Waking the Bones, by Elizabeth Kirschner
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Waking the Bones, by Elizabeth Kirschner
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A beautiful memoir by noted a noted poet. "Elizabeth Kirschner is a poet of the very first order, and in this luminous, captivating memoir, she weaves poetry and prose into something transcendent and heartbreakingly beautiful. It is rare to see a writer with all their talents on display at one time like this." -Susan Conley, author of Paris Was the Place and The Foremost Good Fortune "Waking the Bones is a vivid and haunting memoir about love and loss; more precisely, it's powerful, lyrical testimony about how love and abuse can mingle in a deeply dysfunctional family until every emotional defense breaks down into madness or near-madness. It's also about recovery and the salvage operation that rescues sanity and makes survival, and perhaps even happiness, possible. A marvelous book; I highly recommend it." -Alan Davis, author of So Bravely Vegetative and Alone with the Owl.
Waking the Bones, by Elizabeth Kirschner- Amazon Sales Rank: #1106428 in eBooks
- Published on: 2015-10-28
- Released on: 2015-10-28
- Format: Kindle eBook
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2 of 2 people found the following review helpful. Hooray for " Waking the Bones" By AD " Waking the Bones" is one of those memoirs one dreams about reading -- a gutsy, shameless, prose poem of the highest lyrical order that leaves one in awe of the process and the talent put out by the author. Kirschner unavoidably raises herself above the masses by layering a kaleidescope of childhood memories underneath and on top of her present adult self, digging down so deep in some chapters that one is relieved that the subsequent chapter brings her back up into the light. Thank goodness Kirschner is, first, a poet. Then thank goodness she decided to share her survival story. The two have brought us a brilliant expose filled with terror and love on the same page."Waking the Bones" is intense with familiar images of everything that ever happened to everybody, or almost did. It is a biography of man and woman, mother and father, daughter and siblings. It is universal in scope even though it is a singular voice. It is ever a chameleon, changingmode, tone and color despite it's diminuitive size. It should be required reading for all psychiatrists, counselors, and those afflicted with even the slightest mental illness." Waking the Bones" puts salve on wounds just by existing as a literary accomplishment. A very important book for Kirschner, but equally important for readers everywhere. It's a reality show of the highest order. Read it and be changed.
0 of 0 people found the following review helpful. Review by Ellen LaFleche, Winning Writers By Elizabeth Kirschner Waking the Bones, Elizabeth Kirschner First Prize, Creative Nonfiction, North Street Book Prizeby Ellen LaFlecheWaking the Bones by Elizabeth Kirschner was by far my favorite book of all the entries. A poet by trade, Kirschner has created a book so lyrical, so gorgeously styled, so filled with metaphor and meaning, so filled with magic and painful reality, that it transcends the genre of memoir. The book begins with the simple question: Where do you live?The author's answer to this basic question propels the reader into Kirschner's magically realistic emotional and psychological world:I live in a house on the water called Sea Cabin. I live in in a house that my carpenter and I rebuilt. We rebuilt my house with silly putty and countless nails, with prana and plumb lines, with fairy dust, plaster and luxurious paints made from watered silks, whose colors range from desert sage to cornflower yellow, from buckwheat gold to tangerine, ember red to a hallucinatory aquamarine.Kirschner's house is a metaphorical shelter, an emotional and physical space for her long and arduous recovery (rebuilding) from mental illness. Her descent into near-madness is described through a series of ordinary actions—walking through the woods, waking up in the emergency room, planning a vacation with her husband, performing the daily tasks of motherhood—and imbuing these events with metaphors and strange connections that illuminate her rapidly changing emotional states. In the following description of an ordinary walk through the woods, even the sounds of the words ("moody stews", "dreamily I believe") serve to inform the reader of the borders between sane and crazy, between art and madness, between joy and mental anguish:In these migrating woods, moods stew in me, heavy as liqueur. Under the generous awning of the evergreens, I taste the liqueur in my moody stew, hot as cinnamon or pepper flakes. I wander the woods, as wandering is what I want to do—each path is a mineshaft that might hold the darkest jewels. Dreamily, I believe these jewels are edible, like caviar. I bend, load them into the pocket of my Scout uniform, then press an acorn to my ear to hear the ocean.The book is beautifully produced, with readable print and evocative cover art. Though a growing number of experienced authors are choosing to self-publish in order to keep creative control and royalties, Waking the Bones is certainly worthy of the benefits and prestige of a mainstream publisher, too. An outside editor could have cleaned up the memoir's one stylistic flaw, which was over-repetition of her favorite images and turns of phrase. Her surreal descriptions are so distinctive that they deserve more breathing space; as recurring catch-phrases, they lose some of their aptness to the particular situation. We hope that this prize helps Kirschner find the wider audience she deserves.Excerpt from