Reviews for Literary South Carolina

The average rating for Literary South Carolina based on 2 reviews is 3.5 stars.

Review # 1 was written on 2012-01-03 00:00:00 Joelle Bowles In Search of My New Country I look for you in miasma of the wild thicket. In the gentle tap of my chisel, I peel through the walnut bark to restore the lost face of you. I smell cedar's warm, friendly scent and inquire of an anonymous Arroyo, your Ojibwa name. I explore your Inuit face in the northern light and look for your footprints in soggy moss as I hear an iceberg moving, opening the passage for caribous. I seek your silhouette in the flickering fire, a dog sleeping inside your tipi. I watch the moon going down into the deep of your chasm. I build a crown of maple leaves, tint my face in rooster blood. I scribble your map in the wet ground and build your bust using river mud. I moan for your song in the croon of night, alive with crickets' drone and alligators' sigh. Sankar Roy A worthy anthology of poetry and photography with accents local and international as the accents of Pittsburgh, tinged with nostalgia, alive with loving detail. After the terrorist attack on the synagogue in Pittsburgh, I went back to read my two Pittsburgh anthologies with greater attention, celebrating the rich human gifts of the life of this place, my home city. (The other anthology, Verse Envisioned, reviewed here: ) In lieu of a review, I offer two favorite poems. The subdued voice and subtle spell of this quiet meditation on the passage of time, stayed with me more than some of the livelier poems. Steam Rising 1 In the winter, downstream, steam rises on certain street corners like geysers in Yellowstone, or as if some secret Hades existed beneath the paved streets. I know it comes from the heating system for the high office buildings, but as I hurry to work, collar turned up against the wind, I feel the mystery of steam. Like fog, it blurs the edges of time. 2 I am saying good night to Jim on the porch brittle from snow. He is an ex-prisoner of war; I am seventeen. Earlier, his passion had frightened me, his mouth bruising, his body asking too much. Now smoke climbs silently from chimneys; our breaths rise into the night air, separate, not mingling. What do I know about hunger? What do I know about need? 3 The engine hisses impatiently as I part from my soldier husband. Having said everything, we cling together like an apple being cut apart. I try to etch his face in my mind, afraid I won't remember it. He holds me close under his heavy army coat, and I breathe in the smell of him, a combination of shaving lotion, cigarettes, something intangible. At night I know I will search for the scent in his pillow. Steam surrounds me. I watch, crying, while the train pulls out. 4 As I pour my mother's tea, steam rises from the old kettle. For years, we have been the odd couple; divorced daughter, widowed mother; helpmates, sparring partners. Now she is slipping a little more each day. She smooths the green and white checkered cloth, stirs the spoon methodically against the cup. Trembling, she lifts it with both hands, drinks the hot liquid. Later at bedtime, I take the steaming washcloth, wring it, hand it to her. She presses it against her face, against the parchment skin and closed, clouded eyes. She tells me how good it feels. Anita Gevaudan Byerly

Review # 2 was written on 2015-03-30 00:00:00 Justin Miller Had some good stories, and i found so new books to read