Book Punch Reviews

Seeing Stars by Simon Armitage

micahling1 — Mon, 20 Feb 2012 16:18:37 +0000

You know waking up from dreams–not necessarily good or bad–and having that, “Wow, I didn’t know my imagination was capable of that,” feeling? Like, the kind of dreams that are reassuring just in their magnitude–their absolute creativity. These prose poems are like that. Over and over. A collection of all of the information you’ve gathered and not known where to store. But, important stuff: true stuff. They play out like tiny films. Actually, some of them, like, “The Cuckoo” and “Upon Unloading the Dishwasher” could probably be feature-length films. Someone get to work on that. Some of them are jarring, like, “Michael,” which sets forth a theory that the first thing you steal (as a child) predicts what you’ll be later in life. I stole a pack of gum when I was like 5, and then ended up taking it back. Huh. These are the things that Armitage will have you thinking about. Plus he’s British, so he can get away with using “poppycock” in poems. Every poet is jealous of that. But be sure of this: Armitage, for all of his silliness, can knock the wind out of you–can swell your eyes with tears–just like that.

-Micah Ling

The Fault in Our Stars by John Green

micahling1 — Mon, 30 Jan 2012 23:21:10 +0000

Let it be known: there’s nothing pretty about cancer. We find hope in the hearts of its victims, in their battles, their narratives. Hope for survivors, for the spectacle of life as aprocess with which we are all intimately involved. As main character Hazel Grace’s father notes, “the universe just wants to be noticed.” And how we wish for it to notice us back. You’ll read this book in a sitting or two—one afternoon if you’re voracious for heart-wrenching sadness and side-splitting humor. Though the narrative is fictional, it reads like a memoir and you become wholeheartedly invested in the characters and their families as though they were sharing the air with you—your lungs struggling alongside Hazel’s. Read this book quickly and lend it to a friend; it’s the kind of read that’s meant to be shared. Against the unforgiving, unrelenting ailment of cancer, there is still life to be lived, experiences to enjoy, and awkward teenage sex to have. Indeed, The Fault is not in ourselves, but In Our Stars. But stars do not have ultimate authority over our lives and choices, and it is in ourselves which we must find purpose, passion, and happiness.

-Eric Ellis

Radio Golf by August Wilson

micahling1 — Mon, 23 Jan 2012 20:39:59 +0000

This is August Wilson’s last play in his impressive cycle of ten, documenting life in twentieth century America, particularly for African Americans. If you’ve never read a play, read this play. It’s a reflection, or perhaps a reaction, to A Raisin in the Sun. (Read that, too). And go watch that Whole Foods parking lot bit. This is, too often, gentrification. A word that’s not necessarily “dirty,” but can be. We’re in Pittsburg, and Harmond Wilks just inherited a real estate agency from his father; and he’s running for office: to be the first black mayor. His wife and friends have big plans: big ideas. But, like most people in the world, (and maybe especially politicians), there’s a past. How can there not be? The kind of past that shouldn’t really be difficult to move on from; but somehow these things tend to grow, and reflect something worse than what is really there. It’s the nineties in this play–that seems significant to remember. It’s not the sixties. But then, it’s 2012 now, and this play might force you to take a look around your own neighborhood; ask yourself some key questions about what needs to be “improved.”

-Micah Ling

(If you’re in the Indianapolis area, this play is being performed at the IRT)

Covet by Lynnell Edwards

micahling1 — Tue, 10 Jan 2012 01:43:02 +0000

Covet is a verb. It’s active. Here, in these poems, it’s also a constant choice. And then, you realize that most emotions–most reactions–are choices. Choose to be angry, or don’t. Choose to be content, or don’t. All of these decisions–all of this action–surrounds us, circling, like wild animals. But sometimes, like love or hunger, it seems like the decision is out of our hands. We covet even when we don’t want to. Like hearing old time music and wanting to be right in the middle of it. We don’t want some things to end, even when they have to, like children at certain ages, and seasons. Letting go of things that must change is horrible and grand at once. It’s so fitting that there’s a catalogue here, from an antique show. A preservation of stuff–the life of stuff that goes on. Stuff that has another life. Several more lives. That’s how we hang onto what we don’t want to lose. Memories. Dishes and tools and prisms: all that outlive us. Lost slipper of light / now dulled. Flat / in the dark box, to hang / in celebration, it refracts / dazzle of dance: choose / me choose me

-Micah Ling

Of Jibaros and Hillbillies by Ricardo Nazario y Colon

micahling1 — Mon, 02 Jan 2012 17:34:15 +0000

People and place are as tied together as any two things can be. If you doubt that, drive across the country. Observe region and language and food. Better yet, go to an entirely different nation. Places make people. Places make different shades, different sounds and tastes and manners. And then, of course, places mingle. People move. New versions of words are made: new recipes become familiar. These poems are bold in how well they mingle. They’re hilarious and angry. What is poetry without anger? Not much. Read these out loud: amp them up–try the voices on. Somehow these poems trace it all back: a whole history of heat and laughter. Back so far that it’s all connected. At the end, it seems vitally important that we do know why we eat the things we eat; why we sound the way we do. Why we blame and take issue with certain things. This is deeply human–it allows for emotion and the mantras that keep us alive: that keep us tied to where we’re from. These poems are stories of people who have endured a decent amount of uneasiness. Meet them: be with them. See that we are not being judged, / for this carnal dance.