Waking the Bones MUSIC IN A DISTANT ROOMWhen I’m not crossing three bridges and states to see Ryan, or tending to my desktopgarden and trundling in waves of sleep, I’m shopping. Because I’m shopping when notvisiting Ryan, or embedding words in loamy roots, it becomes my forte. I workclothing stores the way a criminal works a crime scene. I work them the way mycousin, Gil, a three-times felon, knows how to rob a bank, is behind bars, incarcerated,as I’ve been incarcerated and will be again, but behind the red line in the psych ward,my home away from home, my getaway, I who go mad from remembering achildhood I remembered to forget.In one such shop, I’m rifling through the clothing rack, running my fingersthrough different fabrics—silks, velvets, cashmere—listening to the tags rustle,fondling tender buttons. A blue dress flies off the rack. I hustle it into the dressingroom, my throne room, strip off my black beaded skirt, wrap blouse. The blue dressslips onto to me like my little helper apron with its cake frosting flounces, or the partydress Mother snatched away from me when I was five. Within its folds, I’mtransformed into another Elizabeth and feel pretty, very pretty. Because I shop somuch, I’m hundreds of pretty Elizabeths, like flowers in a meadow. By beinghundreds of Elizabeths, I can hide the child, the Little Bits, who once was me.Little Bits is terrified. She’s terrified because she, too, is remembering whatMommy and Daddy did to her. She’s so terrified she feels littler than little, an itty,bitty ditty. Now that the remembering is getting done in the blood, I need to feelpretty, very pretty, to be hundreds of Elizabeths, not that terrified Little Bits, who’s anitty, bitty ditty. I need to save her if I’m going to save me in order to save Ryan, so Ihide her, disguise her.In the dressing room, I glance in the mirror, at a pretty me, then wince because Ialso see the hurt Little Bits I was, who’s hurt even more by the remembering. I stepout of the throne room, go over to the jewelry case, scan it with the eyes of a murdererin a gun shop. I tap the glass, say, “This, I want this.” The woman who assists me enslaves me—my wrists are handcuffed with bracelets, my neck noosed by orange Moroccan beads. I whip out my credit card, slap it on the counter, like a gambler, or my great grandfather, Racehorse Charlie. If I can’t race like a thoroughbred, I’ll at least dress like one.Outside, autumn drawls on. Red leaves are blown up as I drive home. I look atthem with joy because all we are rivals this—red leaves blown up—like fire, likebreath.Before I go into my little house, shopping bag in tow, I see the last blue dragonflies.Their glinting wings never moan, not even when they dip, like oars in water deep enough to drown them. It’s enough for them to rise and draw together like a bow. It’senough to watch them, to believe I’m the first woman to have seen anything, to lovethis moment: so brief and blue, uproarious. It’s enough to know all of us depend onthis—the end of summer, its shy light, the last dragonflies, bright as pansies, and thedazzle that delivers us, like a wild guess, from one day to the next.
0 of 0 people found the following review helpful. A Poet's Poignant Evolution From Suffering Abuse To Achieving A Joyful Life By R. David Drucker It isn't often that poetry accomplishes what some poets proclaim is its paramount purpose - to portray truth from the heart no matter where the chips land. When that truth is a suffering that almost surpasses our capacity to imagine it, the poet's task of coaxing the reader to develop compassion for the sufferer and a non-voyeuristic appreciation of the emotional evolution of her progress from headstrong, yet helpless, victim to fully autonomous, self-realized person celebrating her triumph over circumstance, is all the more remarkable. Yet, this is exactly what Elizabeth Kirschner achieves in Waking The Bones.A surface appreciation of this work is well neigh impossible; it is too richly textured and its metaphors are too painfully complex for casual acquaintance. A superficial, bare bones outline of the author's experience of her childhood and adolescence of profound disrespect and lack of nurturing at the hands of those who should have been supportive of her growth, misses the crux of this densely textured tale of the triumph of self-love over the relentless demeaning treatment the poet received at the hands of the very people who should have been her closest allies. Have no fear; although Waking The Bones is an emotionally painful read, it is a page turner.To the reader willing to suspend whatever disbelief s/he may have and accept the story of the astounding malice directed at the poet over many decades she tells, the heart-liberating flow of compassionate self-acceptance and love follows absolutely naturally. It is exquisitely expressed in a flood of poetic prose that cascades through Waking The Bones and sweeps the intrepid reader to a conclusion bathed in the truest truth of all, that without self-acceptance and a sense of profound self-respect no matter what the circumstances we as humans experience, we will be unable to create works such as this which express profound love and respect for the sacredness of life.Elizabeth Kirschner has risen to the occasion and triumphed over a life history that would have reduced a less determined person to emotional junk. What is more remarkable is that she has been able to convey the psychological and spiritual truths informing that triumph in a poetic language that never sounds a wrong note. Highly Recommended, especially as an eye-opener if you have been lucky enough to have escaped an abusive upbringing.
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