By Jewel Kilcher
I have realized that no longer all poetry lends itself to tune -- a few strategies have to be sung in simple terms opposed to the silence. There are softer and not more tangible part[s] of our selves which are so necessary to peace, to openheartedness, to unfolding the imaginative and prescient and the non secular realm of our lives, to exposing our souls. - Jewel, From the Preface Writing poems and conserving journals given that early life, Jewel has been trying to find fact and that means, turning to her phrases to list, to find, and to mirror. In an evening with no Armor, her first choice of poetry, Jewel explores the fireplace of old flame, the fading of ardour, the giving of belief, the teachings of betrayal, and the therapeutic of intimacy.She delves into concerns of the house, the relief of relatives, the great thing about Alaska, and the dislocation of divorce. after which there are the pictures of the line, the folk, the bars, the planes, locations unique and mundane, loneliness and friendship. Frank and sincere, critical and abruptly playful, an evening with no Armor is a skilled artist's intimate portrait of what makes us uniquely human.
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Additional resources for A Night Without Armor: Poems
The click-clack of wax pieces as they are dropped upon the stone floors, wet with rain, by a devotee to see if his prayers have been answered. The warm mellow golden hue of the red ceremonial candles lit in interlocking circles that climb, circle upon circle, into a darkening sky. Fog and rain hanging low and heavy like a damp and woolen hood. 34 O n the steps below there is a man with one leg, whose face looks carved of wood a hysteric smile parting his lips. He reads people's palms. " 36 1966 I turned off the TV.
I am told I am adored by millions but no one calls. 32 Tai Pei £ Thick night, a cobalt expanse littered with the bright shock of yellow and orange neon signs boasting their wares, dried fruit or wedding dresses in the latest style. A humid claw clings to me, every movement anticipated by this moist air, this Asian sky with its endless fields yawning unseen beneath it. Somewhere out there, an overhead is spinning, ticking, rattling. A young girl sweats, her armpits like tidy rosebuds. The businessman from Hong Kong pretends to have fallen asleep while she washes herself in the sink, the night sticking to her insides in a way she can't wash off.
She boarded quietly, but her eyes grazed me with malignant anger. She is awake now. I turn away, look out the window. Reaching for the phone the sleeve of her business jacket lifts, revealing a neat row of round burn marks all up her forearm. Was she hurt as a child? Was it a late husband, mean boyfriend, crazy sex fetish? I try to catch the title of the book she's reading for clues. 28 It's just some mystery novel. I can tell I ' m making h e r uneasy. I go back to my writing. A. Dark secrets h u n t i n g h e r insides, softness sucked out, a deep sadness i n h e r eyes.