Manual The Art of Losing: Poems of Grief and Healing

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The Art of Losing book. Read 70 reviews from the world's largest community for readers. Poetry serves a unique role in our lives, distilling human experi.
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Preview this item Preview this item. Allow this favorite library to be seen by others Keep this favorite library private. Find a copy in the library Finding libraries that hold this item Poems about the various stages of grief, with selections from a variety of 20thst century poets. Reviews User-contributed reviews Add a review and share your thoughts with other readers. Be the first. Add a review and share your thoughts with other readers. Linked Data More info about Linked Data. All rights reserved. Privacy Policy Terms and Conditions.

Auden, Funeral Blues: Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone.

Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, Silence the pianos and with muffled drum Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last forever, I was wrong. The stars are not wanted now; put out every one, Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun. Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood; For nothing now can ever come to any good. Purple and green. And immediately vertigo rushed up like an angry dog to a fence.

She went white, fell down the well of herself and wept. Late at night, in the motels, when she'd fallen asleep, I cried too.

About The Art of Losing

I whispered curses to the awkward stacks of white towels. Hating anything out of balance. Hating her, her new failure. In the mornings my checkbook voice returned, low and soft. For an angry dog whose yard you wish to cross. We both hated my balance, hated her imbalance, needed each. Sudafed, acupuncture, allergist.

Yoga, chewing gum, Zoloft, Chinese tea. She was afraid of going blind. She constantly described colors and shapes, as if I had gone blind. They turned orange. They floated. They darted. We went arm in arm without passion, like elderly French. Internist neurologist ophthalmologist. Otolaryngologist neurologist psychiatrist. She would not allow the warm towel over her face in the MRI. The nurses seethed. She set her jaw and vanished into the gleaming white tube. The machine banged like hammers on a sunken ship's hull.

She listened to Beethoven through headphones. The magnetism passed through her mind in waves, like wind through chestnut trees, touching everything and changing nothing. Her courage! If courage is what stones have. My God, how I loved her. The spots were like metaphors. They told us something by showing us something else. And so I believed they were metaphors.

They were not.

Poem of condolence or grief about the loss or death of a loved one

Aug 02, Daisy rated it really liked it Recommended to Daisy by: Lara's shelf. Shelves: poems. I have about 47 slips of paper marking all the poems I like in this collection. If this weren't a library book, I'd have marked it up well. Divided into six sections: Reckoning, Regret, Remembrance, Ritual, Recovery, Redemption, there's, well, something for everyone, depending on, uh, what you're looking for.

Only this isn't a self-help book of course. In here I found poets I hadn't heard of before whose work I'll investigate and poets I studied in school whose poems I was glad to read again.

So I have about 47 slips of paper marking all the poems I like in this collection. So it's a comfort, if that's what you want, and it's an accessible volume of worthwhile poetry. How to pick one example? I am damn sick of getting fat like you Think you can lie through your Slovak? Tell filthy stories about the blood sausage? Pish-pish nights at the virgin in Detroit? I blame your raising me up for my Slav tongue You beat me up out back, taught me to dance I'll tell you I don't remember any kind of bread Your wavy loaves of flesh Stink through my sleep The stars on your silk robes But I'm glad I'll look when I'm old Like a gypsy dusha hauling milk Sep 01, James rated it it was amazing.

This is a wonderful collection that has taken me months to wander through, to savor. Poetry seems to be read by fewer and fewer, that surmise supported by the shrinking shelf space dedicated to it in most bookstores and the quizzical looks from friends as I mention I read it! And that's a shame, because Poetry hits you on an emotional level that Prose often doesn't, at least in so many words.

The art of losing : poems of grief and healing

Who can read "Otherwise" by Jane Kenyon and not be surprised by a sucker punch to the gut? Many say This is a wonderful collection that has taken me months to wander through, to savor. Many say they "just don't get poetry", and some poems do come with some pretty obscure references. It is highly accessible and begs to have you keep turning the pages--even as you want to pause to let each one sink in. Oct 01, Nuri rated it it was amazing Shelves: poetry , death-and-grief. It was cathartic but quite overwhelming.

In some ways, reading makes one relive some of the trauma, they'd already thought they'd healed from. I couldn't finish the book. Only with a healed mind and heart, could I read it again, and savor the words with less pain, but " Only with a healed mind and heart, could I read it again, and savor the words with less pain, but more wisdom and courage. Death is a difficult subject to talk and write about. Kevin says, " The editor had fulfilled a huge responsibility, in making this available to all the grieving hearts.

I was just glad to find it. The selection of elegies in this anthology is remarkable and you'd feel a wave of emotions while experiencing the collective experience of the poets. I'm most certain it is especially true for poetry revolving around death. The book deals with 6 stages of the process of surviving grief— Reckoning, Regret, Remembrance, Ritual, Recovery and Redemption.

I found a lot of comfort from just reading the Introduction, wherein he says his father was killed in an accident, and he'd hope his father will visit him in a dream.

About the author

He best describes his feelings with Natasha Trethewey's poem "Myth," and that, dreams often stir more pain.