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Reading List 12 of 2016

November 30, 2016

Covers the period from 11.6.2016 through 11.30.16

I own 5 of these items. Baltimore County Public Library system supplied 2 of the books and movies; libraries in other parts of Maryland, via Inter-Library Loan, supplied the other 23.



  1. Collected Poems by Robert Hayden
  2. Contemporary Polish Poetry, 1925–1975, edited by Madeline G. Levine
  3. Dying for Beauty by Gail Wronsky
  4. Like Water on Stone [Armenian genocide, in verse] by Dana Walrath
  5. Lunch Poems by Frank O’Hara
  6. Micrographia by Emily Wilson
  7. The Redshifting Web: Poems, 1970–1998 by Arthur Sze
  8. Selected Poems by Diana Der-Hovanessian
  9. Unseen Hand by Adam Zagajewski
  10. What I Say: Innovative Poetry by Black Writers in America, edited by Aldon Lynn Nielsen and Lauri Ramey



  1. And the World Stood Silent: Sephardic Poetry of the Holocaust, translated and with commentaries by Isaac Jack Lévy
  2. Anthology of Armenian Poetry, tr. & ed. Diana Der Hovanessian and Marzbad Margossian
  3. The Captive Mind by Czeslaw Milosz, translated by Jane Zielonko
  4. The Human Tradition in the Black Atlantic, 1500–2000, edited by Beatriz Mamigonian and Karen Racine
  5. Notes from No Man’s Land: American Essays by Eula Biss
  6. Onions and Cucumbers and Plums: 46 Yiddish Poems in English, edited by Sarah Zweig Betsky
  7. Proletpen: America’s Rebel Yiddish Poets, translated by Amelia Glaser
  8. Revolutions in Reverse by David Graeber
  9. Warsaw, Lodz, Vilna: The Holocaust Ghettos by Linda Jacobs Altman
  10. [Film] Woman in Gold, dir. Simon Curtis


On Writing, on Living:

  1. About Writing by Samuel R. Delany
  2. Body of Work by Pamela Slim
  3. How We Learn by Benedict Carey
  4. The Motion of Light in Water by Samuel R. Delany
  5. On Living by Kerry Egan
  6. Upstream: Selected Essays by Mary Oliver



  1. The Art of Movement by Ken Browar and Deborah Ory of NYC Dance Project
  2. From Mouse to Mermaid: The Politics of Film, Gender, and Culture, edited by Elizabeth Bell, et al.
  3. How to be a High School Superstar by Cal Newport
  4. [Fiction] In the Language of Miracles by Rajia Hassib



More on a dream, 11.25.16

November 25, 2016


Imagine the people in the dream who were members of the exclusive writing club: they attend meetings every week, where they do writing exercises. Presumably they also attend competitions with writing students from other schools (a la Harry Potter 4).

They have special teachers.

And yet. Dream-Mea shows up, not knowing anything about any of that. Not even knowing this ritual is related to writing. She sits for an unknown exam — no studying, no practicing — and she passes.

Her results card contains (at least) 4 letters. They all indicate… something of interest.

Why would I need the super-special-exclusive club?

Why would I want it?

Maybe sitting the exam wasn’t to show them I belong with them so much as… show me we’re already peers, however I got there.

And having gotten there — to writing (well), by my own devices — what could they provide me that I could use?


I wasn’t accorded the lovely calligraphy, you’ll recall: I got block letters. And since I never actually saw my name spelled out, I’m not sure I even got that. All I saw for sure was the card conflating me with my friend, as if we were one person.

Maybe we were, at that. It’s clear to me that Cathy Fj was a trickster figure in this dream. How did she know about the exam at all? Did she sit for it? Was she just there to convey me to the right place at the right time?

Which perhaps argues I have within me what I need to hold my own.

Why Father Lennon then?

Well, who else would’ve brought to mind exactly “Glen Ellyn and Naperville” without any excess emotional baggage? He wasn’t a proctor; he wasn’t a student. He didn’t speak to me at all.

