The first book I ever read by L.L. Barkat was Stone Crossings: Finding Grace in Hard and Hidden Places. I read it straight through, likely because I was reading it in a hard and hidden place. I had finished a group bike ride across about half of Missouri with an unexpected meeting with construction on a bridge. I thought I was shaken up but generally okay for the next three days, until I was in a work meeting and suddenly discovered I was having trouble breathing. I made it home, and my wife drove me to the Emergency Room. On the way out the door, I grabbed Stone Crossings, thinking I’d have something to do while waiting in ER.
By 1:30 a.m., I was in a hospital room after a diagnosis of four broken ribs and a partially collapsed lung. I couldn’t sleep, so I read the book. I will likely connect Stone Crossings with broken ribs for the rest of my life. My crossing wasn’t stone, but it was hard; the bridge was made of wood. And the impact was hidden for three days.
My bike trip and reading the book came a few short weeks after meeting Barkat on what was then called Twitter and an impromptu poetry jam that started one Saturday afternoon in June 2009. She organized the poetry jams that ultimately became Tweetspeak Poetry. A year later, I joined her on the editorial staff of The High Calling.
I write all of this because we have a good history. I’ve read all her books. I’ve read her poetry. She published two of my books, Poetry at Work and Brookhaven. I’ve read the books of her daughter Sara. And I am singularly incapable of writing a fair, unbiased, objective review of L.L.’s new poetry collection, The Book of Joy: 100 Poems for Your Heart.
I’ve known poet, writer, editor, and publisher L.L. Barkat for 17 years. We met on Twitter, as it was called back then. I read her book Stone Crossings: Finding Grace in Hard and Hidden Places. And then God in the Yard. We worked together at The High Calling. And, since 2009, with Tweetspeak Poetry. She’s just published a new poetry collection, The Book of Joy: 100 Poems for Your Heart. You can read Maureen Doallas’s review and an interview with Barkat here.
Some 25 years ago, we attended a church that, seemingly overnight, discovered the book The Prayer of Jabez, a short work about a very short passage in the Old Testament (2 Chronicles 4:9-10, if you’re interested). Suddenly, The Prayer of Jabez was everywhere. Our Sunday School class. Men’s Bible studies (and the women, too, for all I know). A sermon series from the pulpit. It was a tidal wave of Jabez. It was also thinly disguised prosperity gospel, and I resisted. This week, I happened cross an article about the passage, which puts it in its proper context.
I’m not sure whom is behind the Substack entitled “Abstract Truth,” but a friend provided a link to a post, and I read it. The post is entitled “Men Don’t Hate Reading; They Hate Your Books,” and, in addition to the funny AI-generated illustrations, it contains considerable truth.
Reading poetry can produce a variety of moods. To cite only a few: Some collection prompt thoughtfulness. Others can make you thoughtful. Still others prompt you to go quiet. And I can read some of the poems by a poet like Billy Collins and smile, often laughing out loud.
As I read Rue Obscure, the first full collection by poet Betsy Mars, one word kept popping into mind. And the word was pensive. Take that is the word’s broadest possible sense – deeply thoughtful and often hinted at sadness or wistfulness.
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