khilfish's review
4.0
I love Li-Young Lee’s methodical and beautifully paced writing style. “The Gift” is a poem I have returned to many times. It was really interesting to read his longer work, and to see how his poetry works within a single volume. I’ll definitely be returning to this to think more on it.
h1914's review
3.0
"There are days we live
as if death were nowhere
in the background; from joy
to joy to joy, from wing to wing,
from blossom to blossom to
impossible blossom, to sweet impossible blossom."
as if death were nowhere
in the background; from joy
to joy to joy, from wing to wing,
from blossom to blossom to
impossible blossom, to sweet impossible blossom."
brittaka's review
emotional
funny
hopeful
informative
inspiring
reflective
relaxing
sad
medium-paced
5.0
thedreamthieves's review
5.0
Listen now to something human.
I know moments measured
by a kiss, or a tear, a pass of the hand along a loved one’s face.
I know lips that love me,
that return my kisses
by leaving on my cheek their salt.
And there is one I love, who hid her heart behind a stone.
Let there be a rose for her, who was poor,
who lived through ten bad years, and then ten more,
who took a lifetime to drain her bitter cup.
And there is one I love, smallest among us—
let there be a rose for him—
who was driven from the foreign schoolyards
by fists and yelling, who trembled in anger in each re-telling,
who played alone all the days,
though the afternoon trees were full of children.
And there is one I love who limps over this planet,
dragging her steel hip.
Always a rose for her.
(...)
I know moments measured
by a kiss, or a tear, a pass of the hand along a loved one’s face.
I know lips that love me,
that return my kisses
by leaving on my cheek their salt.
And there is one I love, who hid her heart behind a stone.
Let there be a rose for her, who was poor,
who lived through ten bad years, and then ten more,
who took a lifetime to drain her bitter cup.
And there is one I love, smallest among us—
let there be a rose for him—
who was driven from the foreign schoolyards
by fists and yelling, who trembled in anger in each re-telling,
who played alone all the days,
though the afternoon trees were full of children.
And there is one I love who limps over this planet,
dragging her steel hip.
Always a rose for her.
(...)