Belinda’s Review of "Compositions on Compassion and Other Emotions" by Bob McNeil

 

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"Compositions on Compassion and Other Emotions" by Bob McNeil is a profound and multifaceted exploration of themes such as love, hope, healing, and the complex nature of mortality. Written during a pivotal period in McNeil's life, marked by a life-threatening health crisis, the collection reflects a deep introspection born out of confronting his own fragility. Rather than dwelling solely on despair, McNeil crafts a narrative that embraces the importance of compassion and the pursuit of a more loving world.

The book comprises essays, illustrations, poems, and short stories, creating a rich tapestry of emotional expression. McNeil’s writing invites readers to navigate the intricacies of human experience, from the joys of affectionate connections to the painful reality of loss. In pieces like "What Love Wrote" and "My Heart's Unthwarted Sentiment," he articulates the necessity of love in navigating life’s hardships, suggesting that genuine affection is both a refuge and a source of strength. The work is characterized by a tone that oscillates between solemnity and hope, reflecting McNeil's understanding that vulnerability can lead to profound personal growth.

A significant aspect of McNeil's collection is its exploration of societal issues. He does not shy away from addressing the systemic challenges faced by marginalized communities. Poems such as "A Mouse and the Lack of Housing" serve as poignant critiques of societal neglect and indifference towards those who are homeless. Through these reflections, McNeil emphasizes the need for social change and the importance of community in combating these injustices. By intertwining personal narratives with broader social commentary, he elevates the emotional impact of his work, urging readers to recognize and address the struggles of others.

Additionally, McNeil’s contemplations on mortality permeate the collection, prompting introspection about life and legacy. In pieces like "Sentiments Before Residence in the Firmament," he encourages readers to embrace their emotions and relationships fully, underscoring the fleeting nature of existence. His reflections on ancestry and familial bonds in "Praise My Forebears" and "A Mantra for Babas" further highlight the resilience found in one’s heritage, encouraging a deep appreciation for the journey of life.

Bob McNeil, a seasoned writer and spoken word artist with previous works such as "Lyrics of Mature Hearts," brings a unique voice to this collection. His commitment to social causes is evident, as a portion of the proceeds is directed towards supporting a homeless organization. This dual purpose adds an additional layer of significance to his literary effort, reinforcing the message that art can drive positive change in society.

In conclusion, "Compositions on Compassion and Other Emotions" is a compelling and heartfelt exploration of the human experience. McNeil’s blend of personal reflection, social commentary, and philosophical insight creates a resonant narrative that encourages readers to reflect on their own lives and the world around them. This collection stands as a significant contribution to contemporary literature, offering both solace and empowerment through the lens of compassion and creativity.

Essay by Su Zi: Voluntary Service

 

Voluntary Service

There is a place we sleep, and often we call that place home.

The physical area around our home is our community; although we also can have communities of interest that are not as tied to walking distance, that can be just as foundational to our lives as a safe place to sleep.

Just as the quality of our sleep-nest affects us, so do the qualities of our communities; however, just as there are ways we can make more pleasant our homes, there are also ways we can make our communities more pleasant as well, by the occasional lending of a hand.

Ecological disasters do bring forth any neighbor who is adept with a chainsaw, but we need not wait to meet the neighbors until the fourth day of no power.

Yes, everyone is beleaguered with worries, and there are some people who are stymied, who might circle and snort or yowl and cause tonal chaos, or worse; however, humanity has virtues, and to this, we seek solace.

In the memory of our deepest comforts, there is pleasure. Perhaps we kept that pleasure alive through hobby. Perhaps we read up on it some. Perhaps we attended events and were immersed in a group of other people who too are there to enjoy.  We gain energization, and we carry that into our next days, sharing that happiness: we had a good time.

The adage to do what you love requires economic commitment, but

what if it was just the time of day

a day

given

It might be that you arise in the dark and first light finds you at a local park, perhaps. You cannot help but see the first of the day’s rays greet the trees, and you get to stand there a minute, however long you can hold still and watch the glow. Of course, there’s the event office, and whatever you have signed up to do, whatever equipment the event coordinator is required to provide for the day’s use: a clipboard, maybe. Every event held outside relies on volunteers, and the list of local events is not difficult to locate—festivals and exhibitions, sporting events and inter-species events such as dog trials, agricultural festivals and horse shows.

I have been a volunteer since the 20^th century, since childhood when mamma allowed me to work a shift at Barb Sielaff’s recycling center. It is what one does.

 For the past few decades, I have given of myself to those magnificent, much beleaguered beasts that city folk call horsie stuff. Over time, I have become increasingly fascinated with the influence of horses on humanity, on the best of ourselves, our humanity. We shared our lives with horses—as many of us continue to do with dogs and cats and birds and aquatics. And yes, it’s true that I, too, have been down the centerline—there are trophies and ribbons and photos and certificates—but the joy of it is more than recorded service to the sport.

It might be that

On a February morning that has been now a February morning for well-nigh thirty years, you again pass through well-known gates and great your hostess, now an acquaintance after all this time, all these shared years here.

It might be that

There is, in the glowing morning, a one hundred- and fifty-year-old run about, made of trees that no longer exist, and stunningly slender and elegant of line, the original wood a soft patina in the last of dawn.    

It might be that

You take your hat and drive through the dark, and whoever is there at the gate, you still take your spot under a certain tree. Maybe there are tents and golf carts, plastic tables and urns of coffee, a t shirt with the event logo. The layout always puts the arena on a prepared hill, carefully constructed for level footing, There are international flags, there are international languages; best of all, there are horses: a Shetland and Chincoteague and a Fjord pony, Morgans and not only the big Dutch harness horses, but teams of them—a song in percussion of hooves and earth.

