A volume of powerful, contemporary, free verse poetry filled with pure imagery. These words will call out to you, sing to you and won't let go. Each poem you read will become a part of you.
QUIET TIMEHere's what I could not say to you as you lie in urine stenched sheets, your arm jerking straight ahead, precise as your Underwood typewriter, a strange sort of Morse code your head melted to the pillow, mouth open in a gaping grin, teeth forgotten on the bedside table unable to utter any harsh words. Still strong, you defy death, your neck a band of tough cords. Beds three by three like Girl Scout camp other tentmates curled into balls, fists into balls whisper throughout the night. "yoo hoo" "yoo hoo" softly sings from the Alzheimer's patient in the bed across from you. Your name on everything, pale mauve pink cups, a bedpan, Ann Stalzer scrawled in yellow masking tape a teddy bear by your side. You would hate the view. Your eyes blink, curve like brown almonds, fold over themselves, raw. Are you dreaming now? Do you see me now? I can't find words to say the only sound my scratched sobs hot in the back of my throat. You are the mother of the father who gave me life. My father with a heart bigger than Texas. My heart is saving up room for you and everything left unsaid. Originally published in the October 2003 edition of SaucyVox(Dot)com.
Excerpt
The neon sign
softly blinks
"come here, come here"
Professional Reviews
Songs in Red, reviewed by C.J. Laity
Kathy Kubik's collection captures portraits of the difficult subjects in life with an unflinching lens. It's as if she holds the keys to what lies behind closed doors. Divorce. Spousal abuse. Alcoholism. Drug addiction. Racism. Depression. Death. Kubik refuses to shy away from shock imagery and evokes a frightening realism during the juxtaposition of colors as metaphors (such as the color blue as a wound, first physical, then mental) on the very first page, all the way to the entirely satisfying, Hubert Selby-ish, female empowering conclusion that uses traditional form as a means of protest (and which is by far the most disturbing sestina you are ever likely to read, especially within the context of this book as a whole). And by shock imagery, I do not mean cheap gross outs or gratuitous violence, but the actual nightmarish, detached perceptions one might experience during the physical condition of shock, such as what might be perceived during an abortion:
I wait, count grooves
on the ceiling
as shadow puppets
form along streaked green
walls. They turn into clouds.
(from "Choice")
or, perhaps, this gut wrenching thought that pops up in the mind of a victim during a rape:
I lost my lunch.
there's the tuna sandwhich I ate just hours ago
on whole wheat honey nut bread.
(from "stalks of roses")
Like a clearing of the soul, Kubik faces these difficult memories, these moments lost by the blur of shock. These memories are at times personal and at other times based on the lives of fictional as well as historical characters. The less personal moments, such as in the poem "night swimming" (which is about a doe and her fawn drinking in a stream), are far and few in-between, and seem to be symbolic of the mind's escape into tranquillity in the midst of horror. But the reader is often ripped right out of this escape like a sudden scream, as is symbolized by the abrupt changes from first, to third, to second person points of view in "stalks of roses" ( * the italics are mine):
His hands didn't stop
they crossed boundaries and continued to violate.
One covered my mouth
as I so many times screamed NO
they started to blend together
like ON became still oh no, as you ripped and tore.
The poem continues to describe, in alarming detail, how these moments of shock can haunt the victim eternally:
Every night now I write frantic nightmares,
visions of feet fleeing shadows,
the shadows becoming clearer, darker,
becoming you.
With ominous results, these hair-raising inflictions possessing the characters Kubik concentrates on is described as casually as this, from the point of view of a cab driver observing his customer:
that look, a bugged-out crazy jittery
fox he was. Hand shakin' as he points
the way, unable to keep his behind
on the darn seat, so anxious for his
happy fix.
(from "chicago bound blues")
And without passing judgement, the innocence of youth, once thought to be everlasting, comes crashing down under the weight of one heart aching blow of reality after another:
. . .I wanted
Gone with the Wind, Wuthering Heights,
would settle for lady Chatterley's Lover,
not this surgical probing,
cold, petroleum jelly
finish.
However, the girl-turned-woman never surrenders to any of this, always knowing she deserves better, continuing on in her quest for empowerment, finding it in her own strength, and eventually fighting back by taking control of her own life:
I want synchronized swimming,
water on skin,
bodies folded as one,
sleek as water snakes in sea grass
plunging deep, precise,
whirlpool of pulsating shades of blue.
(both quotes from "first sex")
Talk about powerful stuff! This is poetry that not only will make you feel something, but that will make you feel like a firecracker has gone off in your heart. Bold, brutal, beautiful—this is what Chicago poetry is all about.
--C. J. Laity
Songs in Red can be purchased by stopping by Woman Made Gallery and can be purchased online by visiting KathyKubik.com.
Songs in Red
Kathy's pen sparkles with life and emotion. Songs in Red is full of wonderful poems that are more like windows into her soul and life. Beautifully created masterpieces are waiting for you.
- Jennifer Stires
Pictures of Words
This author is able to create extremely powerful visual images with a few words. I was caught in the pictures by the end of the first couple of lines. This is especially true of the poem, "After the Crash". The topic illicits intense emotional reactions to the plight of both the mother and the child, and a desire to assist, at the same time, admiring their ability to survive and move on...
The intensity of the writings I have seen so far, certainly leave me waiting for more.
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