most precious things in her life (she has a daughter as well) but a "hundred passings at once" going on and on, back and forth, with no end beckoning nor desire for it. This book will give strength to both those affected by loved ones' addictions and by addicts themselves, and also to those wishing simply to be inspired by the human spirit and its capacity to endure, withstand and just to dig in one's heels and fight. Now I'm just starting to sound mushy and I apologize but this is a good one, and I highly recommend it.
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