The first thing I noticed when reading Susan’s writing is the descriptive imagery, she makes you feel every emotion she feels. This is a trait in writing that I admire and her telling of loss and depression at times returns me back on imagery I rarely see outside of Anne Sexton or Sylvia Plath. The poetry reads like the story of her life through the love, loss, grief, the screaming pinches in the soul that losing a parent, child, or sibling staples-in forever. She also hauntingly describes the progress of losing her sight as she has gone from a sky full of stars both sentient and still to the ones who blink out erratically til there is nothing left to burn. These are not just some poems. These are her life. Emotions are hers. When you read this collection of poetry the Emotions are yours too. “Between Sight and Blindness” “Stitching Bones” the loves that got away “Cactus Garden” the pains that diseases bring, the people they take away, the hearts that feels like a car puttering out over the rainy bridge with nowhere to go, these poems will “scatter into the sky” scratching at the stars looking for the brightest one yet receiving in return a turning off the lights inside of Andy Warhol’s Silver Factory, in demure breath wanting the world see the pain. A wonderful read. A wonderful trip into the mind. We need more of her poetic vision.
Susan Richardson is an award winning, internationally published poet. She is the author of “Things My Mother Left Behind”, from Potter’s Grove Press, and also writes the blog, “Stories from the Edge of Blindness
”. She lives in Ireland with her husband, two pugs and two cats. You can find her on Twitter @floweringink, listen to her on YouTube , and read more of her work on her website
Another hospital room, another chair holding the weight of my sorrow. His breath is almost soundless, mouth open wide as if inviting god into his lungs one last time. His eyes flutter awake, startled. Is it my face he sees, dulled by time, or a face that once held the sun? He smiles and strokes my fifty-year old hand, all the years drifting away. The blues sit perched on his dry lips. I am his child, four years old singing Lead Belly at the top of my tiny lungs I am a drop of his blood spilling out onto the Earth, a fracture of his bones stuck into the ground with paper spikes. I am the tear from his eye, heavy, reluctant. His hands are a whisper that tell a story, a smattering of leaves on his palm, fingers plucking at things only he can see, my mother, my brother, both long dead. I watch his chest barely rising, each small breath a forest of words trapped in the mist of his memory. I wait for his stillness, for the breaking pieces of his mind to be at rest. He sits in my palm now, softly, frail like the wing of a sparrow. He folds into shapes so tiny so quiet.