Friday, October 17, 2014

Tin House

On browsing literary magazines at Barnes & Noble I came across Tin House. The cover was intriguing and enticing, but there was much more to it.
  It was one of those days when concentration drifts away easily and worries grip the mind. Yet as soon as I began reading one of its short stories I was enthralled. I knew I had to read it till the end. One paragraph brought me to the next with ease. I could not put it down. I was hooked.
  The  first story I read was "Mr. Voice" by Jess Walter. It had quirky characters and there were twists that I did not expect. It flowed well and there were no descriptions that bogged it down. It made me laugh.
   I later read  essays, poems and other stories from Tin House and I was not disappointed.
   Above all, I love the essays. The themes resonate; honesty shines through them for they have the simplicity and the complexity of human experience.  Tin House helped me to learn a lot about the society I live in.  Diving into it is like finding a treasure of interesting anecdotes, insightful reflections and thought-provoking situations that strike a chord, so if you are thinking of reading a literary magazine, try Tin House.
  Just in case you are wondering about the art cover, let me tell you that it was created by Emily Winfield Martin, a Portland artist. Her artwork explores "the implications of masks... personas and disguises." It addresses ideas of belonging and hints at the strange relationships found among kinfolk.

 Tin House is a house where the untold dares to be told.

Wednesday, October 8, 2014

Still I will rise

What a powerful poem! Last weekend my family and I attended a play that combined poetry and dance. This poem by Maya Angelou was recited.
May you all have a peaceful week.

Still I will rise

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I will rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from  a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave
I rise
I rise
I rise.

                                                 Maya Angelou