I began blogging about books with high hopes. Over time I have realized how much work it is to read a book, and then write something at least halfway intelligent about it. I am grateful to everyone who has read what I’ve written and possibly offered comments, but this has not turned out to be as much of a conversation as I had hoped. The format doesn’t lend itself to easy back and forth.

In early July last year, while driving home from Saskatoon with my travel and writing buddy (she was at the wheel), I was inspired by a book of poems by her friend Dave Margoshes. ACalendar of Reckoning, that she had just had autographed. (When she told the story of my poetic conversion to Dave, he said, `Not at all surprising. Art begets art.`–or words to that effect.)

Thus I began writing poems myself. This was a bold act for a woman who studied Keats and Donne and other greats of poetry in her youth. For a long time my study of literature inhibited my attempts to write. With age I see that my efforts at writing are worthwhile because they reflect my personality, the era I live in, and my life experiences. I also have the advantage of having read widely and intensively for more than six decades.

My first poem, about two girls I saw at a bus stop while depositing a bag of dog poop in the garbage receptacle, is called “Two Whitest Girls in the World.” I have refined it to the point where I am ready to share it.

I have since written a number of other poems. These include, “Holding Up the Sky,” about a woman I saw on the subway in New York City, and “Is That an Old People?”, the story of an encounter with a group of day care children, again while I was walking my dog. Another walk with Lucy inspired “Rabbits in Trees.`I will share these efforts as I feel ready.

To reflect this different focus, I have changed the name of my blog to Ìntoxicated by Words.This new name will allow me to post poems and possibly essays and jottings on various topics and still to write about books.

During my long break from this blog, I continued to do a lot of reading. I will touch on the highlights.

The Sisters Brothers by Patrick DeWitt was sitting on my shelf for years. I am glad I finally read it because it is laugh-out-loud funny in many places. A picaresque departure from the usual western novel, it has a lot to say about families and especially about the relationship between brothers. These brothers are contract killers. For them killing is just a job, and sometimes it is even fun. I was motivated to finally read the book because I was thinking of going to see the movie, and wanted to read the book first. As you would expect in a book about contract killers, there is a lot of violence. I can read about violence but not watch or listen to it, so I am taking a pass on the movie.

On the recommendation of Elaine Lui, a gossip blogger, TV personality and avid reader I admire for her sassiness, intelligence and strong work ethic, I read both Crazy Rich Asians and Crazy Rich Girlfriend by Kevin Kwan. The movie based on the first book was surprising, because the movie is the rare instance of the film being better than the book. I found the characters more engaging on the screen than on the page, which is a tribute to how well made the movie is.

A few weeks ago I read The Paris Wife by Paula McLain, a book passed on to me by a soul sister. It is the story of the marriage of Ernest Hemingway and Hadley Richardson, the first of his four wives. It’s not a book I want to keep but it is certainly worth reading. The New York Times Book Review panned the book, while the Guardian reviewed it more favourably. For years I have detested Hemingway—both as a writer and as a person—but this book has given me a more sympathetic view of him. It has even made me feel I might want to look at his writing again.

In my mid to late twenties, after reading The Golden Notebook by Doris Lessing several times, I avoided fiction by male writers on principle. They already had plenty of readers, and I objected to the notion—more prevalent then than now– that anything written by a woman reflected a woman’s point of view, while writing by men reflected wider human concerns. In some circles a novel still needs a white male protagonist, or at least a male protagonist, to be of general interest.

My dislike of Hemingway originates in this period of my life, as does my inability to enjoy the work of Michael Ondaatje. Until now, I have not been able to finish a single book by him. During four attempts at The English Patient, I could not build up enough momentum to keep going.

Last month I powered my way through Warlight, his latest novel, from beginning to end. The fact that we would be discussing it in book club helped me keep going. Unlike many current novels, which cry out to have had about a hundred pages cut by a judicious editor, I think it has too much plot for the number of pages. I found it engaging but I wished things had been fleshed out more. It is set in Britain in the late 40s, and got me thinking about how easy it was for some parents to pack their children off to the country or to boarding school as the war raged, how for some the separation must have been deeply painful while for others it would have been a liberation. It also made me think about how unsuitable some of the children’s chosen guardians must have been, as they are in this story.

