By Jewel Kilcher
I have discovered that now not all poetry lends itself to track -- a few recommendations must be sung simply opposed to the silence. There are softer and no more tangible part[s] of our selves which are so necessary to peace, to openheartedness, to unfolding the imaginative and prescient and the religious realm of our lives, to exposing our souls. - Jewel, From the Preface Writing poems and retaining journals considering early life, Jewel has been trying to find fact and which means, turning to her phrases to list, to find, and to mirror. In an evening with no Armor, her first selection of poetry, Jewel explores the fireplace of past love, the fading of ardour, the giving of belief, the teachings of betrayal, and the therapeutic of intimacy.She delves into concerns of the house, the relaxation of family members, the wonderful thing about Alaska, and the dislocation of divorce. after which there are the photographs of the line, the folks, the bars, the planes, areas unique and mundane, loneliness and friendship. Frank and sincere, critical and unexpectedly playful, an evening with out Armor is a skilled artist's intimate portrait of what makes us uniquely human.
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Extra info for A Night Without Armor: Poems
I want to fly from here! I want to fly from here! I want to fly from here! 26 Dionne & I We looked i n the fridge only to see moldy Kraft singles a n d some eye cream. T h a t eye cream was o u r p r i d e a n d joy, so extravagant a n d l u x u r i o u s , it m a d e us feel rich. T h e cracked walls of the b a t h r o o m fading away i n t o the small lights of h e r tiny vanity m i r r o r . We may have h a d n o food, b u t we knew the eye cream was all we needed—we were b o t h young, with pretty faces a n d a lot of faith i n the system.
Fog and rain hanging low and heavy like a damp and woolen hood. 34 O n the steps below there is a man with one leg, whose face looks carved of wood a hysteric smile parting his lips. He reads people's palms. " 36 1966 I turned off the TV. Looked out of my window to the streets below. Dry sidewalks. A line had straightened up stiff as uncut ribbon beneath a sign that read Army Headquarters. I stared at the boys' faces. They looked itchy and awkward like my brother's. I don't know what kept them in that line, the sun was hot and unrelenting.
She laughed while sausages fell f r o m h e r pockets i n heavy shivers. I h o p e she misses t h e m sorely. 42 1 hough I am 8 T h o u g h I a m 8, my father is 6 3 years old. H e drinks concoctions of chickweed, garlic, a n d o r d i n a r y grass pulled o u t of the front lawn. H e b l e n d s it with a m a c h i n e that wakes me every m o r n i n g . It makes a l o u d growl. H e is w o r r i e d , I think, he won't make it to my h i g h school g r a d u a t i o n . O u t s i d e , winter swallows my footsteps as quickly as they are laid, which makes m e cry.
A Night Without Armor: Poems by Jewel Kilcher