He was familiar, which was grounding. But he didn’t ask anything of me. His presence just signaled… you know who you are. You can do this.


I did well on the exam.


A week or so ago, I suddenly realized the name of a former blog… should be a glyph. Except how would I construct a glyph? I searched Inter-Library Loan for any book that mentioned glyphs, and have begun reading. I was reading about Mayan glyphs before bed last night/this morning.


I had to leave it so I could love it, but there are many Indiana trees I still think of fondly, to this day. Not just types that I learned to identify, but individual trees that were my friends. If living in Indiana had been more Mea-with-trees, and less Mea-working-in-human-environments-where-she-is-always-a-misfit, maybe I could have stayed there.

Everywhere I’ve lived, I’ve been Mea-with-trees.

I’ve generally worked, too, though, so I’ve also been Mea-the misfit. But here in Maryland, I worked in 2 jobs, which comprised a little less than 9 months. By the time I began blogging in October 2009, 16.5 months after we’d arrived, I was (although I didn’t know it yet) permanently unemployed.

Here in Maryland, as nowhere else adult me has lived, I’ve been free to be Mea-with-trees.

Mea-with-(Maryland)-trees began blogging 7 years ago, and still blogs. Mea-with-(Maryland)-trees began writing poetry 5 years ago, and still writes poetry.

Since she began tracking, in 2011, Mea-with-(Maryland)-trees has read 600 books on literary topics, including 38 anthologies of essays, 106 poetry anthologies, 226 poetry collections, and 19 chapbooks.

Mea-with-trees, Maryland or otherwise, has a sensibility I’ve not seen anywhere else, including amongst nature writers or poets.

{{Mea-with-trees should probably be a glyph.}}


The last time I lamented on this blog that I didn’t receive the kind of feedback from other humans that I wanted, I received feedback that led me to stop allowing comments on this blog.

Maybe the D, L, E, C notations on the yellow card in the dream would’ve been similar.

{{Yellow is a power color for me.}}

What do I really need to hear from other people?


On the rare occasions that I’ve received positive feedback, it generally didn’t tell me what I actually wanted to know. So I had to try to contort how I asked for more, to hopefully receive a better class of data. People get tired of my questions long before I receive anything in the ballpark of what I was seeking.

What I would want from other people is data I can’t gather on my own. For instance, input from sensors I don’t have; streams of data I can’t perceive.

I’m not sure if I’ve ever received feedback like that. Instead, I get 1) what other people think I should want (possibly what they think they would want, if they were me), or 2) what other people feel is appropriate for someone-like-me. Often, the other person shames me for wanting things I don’t “deserve”.

Probably in the dream, I was supposed to feel like I should earn “deserving” to know the D, L, E, C results. But in all likelihood, D, L, E, C, would’ve been meaningless and irrelevant to me.

Why do I even want feedback on my writing? Well, largely because I want colleagues to “talk process” with.

Maybe I’ve been searching for colleagues for the wrong type of process: not writing process, but spiritual process?

Which perhaps frees me up from having to seek out human colleagues, with their clunky worldviews that I don’t understand.

Maybe seeking feedback at all is part of another problem I’m creating for myself.


I keep trying to stay friendly and accessible before writing so that once I have something in hand, I can ease into showing more bits of the real me to people who think they know me. I spend so much energy on “friendly and accessible”, I have little left for, you know, the writing that addresses what I need to mull over.

I’m 50 years old, and I’ve just realized, today, that I’m Mea-with-trees?!? My priorities are a tangled mess.

All the people who aren’t going to take seriously 1) what I say/write, or 2) who I am, are people whose opinions about me, about anything, I can stop paying attention to. Now.

What would Mea-with-trees write?

Dream: 11.25.2016

November 25, 2016

I’m approximately 17 years old. I enter a large classroom with my [junior high] friend Cathy F. As we’re walking towards our seats, I notice many students’ desks display have square, cream-colored envelopes with elaborate calligraphy in green or plum spelling out their names. I wonder why.

It’s probably just another thing that won’t apply to me.