-Micah Ling

Brown by Richard Rodriguez

micahling1 — Mon, 19 Dec 2011 22:24:19 +0000

Brown is a study. It is less of a narrative than it is an image of refracted light, an examination of angles. Not to offend Rodriguez—associating him immediately with an artistic movement pioneered by a Spaniard may concern the author. This concern stems from the tendency, which he argues is particularly American, to evaluate and categorize people by race and color. Brown champions a refreshingly poetic approach to conservative values of individualism and liberty—a kind of thoughtfulness that may disorient rather than provoke those of a more liberal compulsion. Rodriguez’s writing can be acrobatic, and his mind can wander from Toqueville to Nixon, Lucille Ball to Castro, Ralph Lauren to Thoreau, capturing their significance pertaining to the American discussion on race. Do Hispanics exist? The answer is more complex than you might imagine, and it is just this uncertainty, this ambivalence, this mixture of feeling to which the book’s title playfully alludes. This is fine writing, and the author has his experience to thank, whether the memories are of a trip to his blonde friend’s affluent prep school or simply standing in line for a burrito in a Chinese neighborhood. This slipperiness of identity is the point: you can’t pin him down.

-Chris Noel

Lush Life by Richard Price

micahling1 — Mon, 05 Dec 2011 14:19:59 +0000

Book Punch has enjoyed its collaboration with the students in the creative writing program at Butler University. It’s exciting to end this semester with the book that started Book Punch back in March, 2009. Check out the original punch here.

You’re a slick-talking, cock-walking gangster, aren’t you? Spent time in the joint? No? Shit, we’ll be here all day if we have to. And you may wanna stick around. Richard Price’s novel Lush Life makes your life look like a cakewalk through Blowjob Valley. Reading it won’t make you an expert though—it won’t make you tougher, stand up straighter on the walk back to your car alone at night (just far enough away from the last streetlight). Though authentic and authoritative, this work is only a snapshot of life on the Lower-East-Side. Manhattan, man. Enough exposition and imagery to paint the sidewalk with your brain. Drive past: sex shop, tea shop, synagogue, corner. Boulangerie, bar, hat boutique, corner. Bar, school, bar school, People’s park, corner. You can see it all. You’ll read Lush Life as though it were happening right outside your window, certain you heard gunfire. Always up to no good—never knows best. Deadbolt the door. Even use the latch no one’s touched in God knows how long. Just in case. There’s a world of crime out there and Price is kicking down your door, bringing it right to you à la flambé.

-Eric Ellis

Native Guard by Natasha Trethewey

micahling1 — Mon, 14 Nov 2011 18:12:50 +0000

The south is different. It’s more than the grits and sweet tea. It’s more than the language and weather. Southerners share a collective memory that separates them from us; one as impenetrable as the torrid Mississippi summer. The South is like a living thing: romantic, proud, defiant, tragic and resilient. Something these poems help you understand. They are part southern blues, part gospel, part opera. They are a gift.

Born in Mississippi, Trethewey is definitely a southerner, yet as the child of a black mother and white father she lives there in exile. These are poems of the Civil War, of hurricanes, isolation, loss and injustice. Many of the poems are elegiac; all of them are accessible, evocative and affecting. In exploring the history of the south she uncovers a truth about all of us–that we are all under reconstruction–that we each need to come to terms with our past in order to claim our identity. In the end it’s about forgiving the places and people we love most…. I return / to Mississippi, state that made a crime / of me–mulatto, half-breed–native / in my native land, this place they’ll bury me.

-Max Newell

Paper Towns by John Green

micahling1 — Mon, 07 Nov 2011 19:26:04 +0000

Have you ever driven beneath the electric, orange glow of streetlights in the middle of the night and felt invincible? The openness of the road both comforted and alienated you as you slowly glided to your destination a light-year away. Can you recall the delightful panic that swept over your body when you found yourself somewhere you shouldn’t have been? Words became whispers while footsteps turned treacherous. And you must remember that whirlwind of a person who carved themselves upon your soul yet dissolved at your touch? Such is the story of Q, the well-raised son of two well-raised therapists, who has the (un)fortunate circumstance of living next to Margo Roth Spiegelman. The perfect girl. Just out of reach. Until she the night she climbs through his window and is suddenly tangible. But what happens when the dawn comes and the fairytale ends and the particles which compose her body disperse into the atmosphere? What will be paper, and what will be reality? Paper Towns is a romp through the last few weeks of a high school education. At its center sits Q, a detective in love, hypnotized by an enigma. And with his incredibly colorful friends, he makes the journey to find the town made of paper and the girl who is not.

-Maddie Eckrich

Girls in Trouble by Douglas Light

micahling1 — Wed, 26 Oct 2011 03:50:58 +0000

These characters are hungry. They’re creepy and haunting, like a Hitchcock film at times–so many angles–perfectly paced. It’s not horror, though, it’s reality. We’re all constantly in between where we came from and where we’re going. This is full of complication and uncertainty. It’s all the things that come with being a girl; even the superficial things like pantyhose and fashion magazines. But it’s also about being a person–a man or a woman–entering into and exiting out of relationships with other people. Sometimes we want to avoid making predictions because we know that the future certainly brings failure, even doom. But we can never stop making predictions: they keep us alive; they keep us from being shocked (sometimes). Survival mechanisms. There’s a decent amount of food in these stories: eating and drinking–Pop Tarts, cheeseburgers, a vegan cookie, black tea, crabs, butter, wine, Coke, gin and tonic–it’s what we do in between, on the road, when we have time to refuel and recover. It’s what we do through everything else and no matter what: routine. It’s what we do when we’re with someone and when we’re alone. These stories are the cycle of hunger.

-Micah Ling

Douglas Light’s work