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Marie’s 2023 Year in Books
Take a look at Marie’s Year in Books. The long, the short—it’s all here.
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Marie Anzalone
Goodreads Author
Born
in The United States
Website
Genre
Member Since
December 2011
URL
https://www.goodreads.com/marieanzalone
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Slaying Dragons with Clorox and Holy Water
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2021
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Pequeños Infortunios
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2021
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2 editions
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Peregrinating North-South Compass Points: Poems in English and Spanish
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published
2014
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A Pilgrimage in Epistles: Poems as Letters and Observations
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2014
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Love Stories and Other Subterranean Influences
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2019
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Non-Utilitarian Living: Poems in English and Spanish
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What We Meant to Say
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Wall Deconstruction and Other Seditious Acts
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2019
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Non-Utilitarian Living: Poems in English and Spanish by Marie Anzalone (2016-02-03)
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If In a Poem I Left you Wanting: poesía en inglés y español
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2023
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2 editions
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Vacations
August 29 Writing Prompt for Smorgas Bard Vacations can’t revive lethargic souls-spend ten hours on a tour busin 100 degrees traveling through the karst pyramidsand emerald canyons of southern Mexico, sitting next to a whiny adult childand you will ..
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""Told with P. D. James's trademark suspense, insightful characterization, and riveting storytelling"...
 I have wanted to read this book for a long time. I loved the movie. I thought it was brilliant, exciting, suspenseful and terrifying all at once. I" Read more of this review » |
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“And still, still, there is more to describe-
we paint because drawing breath is an agony
and exhaling an ecstasy
and somewhere in the space in-between
we think we once found a truth;
and the eternal part of us desires
to share this truth at all costs
only it's never quite how we pictured it,
and it's never quite received the way we want
and the paint drips with our own blood
the handles of our brushes are our own bones
our own tears become the words to our most beautiful love songs
and we know we'll never get it right before we die-
getting up every morning and facing our own limited truth
is a courage so divine
most men quell and women stay enslaved in silence.”
― A Pilgrimage in Epistles: Poems as Letters and Observations
we paint because drawing breath is an agony
and exhaling an ecstasy
and somewhere in the space in-between
we think we once found a truth;
and the eternal part of us desires
to share this truth at all costs
only it's never quite how we pictured it,
and it's never quite received the way we want
and the paint drips with our own blood
the handles of our brushes are our own bones
our own tears become the words to our most beautiful love songs
and we know we'll never get it right before we die-
getting up every morning and facing our own limited truth
is a courage so divine
most men quell and women stay enslaved in silence.”
― A Pilgrimage in Epistles: Poems as Letters and Observations
“Just ask any subjugated thing-
a wife, population, race,
deferred dream and
resource misappropriated,
or continental plate;
and it will tell you stories
of inevitable fault lines
of not-quite-stray bullets
and strike slip boundaries,
places where intensity builds
and lets off small or great sparks,”
― Peregrinating North-South Compass Points: Poems in English and Spanish
a wife, population, race,
deferred dream and
resource misappropriated,
or continental plate;
and it will tell you stories
of inevitable fault lines
of not-quite-stray bullets
and strike slip boundaries,
places where intensity builds
and lets off small or great sparks,”
― Peregrinating North-South Compass Points: Poems in English and Spanish
“More than a father’s daughter,
more than husband’s spouse
your soul is here to know love,
your body yours to decide how and when
and with whom and under what circumstances
that happens. You owe nothing to no-one.
Your thoughts are more than parents
your morality greater than church
your nutrition more than food
your steps greater than toil,
your concerns are not whining
your fears are neither stupid nor vain
your heart is more than Mother
your value more than a face
your fingers more than service.”
― Non-Utilitarian Living: Poems in English and Spanish
more than husband’s spouse
your soul is here to know love,
your body yours to decide how and when
and with whom and under what circumstances
that happens. You owe nothing to no-one.
Your thoughts are more than parents
your morality greater than church
your nutrition more than food
your steps greater than toil,
your concerns are not whining
your fears are neither stupid nor vain
your heart is more than Mother
your value more than a face
your fingers more than service.”