Later, Cathy leads me up several floors to an auditorium I’ve never been in before. I see some of the calligraphied envelopes at a few seats, many of which are unoccupied.

There’s a receptionist of sorts, who directs us to “find our names”. I wonder how my name could actually be there, since I have no idea what any of this is about.

Some of the names in the boxes are the beautiful calligraphy, but most are in more-prosaic large block letters.

Under F, where I’m looking, a woman teacher? proctor? shows up and pulls out a card [large block lettering, green ink] that says “Fiadhig–, Cathy”. I tell her the card is wrong. I say, “No one spells their name with those letters except me. It’s the beginning of ‘Fiadhiglas’. And I’m the only Fiadhiglas in the whole world, so there can’t be a Cathy with that name.” I’m expecting her to tear the card up, maybe apologize, but it’s like she didn’t even hear me.

I wonder if I’m invisible to everyone but Cathy.


I find a seat in a long row, second from the aisle [to my left]. As I get settled, I notice the person to my right is Father Lennon. I remark, “it’s a good thing I didn’t know about this test last night, or I would’ve been too anxious to sleep!”

I still don’t know why I’m there, or what the test will be about.


I take the test, which requires a lot of writing, by hand, on paper.

[It turns out to have been a test of my critical thinking and writing skills, not a subject matter exam.]

I pass.


While awaiting my turn at detailed feedback, a man proctor brings me over to a different section. There are a bunch of more-advanced students standing around in small cubicles, along with large tomes that show where they’re from.

The proctor shepherding me leads me to a section that contains people from the Midwest. I see that the last person in this row seems to be Kansas, and I expect we’ll stop there, but the proctor stops at the person just before. A boy/man of about 20, crewcut, pale. The proctor starts talking to the man, but I’m arrested by the cover of the book: a stylized sycamore tree. I realize the man must be from Indiana, and yes, the proctor is mentioning the Indianapolis 500. But the tree! I recognize it. I’m overcome with deep emotion; tears pour down my face. Luckily the men are absorbed, talking, and don’t notice, don’t ask me questions.


A woman proctor is talking with Cathy and me. She’s glad that we’ve (so surprisingly) done well enough to join the (exclusive, unadvertised) writing club where we’ll have years to make improvements in our skills!

It’s true when I reflect back on the other names I saw on envelopes, back in our classroom, that they were of high-status people with bright futures. It’s also true such people likely don’t even know my name, and would never have invited me to join them.

But wait! I suddenly recall I’m a senior, so I just have 1 year. (How is it that the woman proctor doesn’t know this about me? Has anyone else not on a list ever showed up at the test? Taken it, and passed? Maybe not.)


Later, I’m walking with a different woman proctor. She hands me a 4” x 6” yellow card. My name is indicated [in glyphs] in the center; there are individual Roman letters in each of the corners: D, L, E, C. [There may be others that I no longer recall.]

I ask the woman what the letters mean. She says, “oh, you’ll find out later.” Without losing a beat, I say, “but this is a dream! I won’t find out later! If you tell me now, I’ll remember, and I’ll know something important!”

She seems amused, but she refuses to tell me anything.

I speak to a second woman proctor, more urgently, and she also refuses to elaborate.

Half-awake, I hear what I think is Spouse in an adjacent room, so I try harder to stay within the dream. I wake up.



This wasn’t the usual kind of “I’m back in high school taking an exam I haven’t studied for” dream, because I have zero recollection of the test itself. Also, I passed it.

I haven’t seen Cathy F since we were 15 or so. We did not attend the same high school. She was not a studious girl, so her presence in this dream is odd. Her last name does begin with “Fj”, though, so cards with our surnames would’ve been close together.

Father Lennon was the priest of our parish in Glen Ellyn. Later, when we lived in Naperville, he got assigned to our parish there too. I haven’t seen him since, probably, high school (30+ years).


When I was in high school, I actually loved taking academic tests. I might have been nervous the night before, but it was mostly excitement — I relished testing my mettle. And I have always done exceptionally well on high-pressure exams. Adrenaline kicks in, and I hyperfocus. Time slows down, and I’m in the zone.

