Kathleen Norris has touched readers throughout America with her thoughtful and provocative memoirs of A Spiritual Geography, The Cloister Walk , and A mazing A Vocabulary of Faith . She is equally admired for her poetry of engagement with the spiritual world and its landscapes. Journey includes poems from three previous books spanning thirty years, along with a generous selection of new work that continues her radically individual celebration of the sacredness of life.
Kathleen Norris was born on July 27, 1947 in Washington, D.C. She grew up in Honolulu, Hawaii, as well as on her maternal grandparents’ farm in Lemmon, South Dakota.
Her sheltered upbringing left her unprepared for the world she encountered when she began attending Bennington College in Vermont. At first shocked by the unconventionality surrounding her, Norris took refuge in poetry.
After she graduated in 1969, she moved to New York City where she joined the arts scene, associated with members of the avant-garde movement including Andy Warhol, and worked for the American Academy of Poets.
In 1974, her grandmother died leaving Norris the family farm in South Dakota, and she and her future husband, the poet David Dwyer, decided to temporarily relocate there until arrangements to rent or sell the property could be made. Instead, they ended up remaining in South Dakota for the next 25 years.
Soon after moving to the rural prairie, Norris developed a relationship with the nearby Benedictine abbey, which led to her eventually becoming an oblate.
In 2000, Norris and her husband traded their farmhouse on the Great Plains for a condo in Honolulu, Hawaii, so that Norris could help care for her aging parents after her husband’s own failing health no longer permitted him to travel. Her father died in 2002, and her husband died the following year in 2003.
I loved Kathleen Norris' voice and appreciation for the Spirit-led life in her biographical account, "Cloister Walk." How delightful to discover her poetry, with beautiful imagery, appreciation for beauty and tragedy and the stuff of life.
This is a telling collection. I read Kathleen's first published book of poetry after I met her, and didn't think much of it at all. And, of course, fierce editor that I am, I told her. Her next publications were better, better, and better. In a conversation with Kathleen after this collection was issued, I reminded her what I thought of her early work. She took it in stride. That's before I got gravity, she said. After she "got gravity", she became a fine, fine poet and essayist. She is the real deal, and for those brave few who are not offended by poetry, this collection is well worth your time. It doesn't take all that long to read it. And you don't have to keep your head wrapped around any plot or characters. Each poem self-contained, a piece of life through a poet's discerning eyes.
My stomach is of many minds, it believes everything it eats. My eschatological stomach, a fundamentalist of sorts, grows intent at drawing blood from surfaces of things: ice-cold fingers touch its inner lining, it lives in fear of confusion.
The stomach clenched its teeth, its nose bled all day as I stumbled through snow, cracking theories of poetry over its skull. Gilded toothpicks, sweet-sour pork did a desperate violence to its body. It had to be saved, put to sleep, but it woke early, still restless with envy of the resplendent spleen.
I will be good to my stomach tomorrow: listen, and believe it for a while. The stomach is serious and unhappy. It wants to do something really symbolic: it wants to be the ultimate stomach.
I found this book at a book sale that I should never have gone to. We arrived at the library sale just when they were trying to get rid of what was left. So I got to pack a bag for just a couple of bucks.
This was so lucky. I had only read one book of Norris' poetry and now I own one. This is so wonderful. I have read many of the poems several times and they contain so much. The poetry is beautiful.
I started this last year and kept waiting for a quiet moment to finish it, forgetting that I now spend all my quiet moments sleeping. So I read it with the voices of dozens of children in the background (VBS week at church) which I think Kathleen Norris would have appreciated. The church is at its best when it's full of children learning about Jesus.
The earlier poems are not extraordinary, but the second half of the book filled me with wonder. She captures such a variety of experience in a very few words. I am grateful, as always, for her published works.
Well, last year I read some poems by Dana Gioia. So this year I have read some poems by Kathleen Norris. I liked his book of poems a bit better, but then I don't really enjoy blank verse and that is what Kathleen Norris writes in.
These poems are interesting and span a fair number of years, 30 years, to be exact. When read with some of her books (Cloister Walk, Dakota, etc), you get a feel for what things were going on in her life when she wrote the poems. That is different way to read poems, and I found it helped me understand them better. Kind of like reading the libretto for an opera before you go to see it.
My favorites of the poems I read include "Housecleaning" and "Washing Dishes Late at Night". The former is a poem about her discovery of the sacred and holy as she carries out the daily and sometimes mundane task of cleaning house and serving her husband. The latter is about a late night discussion between husband and wife, again while performing the mundane task of washing dishes. In each poem, the mundane and repetitious acts that seem worthless, in reality are very critical and important acts of service and love. That they involve sacrifice and love for others makes them a holy calling.
This collection is filled with accessible, beautiful poems that strike at the heart of what it means to live a Christian life. There are questions and discoveries, explorations of joy and sorrow. This is one of those books I pull down off the shelf again and again to revisit the words.
"All summer I have watched the water take whatever shape it can, whispering "there is the past, and the future, and between the two of them you must be careful not to disappear."