Monthly Archives: February 2017

What I’m Reading

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February 22, 2017

Why do I always have to be reading at least 4 books at a time?  Not sure. I seem to need the variety. Or, maybe it’s my inability to pay attention long enough to any one book or genre. Or, maybe it’s because I was an English major who had to be reading multiple books as an undergraduate, so it’s a habit I continued. Not only do I juggle multiple genres, I like having them in multiple formats. I need to have one audiobook, at least one Kindle book, and a few in print.

Anyway, at the moment, I’m juggling a few non-fiction books, one fiction and an assortment of poetry volumes Here’s the list, it’s more than 4 at the moment:

  • 2 books about dogs – Dognition, by Brian Hare and Vanessa Woods; Pit Bull, by Bronwyn Dickey is partially read by I am trying to finish the other first; In the Company of Animals, James Serpell is in that pile too
  • All About Love, bell hooks;
  • Pardonable Lies, Jacqueline Winspear on my Kindle;
  • Stephen Prothero’s Why Liberals Win the Culture Wars (Even When They Lose Elections): The Battles That Define America from Jefferson’s Heresies to Gay Marriage in audio; with another audio book in progress, by Michael Lewis,

    The Undoing Project: A Friendship That Changed Our Minds

  • What Blooms in Winter Maria Mazziotti Gillan poetry;
  • The Beauty, Jane Hirshfield, poetry;
  • Essay type books to get to are Life Breaks In, Mary Cappello; The Adventures of Form and Content, Albert Goldbarth; AND Upstream, selected essays of Mary Oliver is also on my Kindle.

Too much? Oh well, maybe so. But to push me to actually finish these, I’m making this list. The plan is to revisit it with a progress report.

The Man in My Bed

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The man in my bed is a dog, literally–not figuratively, like what my friend Carrie meant when she said, “All men are dogs.” He’s a real dog and the best male I’ve ever slept with. Even now, his head on my pillow, front paws held together, as if saying a prayer. He lets me rest my elbow on his backside, content just to be near me.

Sometimes I really wish that men were more like dogs.

Rufus is more true and tender, more loyal than most of my long-gone boyfriends.

I’m not embarrassed to spread a thick layer of peanut butter, the creamy kind, on a slice of bread and eat it in front of him, all sticky lips and fingers. In fact, he’s most attentive at times like this, waits patiently to lick my fingertips. I never have to worry about his leaving up the toilet seat either, though I do have to keep the lid closed, so he won’t drink from it.

He’ll always be faithful, I’m certain of that. He’ll never have a wandering eye when we walk in the park. Maybe he’ll take off after a squirrel or a rabbit, but I know he’ll never catch one. He probably knows it too, but he sure does enjoy barking up that tree.

by Linda Pizzi, previously published by The Ravens Perch

The Gardener

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I loved walking the stony cement path that bisected

my grandfather’s garden,

underneath the canopy

formed by the arbor’s delicate gray-green vines,

it’s twisted net roof

like a church ceiling, sturdy and cool.

I especially loved the stray petunias,

unkempt heads peering through the cracks.

 

I still see grandpop walking down the block

toward our house, the sun on his back,

the huge pick slung over his shoulder.

I see him study the mottled strip of ground, grass, weeds,

as if he’s waiting for just the right moment to swing the pick.

I hear it strike the hard surface, split the compacted

top layer, slicing through to the darker part.

This was the garden my mother talked about,

but never started.

 

That summer I planted seeds from a packet–

zinnias, marigolds, my very own petunias,

followed the instructions precisely,

dug holes with the spade, one inch down,

dropped them in, a seed at a time,

spaced three inches apart.

I resisted the urge to plunge my fingers

into the moist, black soil,

but nothing ever grew.

 

I asked my grandpop what I did wrong.

Maybe the dirt? Maybe the seeds?

“Could be this,” he said.

Not enough water? Or, too much?

“Could be that, too.”

I thought he had some secrets to pass on.

“Maybe next year,” he told me.

“Maybe you don’t follow the instructions.

Maybe, next year, you tickle the dirt.”

 

by Linda Pizzi, previously published in The Paterson Literary Review