17 year old me, if she found herself in the position of unexpectedly taking a high-pressure mystery exam… would have been exhilarated.

I don’t quite know how 50 year old me would feel, as the last high-pressure exam I took might have been my GREs (in my 30s). And for the first time in my life, I did… middling. And they weren’t fun either.

Also, since we’ve moved to Maryland, and I have nothing but free time, my anxiety levels have skyrocketed. Nowadays when I have anything important the next day, anxiety prevents me from being sleepy often for several nights before. I then am desperately tired on top of ordinary worries while whatever it is is going on.

Spouse and I were watching Harry Potter 5 last night, and I mentioned to him how I didn’t miss taking timed exams.

Now that I think about it, it’s quite odd in a way how much I enjoyed taking exams when I was in school (or IQ tests, with a psychologist or whomever administers those), but now that I am free to do all the learning I want, in the subjects I choose, there are no exams, and I don’t miss them.

Well, school is human-social. And doing well on tests confers a type of social status. I’m not Likable (even my own family of origin largely despises me), so I had no shot at reasonable status if I hadn’t been 1) really good at tests, and 2) really smart. Because of my (undiagnosed) autism, I didn’t even realize, all those years, that people were grappling over status all along. That was all invisible to me. That’s a game I can’t play, never mind excel at.


The tree on the book cover didn’t actually look like a sycamore, but I somehow knew it was one. That’s what I meant by recognizing it.

I learned to identify a great many trees while I lived in Indiana — I took a class in Plant Communities. So, trees I’d seen all my life, I suddenly knew what they were, and where they liked to grow, among which neighbors. Sycamores have been an especial favorite ever since. They tend to grow along rivers and streams.

There’s also some Purdue connection with sycamores. I attended Purdue for a year.


Usually in a lucid dream, I’m feeling that it’s a dream as it’s unfolding, and I’m making choices all along to do cool stuff. This wasn’t like that. As I said the words, “but this is a dream!”, I still wasn’t even feeling anything like that at all. I didn’t have the sense that I could choose some crazy thing to illuminate what I wanted to know [look in secret records, etc.] — I still felt like I had to depend on what someone was willing to tell me directly.



Last night/early this morning, I ran aground on yet another attempt to find a sub-genre of writing where my writing seems to fit.

I read anthologies of poems, essays, etc., but none of them ever seem like the types of things I might write. The themes and motifs don’t appeal to me. I don’t have the type of life that lends itself to writing about similar issues. I definitely don’t have the academic background, credentials, or connections, that people who become authors do.

All I seem to have is… a desire to explore the world, to feel alive within it, and to write about it.

Joy, friendship, kinship.

Not-knowing, uncertainty about every thing, ambiguous possibilities.

List: tree types

November 19, 2016

I have so many thoughts about the election, but so far they remain a tangle of nettlesome threads.


If I could remember where on Twitter I read the suggestion of making (alphabetical) lists to relieve anxiety, I would give that person credit.


These are off the top of my head.


A – alder, ash, aspen, avocado, apple, acacia, almond

B – beech, birch, banyan, baobab, bottle, banana, blue spruce, bald cypress, boxwood

C – cherry, crab apple, catalpa, cottonwood, crape myrtle, cacao, coffee, chestnut, cinnamon

D – dogwood

E – elder, elm, ebony

F – fir, fig

G – gum

H – hawthorn, honey locust, holly, hemlock, hickory, hackberry, hazelnut

I – ironwood

J – jack pine, jacaranda

K – kauri, kumquat, Kentucky coffee

L – lime, linden, lemon, live oak

M – maple, magnolia, mesquite, mahogany, madrone, mangrove, mango, mountain laurel

O – olive, osage orange, oak

P – pear, persimmon, paw paw, pecan, peach, papaya

Q – quince, queen of heaven*

R – rhododendron, rowan, redwood, redbud

S – staghorn sumac, sycamore, sweetgum, sourwood, sassafras, serviceberry, sequoia

T – tulip poplar, teak

W – willow, walnut, witch hazel

Y – yew, yellowwood


*apparently the common name is actually “tree of heaven”, Ailanthus altissima


November 6, 2016

I want to be part of the SFF poetry world. I want to be a really good writer. I want to be an innovative writer. I want to hybridize forms. I want to write in translation. I want to translate poetry into English.