― Non-Utilitarian Living: Poems in English and Spanish
“In those days, we finally chose to walk like giants and hold the world in arms grown strong with love
And there may be many things we forget in the days to come,
But this will not be one of them.”
― Traveling Light: Stories & Drawings for a Quiet Mind
And there may be many things we forget in the days to come,
But this will not be one of them.”
― Traveling Light: Stories & Drawings for a Quiet Mind
“Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could. Some blunders and absurdities no doubt crept in; forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day. You shall begin it serenely and with too high a spirit to be encumbered with your old nonsense.”
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“We danced too wild, and we sang too long, and we hugged too hard, and we kissed too sweet, and howled just as loud as we wanted to howl, because by now we were all old enough to know that what looks like crazy on an ordinary day looks a lot like love if you catch it in the moonlight.”
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“Are you angry? Punch a pillow. Was it satisfying? Not hardly. These days people are too angry for punching. What you might try is stabbing. Take an old pillow and lay it on the front lawn. Stab it with a big pointy knife. Again and again and again. Stab hard enough for the point of the knife to go into the ground. Stab until the pillow is gone and you are just stabbing the earth again and again, as if you want to kill it for continuing to spin, as if you are getting revenge for having to live on this planet day after day, alone.”
― No One Belongs Here More Than You
― No One Belongs Here More Than You
“The weather had freshened almost to coldness, for the wind was coming more easterly, from the chilly currents between Tristan and the Cape; the sloth was amazed by the change; it shunned the deck and spent its time below. Jack was in his cabin, pricking the chart with less satisfaction than he could have wished: progress, slow, serious trouble with the mainmast-- unaccountable headwinds by night-- and sipping a glass of grog; Stephen was in the mizentop, teaching Bonden to write and scanning the sea for his first albatross. The sloth sneezed, and looking up, Jack caught its gaze fixed upon him; its inverted face had an expression of anxiety and concern. 'Try a piece of this, old cock,' he said, dipping his cake in the grog and proffering the sop. 'It might put a little heart into you.' The sloth sighed, closed its eyes, but gently absorbed the piece, and sighed again.
Some minutes later he felt a touch upon his knee: the sloth had silently climbed down and it was standing there, its beady eyes looking up into his face, bright with expectation. More cake, more grog: growing confidence and esteem. After this, as soon as the drum had beat the retreat, the sloth would meet him, hurrying toward the door on its uneven legs: it was given its own bowl, and it would grip it with its claws, lowering its round face into it and pursing its lips to drink (its tongue was too short to lap). Sometimes it went to sleep in this position, bowed over the emptiness.
'In this bucket,' said Stephen, walking into the cabin, 'in this small half-bucket, now, I have the population of Dublin, London, and Paris combined: these animalculae-- what is the matter with the sloth?' It was curled on Jack's knee, breathing heavily: its bowl and Jack's glass stood empty on the table. Stephen picked it up, peered into its affable bleary face, shook it, and hung it upon its rope. It seized hold with one fore and one hind foot, letting the others dangle limp, and went to sleep.
Stephen looked sharply round, saw the decanter, smelt to the sloth, and cried, 'Jack, you have debauched my sloth.”
― H.M.S. Surprise
Some minutes later he felt a touch upon his knee: the sloth had silently climbed down and it was standing there, its beady eyes looking up into his face, bright with expectation. More cake, more grog: growing confidence and esteem. After this, as soon as the drum had beat the retreat, the sloth would meet him, hurrying toward the door on its uneven legs: it was given its own bowl, and it would grip it with its claws, lowering its round face into it and pursing its lips to drink (its tongue was too short to lap). Sometimes it went to sleep in this position, bowed over the emptiness.
'In this bucket,' said Stephen, walking into the cabin, 'in this small half-bucket, now, I have the population of Dublin, London, and Paris combined: these animalculae-- what is the matter with the sloth?' It was curled on Jack's knee, breathing heavily: its bowl and Jack's glass stood empty on the table. Stephen picked it up, peered into its affable bleary face, shook it, and hung it upon its rope. It seized hold with one fore and one hind foot, letting the others dangle limp, and went to sleep.
Stephen looked sharply round, saw the decanter, smelt to the sloth, and cried, 'Jack, you have debauched my sloth.”
― H.M.S. Surprise
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