Available from your favorite local bookstore, from on-line vendors such
as Amazon or Barnes & Noble, or from the publisher.
Linda Parsons Marion cuts away the translucent film of distance and lets
the rich “furrows and stitches” of memory shine clear and sharp,
seaming one generation to the next. These patterns of light and work and
family—“heat and heft” of any life—remind us of the simple
fabric from which we shape our own joys. Bound is a lovely,
— Darnell Arnoult
yes. Bound to the human condition, bound to tribulation and sorrow, but
bound for glory at last. Reading Linda Parsons Marion’s powerful
collection was for me like making my way through a necessary, dark and
thorny thicket to come into a great wide garden, plenteous as far as the
eye could see—farther, past “the boundless untasted fruit / we cannot
yet bear to count.” This book is brimful and overflowing. Come hungry
and leave sated.
— Fred Chappell
with objects and sensory images, Linda Parsons Marion’s Bound chronicles the empty spaces and missed connections of five generations of a Tennessee family. In compressed narratives of loss and
perseverance the poet recovers the feel of homes and lives lived in the
mid-south across the better part of the twentieth century and into the
twenty-first. Rich as the book’s poems, its title, “bound,”
signifies not only the loss and refusal bound up in the poet’s first
birth experience, but also the ways she is bound to the generations
before and after her, though parent and child were bound on journeys
away from each other and always bound to fall short.
In this volume, Linda Parsons Marion has pulled off a family epic
in verse, redeeming the past and blessing the future with her clear eye
and quiet voice.
— Leatha Kendrick
From the Book ---
High on her luscious thigh, we point
to the map of our corner of the universe.
Faint and violet, a nebula yet unprobed
by the world’s curiosities, we are drawn
to its small burst, star rising in the east.
We’d lasso it to earth if we could, fall
prostrate in awe, shouting glory, revolve
elliptical around the blue-hot core, let brilliance
shoot from our fingertips. Now she crawls
out of reach, xylophone and spinning top
her planets to conquer with flags of grasp
and drool. When her legs lengthen, taper
to womanhood, will this constellation fade,
our worship unmarked, will our wanting hearts
look up and remember this brief heaven?