I’ve been reading SFF since I was a kid (40-ish years), but only in the last several years have I been reading SFF as a writer.

I didn’t begin writing CNF until I was 43; poetry, I was 45.

Outside of poems, I’ve written no fiction. I attempted NaNoWriMo at 45, and failed, miserably.


Of the literary poets, translator poets, and SFF poets I follow on Twitter, some have been getting their work published for 10, 15, 20, 30 years. So they’ve been writing even longer.

I can’t go back and “begin writing fiction as a teenager” or “begin writing poetry in college”.

Also, when I’m lamenting things I didn’t try, I tend to forget the inconvenient fact that… I’m a generalist, not a specialist. In no timeline anywhere in the multiverse, did I settle on one thing in 1981 or 1987 and concentrate on mastering it.

In 1981, I aspired to being an art student in Paris. Slightly later, an interpreter at the UN.

In 1984, I began college as a botany major. By 1987, I was a philosophy major. A year later, I was absorbed by physics.

I graduated in late 1999 with a B.A. in…. geography.

The most promising start to a career I ever had, I was an environmental scientist. That was… 4+ years of my life. The longest, by far, I spent at any employer. I don’t stay.


Here’s what I have going for me:

I read fast.

I read (pretty much) constantly.

Since 2010, I’ve read 2,003 books. Close to 600 have been related to literature, how to write, poetry, translation, research for topics I want to write about.

Another 301 have been SFF.

(When I was younger, the proportion of SFF compared to everything else I read was much higher. But I read a lot fewer books because I had a lot less free time.)


I have a wide range of interests. Spouse thinks I’m an expert in most of them. I’m much more aware of how everything I know or could hope to know is a drop in the ocean of what could be known, so I don’t call myself an expert… in anything. But I will admit that I know a lot more than someone who has no interest.


Inter-Library Loan is great. Since I began using the all-Maryland service 4 years ago, I’ve read 423 books. Many from the Enoch Pratt Free Library, in Baltimore.


When I worked, I prioritized buying books over everything but rent. Even, sometimes, over food. (It’s so hard to remember to eat regularly anyway.)

Books help me make sense of the world in a way human beings only begin to approach.

Even now, I’ve engineered my monthly budget to make sure a modest amount is always available for buying books. Hypothetically, I could buy books… every month. I usually don’t, but I could.

I buy used whenever I can.

(I don’t keep books I know I won’t read again, which frees up bookshelf space.)


Since circa 2006, I’ve kept handwritten records of things I’ve read, and what I thought was important to remember about them. (Not everything I’ve read; mostly things that were worthwhile to make handwritten notes about.) Those daybooks fill a bookshelf. (Someday, I really need to get around to indexing them.)


I collected bilingual language dictionaries, beginning in 1986. Some years ago, I divested myself of all that weren’t languages I thought I might ever use. In retrospect, I likely should’ve kept more of them, but I still have these:

Albanian, Anishinaabe, Danish, Gaelic, Greek, Lithuanian, Maltese, Māori, Spanish.

Also, Aboriginal Words of Australia; a visual dictionary; (English) dictionaries for specialized vocabularies.

Because I’ve had them available for so long, I’ve been thinking about speaking in multiple tongues all these years. Non-English words have occasionally appeared in my speech and writing… always, really.


I not only think a lot, I think about thinking a lot. I think about learning.

I think about feeling like I don’t belong anywhere.

I think about having friends of other species. How to communicate with them better. Pondering if we’re actually communicating now.

I wonder what my “native tongue” actually is, since I usually don’t think in words first. But I don’t think in fully-developed pictures either: I’m not a visual thinker the way Temple Grandin is. No books I’ve read have described accurately how I think, so I don’t know what to call it, or how it compares to anyone else’s thought process.


