Book Reviews, Books and Me

Review: Mad Woman by Kat Savage

book review(1)

Mad Woman (Poetry Anthology) by Kat Savage 4/5

14171953_1257768877607860_1730246072_nAuthor of Learning to Speak, Kat Savage, returns with Mad Woman which is comprised of 40 pieces that capture her stream on conscious, her confessions, and her strange thoughts. In Mad Woman, she bears it all and embraces her madness driven by loneliness and disappointment.

I downloaded this e-copy during a FREE promotion on Amazon Kindle.

Review:

I have been following Kat Savage on Instagram for a while, and her words are perfectly blunt, raw, and honest. I had to bag myself a copy of Mad Woman during a free promotion on Amazon Kindle, and I was not disappointed.

Savage pours out her heart and feelings in 40 beautifully crafted poems that perfectly capture her mindset whilst writing each piece. I felt her pain, love, and loss, and feel I know Kat Savage a little more from reading her poetry, and that’s how it should be.

Poetry is subjective, and I find it hard to read a poetry anthology and enjoy all the poems in their own right, but this book is different. Savage has bled into every poem, and it is rare to find a poet who lays themselves so completely bare.


The opinions expressed here are those of K.J.Chapman and no other parties

All books reviewed on this blog have been read by K.J.Chapman

K.J.Chapman has not been paid for this review

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poetry muse

Poetry Muse

poetry muse

This poem has become my muse for the third week of NaNo. It resonates with me in regards to where both my main character’s heads are at. ‘My tormentor, my love’– it says it all.

Be Near Me by Faiz Ahmed Faiz (1911-1984)

Be near me now,
My tormenter, my love, be near me—
At this hour when night comes down,
When, having drunk from the gash of sunset, darkness comes
With the balm of musk in its hands, its diamond lancets,
When it comes with cries of lamentation,
with laughter with songs;
Its blue-gray anklets of pain clinking with every step.
At this hour when hearts, deep in their hiding places,
Have begun to hope once more, when they start their vigil
For hands still enfolded in sleeves;
When wine being poured makes the sound
of inconsolable children
who, though you try with all your heart,
cannot be soothed.
When whatever you want to do cannot be done,
When nothing is of any use;
—At this hour when night comes down,
When night comes, dragging its long face,
dressed in mourning,
Be with me,
My tormenter, my love, be near me.


Header image belongs to KJ.Chapman

100% K.J Chapman, Writing and Me

Heart Voice

the words

I have been posting some of my work to Instagram, Twitter, and Pinterest and thought, why have I not been blogging these? So, today, I rectify that. I promise to remember to include my posts on my blog in my ‘Heart Voice’ posts, as and when I create them… *cross my heart*

These posts showcase work that is personal to me. I hope you like them.

I know that sometimes when you think I'm asleep, you stroke my skin. That's when I know you love me... because you do it for you, not me.


Content belongs to K.J.Chapman


Come and say hi to me on Pinterest !!!

Writing and Me

The Dead Man Walking by Thomas Hardy

 

poetry muse

The Dead Man Walking by Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)

They hail me as one living,
But don’t they know
That I have died of late years,
Untombed although?

I am but a shape that stands here,
A pulseless mould,
A pale past picture, screening
Ashes gone cold.

Not at a minute’s warning,
Not in a loud hour,
For me ceased Time’s enchantments
In hall and bower.

There was no tragic transit,
No catch of breath,
When silent seasons inched me
On to this death ….

– A Troubadour-youth I rambled
With Life for lyre,
The beats of being raging
In me like fire.

But when I practised eyeing
The goal of men,
It iced me, and I perished
A little then.

When passed my friend, my kinsfolk,
Through the Last Door,
And left me standing bleakly,
I died yet more;

And when my Love’s heart kindled
In hate of me,
Wherefore I knew not, died I
One more degree.

And if when I died fully
I cannot say,
And I changed into the corpse-thing
I am to-day,

Yet is it that, though whiling
The time somehow
In walking, talking, smiling,
I live not now.

100% K.J Chapman, Writing and Me

Poetry Muse of the Moment

Love Sonnet XI by Pablo Neruda (1904-1973)

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,

and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.

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100% K.J Chapman, Writing and Me

My Thursday Poetry Muse

I love it when a poem captivates my attention so fully that I can feel my brain firing with inspiration whether for my personal life, my current work in progress, or a future novel idea.

My poetry muse for the day is perfect for my current work in progress:

A Poison Tree by William Blake (1757-1827)

I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I watered it in fears
Night & morning with my tears;
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright.
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine,

And into my garden stole,
When the night had veiled the pole;
In the morning glad I see
My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

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