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loved this a lot, need my own copy asap
This collection was incredible. I try to read a few books of poetry a year, and while there have been many that I've enjoyed, by the end of this book I was reminded of my love of poetry, and in a burst I read the last 50 pages devouring every line.Sandra Cisneros is a writer who understands that poetry is as much what is said as is what isn't said. Each word in these poems is carefully selected so that one gets a feeling. And that feeling lingers in the reader long after they have finished the c...
My Wicked, Wicked Ways is a nice, solid collection of poems. Cisneros explores life as a woman growing up in a Latinx family in Chicago, talking about her experience of her Mexican heritage: familial expectations, socioeconomic status, the way people treated her because of where her family came from. She also describes life as a single woman and an author, reaching once again into the ring with the grand forces of society and challenging them. She is insistent and tangibly here to inspire a chan...
This is a siren of a book.
Although I keep trying from time to time, I'm not much of a fan of written poetry. I need to hear/see it performed to really appreciate it. That's probably true of the poems in this book as well--I'm sure I'd like them more if I saw Cisneros reading them. But the lack of voice didn't deter from their overall impact, and I thoroughly enjoy reading these poems. Perhaps because her voice is actually quite clear throughout.
Bill, I don’t do laundryand I don’t believe in love.I believe in bricks.And broken windshields.And maybe my fist.But you’re safe to takethe road this one time, buddy.I’m getting old.I’ve learned two things.To let goclean as kite string.And to never wash a man’s clothes.These are my rules.
I have read all of Sandra Cisneros books and am a fan of her writing. She reminds me of Bukowski in that her writing is so simplistic and plainspoken and yet she is able to pull it off brilliantly with that sprinkle of literary magic.
Searingly simple, pulls you in immediately.
This book is wicked old (as they say in these parts), coming out in 1987. Still, curiosity got the best of me. After teaching her collection of vignettes, The House on Mango Street, over and over and did I say over(?) again, I wondered what Cisneros's poetry would look like.Esperanza, the autobiographical protagonist in Mango, after all, speaks more than once of her poetry. And many vignettes in that book are sheer poetry themselves. Rich in poetic devices.I was a bit disappointed, then, to see
This is the book and the poet responsible for me becoming totally hooked on poetry. I think it had a lot to do with the familiarity of the subject of the poems, growing up in working class Latino neighborhoods, the culture and just surviving the ever present cruelty of childhood. Beautiful free verse that stimulates every sense. Even now as I write this I can smell the fresh tortillas, hear the music and the shrieks of the kids as they kick a ball up and down the street. I wish I was out there w...
Sandra absolutely fucks, thank you Sasha for letting me borrow for literal years!
I feel like this is the book where you get the closest to catching an honest glimpse into who Cisneros is and what she's about. Her poetry also makes you hunger to be free - emotionally and physically. In particular, her poems about Greece (where she spent a year writing) awaken a deep urge in me and remind me to live for something more than a paycheck.
”Love has come love has goneand love has been awaybefore but ultimately stays.”
It has been so long since I have read poetry and now wonder why I have waited so long. Loved the thoughtful and intoxicating prose of Cisneros.
It is a joy to read Cisneros first genre--poetry. Her poems are sparse and honest and draw out truth in vivid imagery. One of my favorites: Abuelito WhoAbuelito who throws coins like rainand asks who loves himwho is dough and feathers who is a watch and a glass of water whose hair is made of fur is too sad to come downstairs todaywho tells me in Spanish you are my diamondwho tells me in English you are my skywhose little eyes are stringcan't come out to playsleeps in his little room all night an...