I’ve spent more time with books than with human beings.

If I have a “tribe”, it might be books. I don’t think that makes sense, but maybe it’s still a kind of true. (Good thing I’m a poet.)


November 5, 2016

It takes a long time for my mind to accumulate enough bits and bobs of interesting items yielding ideas I want to work on, with. I’m taking a break from reading books this week, so I’m either on Twitter a lot, skimming, or I’m spinning my wheels, wondering what’s worth some effort.

I haven’t been able to figure out how to achieve intellectual stimulation to the degree I need… other than reading (books, mostly) week in and week out. I can only occasionally talk about what I’ve been reading with Spouse — his interests are narrower than mine, and he doesn’t speculate imaginatively the way I do when I encounter new-to-me information. So if I’m telling him about what I’ve been reading, it’s less of a discussion or conversation, and more of a monologue.

I have all this enthusiasm, and no one who shares it in real-time.

I’m using my brain more, differently and deeper — I’m developing such capacities! But no one knows that, and I don’t know how they might.

So I read more books.

Sometimes I pencil comments in the margins of library books, just to feel like I’m talking to someone.


Spouse and I early-voted on Tuesday. There was an hour-long wait. In previous years, our ballots had been electronic, but this year, we inked in ovals on paper ballots, then scanned them.

The anxiety of this interminable election… I’m so ready for it to be done.

I haven’t had so much as a glass of wine in ~20 years.


A week before I stopped reading books, I realized my stint in Poetry-at-a-Furious-Pace (which I’d been immersed in for, oh, about 3.5 years) had abruptly ended. It was an unsettling 3 days of not knowing what to think about, and wondering who I was without Poetry. But a day or so later, I felt ideas about non-poetry things returning to me.

In retrospect, I’m surprised at how much brainpower was being taken up with Poetry, even when I wasn’t reading or writing it. Technically, I probably had the bandwidth to be doing other things, but for Reticulating Splines-type reasons I couldn’t access it. It’s been kind of disorienting getting reacquainted with my selves that are not writers.


Ironically perhaps, I feel like I’m on the verge of having skills good enough to actually write some shit worth saying.

I’m definitely improving at ‘hearing’ my unconscious when it drops images or phrases into my awareness. Every so often, a whole line.


My quest to number all my poems has stalled again, but the last version was 1.5, so maybe the iterations in the 2’s will be the ones that aren’t overthinking and over-documenting every tiny thing.


Some time back, I bought the only book I could find on titling poems. But reading it was dry as dust, and I wasn’t even learning much of use.


The “brambleberry wine” organic green tea I tried out last night smelled wonderful. It tasted, however, like sweaty gym socks steeped in water, with delicious berry top notes. Disappointing combo.

I knew, picking the box off the shelf, that the name sold me. But I expected something edible at least!

Tonight I have a different berry tea, and it’s much better.


More than just the occasional Spanish word is showing up in my poems. Someday, I want to translate poetry, and write poetry in language(s) other than English. I’m getting closer.

I’m tired and my brain feels like mush.

There’s fluid in my ears, and it’s annoying, but it doesn’t hurt yet, so I’ve been waffling about going back to the clinic about it. Unfortunately the nose spray I got last time expired months ago.

Spouse has a different issue with his ears, which he is stressing about.

I wish there was a way to vent about medical issues (to Spouse) without having it turn into a contest over who has things worse. Instead of blowing off steam and returning to emotional equilibrium, I find myself worrying (even more) about his health, plus worrying about how he doesn’t seem to deal with stress very effectively. Which, obviously, I have no control over.

When that happens, I automatically try to placate him, which is counterproductive, but it does soothe my childhood fears of being abandoned because I’m (clearly) not lovable.


My unconscious mind gave me a great line to begin a poem a few months ago. But when I realized the specific incident it referred to, and how much muck and slime I’d have to relive to write about it… I haven’t done a thing with it.

