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BOOK DETAILS

Poetry & Watercolors
72 pp
6 x 9.25
Paperback
0-9707186-7-5
978-0-9707186-7-9
May 2004


Emerging Voices

Misery Islands,
by January Gill O’Neil

Spooky Action at a Distance,
by Howard Levy

My Painted Warriors,
by Peggy Penn

Red Canoe: Love In Its Making, by Joan Cusack Handler

door of thin skins,
by Shira Dentz

The One Fifteen to Penn Station, by Kevin Carey

Where the Dead Are,
by Wanda S. Praisner

Darkening the Grass, by Michael Miller

Neighborhood Register,
by Marcus Jackson

Night Sessions,
by David S. Cho

Underlife,
by January Gill O'Neil

The Second Night of the Spirit, by Bhisham Bherwani

Imago,
by Joseph O. Legaspi

WE AREN'T WHO WE ARE and this world isn't either,
by Christine Korfhage

Through a Gate of Trees,
by Susan Jackson

Against Which,
by Ross Gay

The Silence of Men,
by Richard Jeffrey Newman

The Dishelved Bed,
by Andrea Carter Brown

The Singers I Prefer,
by Christian Barter

The Fork Without Hunger,
by Laurie Lamon

An Imperfect Lover,
Poems and watercolors by Georgianna Orsini

Soft Box,
by Celia Bland

Rattle,
by Eloise Bruce

Momentum,
by Catherine Doty

Silk Elegy,
by Sondra Gash

The Palace of Ashes,
by Sherry Fairchok

Eyelevel: Fifty Histories,
by Christopher Matthews

GLOrious,
by Joan Cusack Handler

So Close, by Peggy Penn

Snakeskin Stilettos,
by Moyra Donaldson

Grub, by Martin Mooney

Kazimierz Square,
by Karen Chase

A Day This Lit,
by Howard Levy

CavanKerry Press LTD.
CavanKerry Press

An Imperfect Lover

Poems and watercolors by Georgianna Orsini

Introduction by Robert Phillips and Essay by Molly Peacock

An Imperfect LoverOrsini has chosen an apt title . . . because the world of any such intense imagination contains much imperfection—imperfect family life, in which affection is withheld; imperfect relationships, imperfect health. Yet creativity has been the vehicle for rescue to a more perfect vision, like the arrival of the great golden ship which is the book’s final picture. Orsini’s talent is the ability to say a profound thing in a very simple way. —Robert Phillips

Unobsessed with line breaks, never in her life having used "workshop" as a verb, creating musical and psychological rhythms in her poetry that allow each image to spin in a vortex of feeling, Orsini composes poems about emotional states that are so palpable they are nearly tactile. Entirely witty and wise as a grown-up companion, she still inhabits that girlhood world of her imagination. —Molly Peacock

Here from a high priestess of “beach plums” and “green corn moons,” from one wholly enamored of the natural world, are vibrant and musical lines that veer from the erotic to the quirkily appealing in poems given with exacting wit and sometimes delectable wickedness. Wry, wise, dry-eyed, full of metaphoric daring, and evoking recollections in her garden of paradox and nuance, Orsini offers a plenitude of joy, but not a scintilla of easy comfort in her art and artifices as she weaves her narrative for us, her ardent admirers. —Colette Inez

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

GEORGIANNA ORSINI attended Wellesley College and Harvard University and received her B.A. degree from Columbia University, during which time she worked as a Program Coordinator at International House. She has lived in Tuscany and New York. Her gardens have been featured in House and Garden, House Beautiful and American Women’s Garden. At present, she lives in the mountains of North Carolina where she continues to make gardens.

EXCERPT

Tomato Sandwiches

At the last moment it rained.
Though underage, we were allowed
to drive the station wagon into the overgrown
pasture. We stopped in the ferny asparagus bed
gone to seed. Rain tap-danced on the roof!
Across the windshield the wipers pulled
the water like curtains on a puppet show,
tucking us in.

Three sisters, we dined formally to start,
unwrapping the wax paper sheets, guided
by their neat hospital corners and folds.
But biting into the pillowy white bread
the mayonnaise oozed, and the lettuce
slipped away like hair tied with silk ribbon.
Next, the tomatoes squished and slid,
spattering our faces, our laps, the seats.
We were silly, then sillier as we pointed out
the boring carrot and celery sticks, the dull
boiled eggs, whose shells we resoundingly
cracked on our heads, laughing hard enough
we had to hold our sides. It hurt.

Chronic competitors, made wary for life
in the arms of parental approval, where else
would we find a checkpoint so lax, waving us
through to someone as close as a sister?