This book of poetry expresses my heartfelt appreciation of nature, life, and blessings that come to all who believe in God and his greatness. The perceptions of life between the pages of this book were experienced and shared to the fullest. Hopefully, these experiences will continue to touch the hearts and minds of all who own and share this book of poetry.

First edition of this autobiography in discourse.

This cycle of poems reflects the life of Christ, by giving voice to and meditating on those closest to him and those who were touched by his earthly ministry. The defining events of the faith are explored with depth and freshness here, but also the tender moments that perhaps we consider less: Mary feeling the first movements of her baby within her, or Saint Joseph sitting beside his sleeping son. Written during Read's first ten years as a Catholic and poet in residence of the Hermitage of the Three Holy Hierarchs, the central narrative is interwoven with lyrical, contemplative pieces about God and our relationship with him. This book gives voice to what at times can seem inexpressible, bringing Christ closer by entering into his life and expressing his life in us.

This fourth book of poems from award-winning author Robin Morgan has an almost-novelistic shape, with plot twists that are realizations of self, other, and the nature of change In this book of transitions, Robin Morgan’s poetry crosses the boundaries of age, race, culture, and gender. The lifelong love-hate passion between mother and daughter is here, as is a vivid, rhetoric-free depiction of the suffering and rage of women cross-culturally. Morgan also traces the slow dissolution of a marriage, parsed in poems of alternating hope and despair, humor and fury—and also in a tragicomic, two-character, one-act verse play, “The Duel: A Masque.” The play, which inverts the Orpheus-Eurydice myth, was performed at the Public Theater in New York City. Praised by the literary world for her technique, but dedicated to keeping her craft accessible and impassioned, Morgan takes us through inevitable deaths and resurrections of the self in pitch-perfect language shot through with dazzling imagery and irony.

The Poetry of Lifting Potatoes To ask a farmer of poetry is a strange request, worse yet a potato farmer. I have known Horia for a long time, to a time before either of us imagined being grandfathers. We were compatriots in what is the durable and subtle empire of the potato. He a researcher, I the actual dirtball. As fellow writers we were a touch odd for our earthy environment, whence came a certain compassion for each other. Of a poet caught, or perhaps trapped, in this hectic, grimy business of agriculture. As an essayist I’m not well mannered compared to the spare words of the poet. As a story writer I do approach words rather like a Lenco potato harvester comes to the harvest. In bulk form. Lots of words, though I’d never admit to excess. Decent people do not recognize the Lenco reference. In practice a farm machine the size of a nice house, wheels the size of small sheds, propelled by traction motors capable of lifting off the face of the earth every fall to avail the potatoes laying beneath. A Lenco is not a poetic thing. Monstrosities are not often seen as poetic. This machine hogs the town road. Impatient drivers honk at it. The Lenco disembowels the earth 12 rows at a time. It bellows. It smokes. It smells. It leaks. It works. It isn’t poetic. Poetry is a potato fork. I have several. With a fork you feel the earth, feel gravity, feel the lifting, feel the worms, feel the soil, feel the sweat, feel the tilth. And if you are like Horia and me, feel the godliness of the potato. This book of poems by Horia is not that monster Lenco, instead a potato fork. Poetry equipped with a short handle to feel the gravity of our lives, its worms, its tilth. A forkful at a time, digging is necessary, and in the lifting, to feel the earth’s desire. These words of this potato researcher I’m so honored to know and call friend. Justin Isherwood, writer and potato farmer, in Plover Township, below the moraine where all the streams run west.