I’m so over writing directly about my (traumatic) childhood or adolescence or young adulthood in a poem. Just… done.

But if I’m not processing unpleasant emotions in that fashion, I’m not processing them at all. I remain “choked with grief and rage”, which is not helpful neither. Aw, hell. Don’t tell me I really do need to write the thing. Its anniversary is even coming up.

Reading List 11b of 2016

October 31, 2016

Covers the period from 10.2.2016 through 10.31.16

I own 8 of these items. Baltimore County Public Library system supplied 4 of the books and movies; libraries in other parts of Maryland, via Inter-Library Loan, supplied the other 26.




Women of Note:

  1. A History of Women Photographers by Naomi Rosenblum
  2. Cool Women: The Thinking Girl’s Guide to the Hippest Women in History, edited by Pam Nelson
  3. Dorothy Thompson and Rose Wilder Lane — 40 Years of Friendship: Letters, 1920–1960, edited by William Holtz
  4. [Martha] Gellhorn: A 20th Century Life by Caroline Moorehead
  5. Janet, My Mother, and Me: A Memoir of Growing Up with Janet Flanner and Natalia Danesi Murray by William Murray
  6. Lee Miller: A Life by Carolyn Burke
  7. Margaret Bourke-White: Her Pictures Were Her Life by Susan Goldman Rubin
  8. Witness to War: A Biography of Marguerite Higgins by Antoinette May
  9. The Women Who Wrote the War by Nancy Caldwell Sorel


Women of New Mexico:

  1. The House at Otowi Bridge: The Story of Edith Warner and Los Alamos by Peggy Pond Church
  2. The Suppressed Memoirs of Mabel Dodge Luhan: Sex, Syphilis, and Psychoanalysis…, edited by Lois Palken Rudnick


People of Pueblos:

  1. Children of Clay: A Family of Pueblo Potters by Rina Swentzell
  2. The Good Rainbow Road / Rawa ‘Kashtyaa’tsi Hiyaani by Simon J. Ortiz
  3. Tending the Fire: The Story of Maria Martinez by Juddi Morris


African Diaspora:

  1. A Different Image: The Legacy of Broadside Press: An Anthology, edited by Gloria House, Rosemary Weatherston, and Albert M. Ward
  2. Afro Modern: Journeys through the Black Atlantic, edited by Tanya Barson and Peter Gorschlüter
  3. Known and Strange Things: Essays by Teju Cole
  4. The Racial Imaginary: Writers on Race in the Life of the Mind, edited by Claudia Rankine, Beth Loffreda, and Max King Cap


Eastern Europe:

  1. Albania & Kosovo [Blue Guide] by James Pettifer
  2. Albanian Literature: An Outline of Prose, Poetry, and Drama by Stuart E. Mann
  3. Besa: [Albanian] Muslims Who Saved Jews in WW2 by Norman H. Gershman
  4. Eastern Europe! by Tomek Jankowski
  5. The Jews in Old Poland, 1000–1795, edited by Antony Polonsky, et al.
  6. Joseph and Koza, or the Sacrifice to the Vistula by Isaac Bashevis Singer
  7. Our Parents’ Lives: The Americanization of Eastern European Jews by Ruth Schwartz Cowan and Neil Cowan



  1. After: Poems by Nancy Pagh
  2. The Art of the Sonnet by Stephen Burt and David Mikics
  3. By Way of Explanation by Anna Rosen Guercio
  4. Comings / Goings by Jenni B. Baker
  5. Feeling as a Foreign Language: The Good Strangeness of Poetry by Alice Fulton
  6. from unincorporated territory [saina] by Craig Santos Perez
  7. Housewifery by Carly Anne Ravnikar
  8. ya helu by lyw


Language & Linguistics:

  1. Anishinaubae Thesaurus by Basil H. Johnston
  2. Czech Historical Grammar by Stuart E. Mann
  3. Fjalor: Anglisht–Shqip [English–Albanian Dictionary] by Ilo Stefanllari



  1. [Fiction] The Rope by Nevada Barr
  2. The Tinkerers by Alec Foege