Since finishing Warlight, I have read Tell by Frances Itani in a couple of sittings. Although she has written a lot and I have known about her for years, this is the first of her books I have read—and what a treat it is. As a reader, I relaxed into a novel by an absolutely capable writer, whose power comes from quietness and understatedness. Set one hundred years ago, it is the story of a soldier who has returned from World War I damaged in body and soul, suffering from what we now call PTSD, and his struggle to return to something like normal life. His difficulties with his wife are contrasted with those experienced by the couple’s aunt and uncle, who have also stifled terrible trauma. My younger son once said that “Canadian literature is mostly depressing stories about life in small towns.” This story is set in a small town, and it is depressing on one level, but it is also an inspiring story of love and resilience. It also speaks of the healing power of art, as the aunt practises several solo pieces to sing at the New Year’s Eve concert.

I can’t write about all the books I’ve read since my last blog post. Some I skimmed and barely remember. Apart from the novels discussed above, other reading I have done has reflected my interest in the history of eastern and central Europe, and in the human costs of totalitarianism of various stripes.

Red Famine: Stalin’s War on Ukraine by Anne Appelbaum, about the politically engineered famine in Ukraine in 1932-33, is as dispassionate as the treatment of such a subject could be. Appelbaum makes clear that the goal of the famine was to bring the Ukrainian communist party and the Ukrainian nation into line by destroying the cultural and academic elite. Anyone who had any grain hidden away to feed their family, anyone who had an idea contrary to Stalin’s thinking, was an enemy of the people. Millions, many of them young children, starved to death.

A Guest at the Shooters’ Banquet by American poet Rita Gabis is both history and memoir. Her Jewish father’s family came to America around 1900 to escape the pogroms in eastern Europe. Her mother’s Lithuanian family arrived after World War II, vaguely claiming to have fought in the resistance against Soviet occupation. They had little to say about their activities during the German occupation from 1939 to 1941. Travelling to Lithuania, Gabis struggles with her growing understanding of the role her beloved maternal grandfather played during that period. His job in the security service did not entail any actual shooting of Jews, but he certainly helped to organize the roundups and celebrated with the shooters at their banquets after the killings.

After Long Silence by Helen Fremont tells an amazing story of two blonde, blue-eyed Jewish sisters from Poland who physically survive the war by convincingly assuming gentile identities. Both have a great talent for acting and for languages and accents. One sister gets to Italy and marries an Italian nobleman, becoming a very Italian and very Catholic lady. The other does secretarial work for the Italian army in Poland after it is occupied by the Nazis, and when that job becomes too risky, assumes various other disguises. The man she marries, one of the few people to escape from the Gulag, passes his medical exams in six languages and becomes a doctor in the US. When the couple have children, she teaches them Catholic prayers and makes the family go to mass every Sunday, in the hope that seeming Catholic will keep them safe. The memoir, by the couple’s daughter, is about the ripple effect on the family of all this lying and disguising and relentless marching forward. The mother truly does not remember her real name—she has become her final disguise.

I will close this blog post with my first poem.

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“Two Whitest Girls in the World”

At the stop for the bus that goes to the mall

On a hot July day I see them waiting:

The two whitest girls in the world

They do not wear sunglasses and sun hats

Or long-sleeved t-shirts and long pants

Heads bare, they are dressed in white tank tops and white shorts

And perfectly white running shoes

Even their hair is whitish gold

Their faces, their necks, their long limbs all are blank whiteness

No sunburn, no tan lines, no pimples, no varicose veins, no rosacea

No acne, no scars, no mosquito bites, no canker sores, no wrinkles

How can anyone be this white?

Have they never been outdoors before?

They are so white that compared with them

Most white supremacists are black

Donald Trump is a red Indian crossed with a yellow peril

And I am a wrinkly old brown woman

I want the girls to get out of the sun

I want the bus to come and envelop their whiteness in its protective metal

I want them to enjoy their day at the mall

They have brightened my day, but I never want them to feel

Their whiteness makes them better than anybody else