It might be that

You see someone you know, have known. That the years were or were not kind matters not because here you are now, seeing them, bumping shoulders, How the hell are ya?, your hats allowing a moment’s glimpse into each other’s eye; yes, we are still here

It might be that

Here comes someone you know, early for the in-gate, circling the trees in figure eights. You remember a moment decades ago, maybe before the almost gown son on the back of the carriage was out of swaddle, and you speak a sly joke, maybe and there’s a smile. Yes, we are still here, we have seen some things, and how wonderful to see you now.

And thus, go forth: lend a hand to that which is joy, which flowers from your open heart.

    Su Zi is a writer, poet and essayist who produces a handmade chapbook series called Red Mare. She has been a contributor to GAS from back when it was called Gypsy Art Show, more than a decade ago. Check out her author page on Amazon.

GAS Featured Poet: Frederick Pollack

 

Frederick Pollack is author of two book-length narrative poems, THE ADVENTURE and HAPPINESS (Story Line Press; the former reissued 2022 by Red Hen Press), and four collections, A POVERTY OF WORDS (Prolific Press, 2015), LANDSCAPE WITH MUTANT (Smokestack Books, UK, 2018), THE BEAUTIFUL LOSSES (Better Than Starbucks Books, 2023), and THE LIBERATOR (Survision Books, Ireland, 2024). Many other poems in print and online journals. Website: www.frederickpollack.com.

In the Walls

They were in prison under Putin,

then via miracle

came here; are eventually

imprisoned again under Trump,

freed by a larger miracle. That’s when I meet them.

Her English is better than his but she seldom speaks;

her response to camp conditions was

to become a listener. 

Ravaged smile. He, moon-faced, talks readily,

not only about his continuing, death-defying 

activism but a moment in prison when,

at last, he slept. On the verge

of waking he heard, perhaps a fart, perhaps

a curse from a cellmate, a cry

from above, and perceived them not

as sounds from reality but creaks and footfalls

from the corridors behind

this world. Where gods no smarter than we, 

less in fact but immortal, stumble

endlessly forward, sometimes blundering

into our realm where they, by accident,

do mostly ill.

Those Russians are the sort of friends 

I might have had if my life had been more … 

dynamic. I invented them and project 

experiences onto them because

they’re less averse than I to “spiritual” topics,

and because they’re more important.

Blockage

As isolation spreads, the existence of

a spirit world becomes harder and harder

to deny. Some of the living 

are glad their parents are back (and more

connected, for the most part, than before);

some are horrified. And when it’s

kids who return – well, 

of course one’s overjoyed (although 

they’re always in a sense “special needs”).

Welcome for spouses, friends, siblings

depends on the specifics of relationships. 

There’s a return to family, often very extended.

Conservatives especially value it.

One opinion, hard to articulate, is that

what all this reveals is disappointing. 

Whether believed in or not, the afterlife offered

change, perhaps improvement, at least clarity.

Now we learn that everyone 

just wants to come (back) here.

These clouds of dead are merely (though only

hard-right podcasters say it) immigrants …

There’s also the problem 

of ghosts who return to the wrong place.

One showed up at my place.

Seemed slow, insisted I was someone else,

then began to apologize. 

This was early on; I’m afraid I let 

the pressure we were all under show.

Now, years later, I

wander, trying to find 

him or someone who knew him, say I’m sorry.

GAS Featured Poet: Bart Edelman

 Bart Edelman’s poetry collections include Crossing the Hackensack, Under Damaris’ Dress, The Alphabet of Love, The Gentle Man, The Last Mojito, The Geographer’s Wife, Whistling to Trick the Wind, and This Body Is Never at Rest: New and Selected Poems 1993 – 2023.  He has taught at Glendale College, where he edited Eclipse, a literary journal, and, most recently, in the MFA program at Antioch University, Los Angeles.  His work has been anthologized in textbooks published by City Lights Books, Etruscan Press, Harcourt Brace, Longman, McGraw-Hill, Prentice Hall, the University of Iowa Press, Wadsworth, and others.  He lives in Pasadena, California.

How to Howl

 

Tell yourself it’s normal—

Quite natural, this time of year.

Invite the moon into your bedroom

For a smoke or a tipple;

Perhaps both, if available.

Consecrate the event with a prayer,

And then howl, as required,

Until you reach the welkins.

Think Ginsberg, should you dare.

Put your shoulder to the wheel,

Turning when necessary.

By now, I must imagine,

Your new friend is no stranger.

You can both engage

In any wolfishness you desire—

Reaching a fevered pitch.

At some point, before dawn,

Your throat might give out,

Yet not your desire to wail

A few more exquisite hours.

And the ever mercurial moon?

It’s already summoned home.

But don’t worry, my friend.

You need it no longer.

 

The Wagon

 

On the wagon?

Off the wagon?

And whose wagon is it?

Never quite sure

Where I should be,

This time of night,

When everything’s so still

You can hear your heart

Thumping, beat after beat,

Like a backward kangaroo,

Unable to navigate his way

Out of the front yard.

I suppose I should know

How to stay sober by now.

How to go cold turkey.

But the chicken in me

Won’t ever fess up

To the comical truth:

I have no desire

Living through a life

Without a measly drink.

So there you have it.

Can’t say it ain’t been said.

And the wagon?

Gone, once again.