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Lullabies (Volume 2)
Goodreads Choice Award
Winner for Best Poetry (2014)A sequel to the hugely popular, best-selling Love & Misadventure, Lullabies continues to explore the intricacies of love and loss.
Set to a musical theme, love's poetic journey in this new, original collection begins with a Duet and travels through Interlude and Finale with an Encore popular piece from the best-selling Love & Misadventure. Lang Leav's evocative poetry speaks to the soul of anyone who is on this journey.
Leav has an unnerving ability to see inside the hearts and minds of her readers. Her talent for translating complex emotions with astonishing simplicity has won her a cult following of devoted fans from all over the world.
Lang Leav is a poet and internationally exhibiting artist.
Set to a musical theme, love's poetic journey in this new, original collection begins with a Duet and travels through Interlude and Finale with an Encore popular piece from the best-selling Love & Misadventure. Lang Leav's evocative poetry speaks to the soul of anyone who is on this journey.
Leav has an unnerving ability to see inside the hearts and minds of her readers. Her talent for translating complex emotions with astonishing simplicity has won her a cult following of devoted fans from all over the world.
Lang Leav is a poet and internationally exhibiting artist.
248 pages, Paperback
First published September 16, 2014
About the author
Lang Leav
14 books11.4k followersNovelist and poet Lang Leav was born in a refugee camp when her family were fleeing the Khmer Rouge Regime. She spent her formative years in Sydney, Australia, in the predominantly migrant town of Cabramatta. Among her many achievements, Lang is the winner of a Qantas Spirit of Youth Award, Churchill Fellowship and Goodreads Reader’s Choice Award.
Lang has been featured on CNN, SBS Australia, Intelligence Squared UK, Radio New Zealand and in various publications, including Vogue, Newsweek, the Straits Times, the Guardian, and the New York Times. She currently lives in New Zealand with her partner and fellow author, Michael Faudet.
Lang has been featured on CNN, SBS Australia, Intelligence Squared UK, Radio New Zealand and in various publications, including Vogue, Newsweek, the Straits Times, the Guardian, and the New York Times. She currently lives in New Zealand with her partner and fellow author, Michael Faudet.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 1,928 reviews
April 9, 2022
HAPPY POETRY MONTH!
april is national poetry month,
so here come thirty floats!
the cynics here will call this plan
a shameless grab for votes.
and maybe there’s some truth to that—
i do love validation,
but charitably consider it
a rhyme-y celebration.
i don’t intend to flood your feed—
i’ll just post one a day.
endure four weeks of reruns
and then it will be may!
**************************
okay, i have finally reviewed this. it has been sitting in my windowsill-stack of "books i gotta review" long enough, and i just can't look at it anymore. as little as i wanted to revisit it, i feel anxious when i have placeholders or blank spaces in the review field, so here goes nothing.
i give every author three chances to impress me. you know the old saying: fool me once - shame on you. fool me twice, shame on me. fool me three times - it's back on you.
and sometimes it pans out - hermann hesse had a great last-minute save with Demian after failing to wow me with either Siddhartha or Narcissus and Goldmund. jane austen, i am sorry to say, got her three shots and none of them made me see what all the fuss was about.
this one… well, this one's on me.
that is a picture of the folded-over pages in my copy of this book, each one representing a poem in this collection that i found problematic in some way: sloppy rhyme/meter/rhythm, misused words, superficial abstractions, vague intention masked by "pretty" conceits, and just general "offness." no one has the time or inclination to go through the whole book with a red pen, but i'll refer to some specific examples in this review, lest anyone think my negativity is some knee-jerk bitterness over the nonsense that happened on my thread for love and misadventure and then continued to escalate outside of goodreads in situations that were very character-revealing.
remember, hikers, sometimes nature will put its poison in a pretty, pretty flower.
when you write a book and it becomes popular, you have two choices as a writer: you can either stick with what has already proven successful and continue in the same vein, or you can take a risk; evolve as a writer, and deliver something that shows you have range beyond your first time out. there are risks and rewards no matter which way you choose: taking risks can sometimes end in failure, losing the fans who liked your early stuff, but maybe gaining the respect of discriminating readers who appreciate risk. staying the same might satisfy your already established fans, but people who didn't like the first book aren't going to like the second book.
this book is not taking any risks, and is exactly the same kind of singsongy pap as the first book, and there are even six poems from Love & Misadventure reprinted at the end. in case you wanted to revisit them.
it's another collection about love and obsession and regret and breakup woe and the joy of defining yourself in terms of another person's feelings for you. there's no growth in the writing; both the subject matter and the way it is expressed are extremely infantile.
although this time, she's all growed up and gettin' racy and in one of her prose pieces, after some pillow-talk lover's fantasy about stealing a book from a bookstore, which is already douchey enough, the piece ends like so:
Then do you know what I'd do?
What - would - you -do? she says between peals of laughter.
I'd take you out, fuck you up against the car.
stay classy, lang leav!
it's revealing to me that most of the glowing reviews of lang leav's books on here have expressed some variation of "this is my first poetry book" or "i never liked poetry before this." and that's great - it's always encouraging to see people enthusiastic about books, regardless of what the book actually is - every reader their book and yadda. and i understand that language is a constantly evolving creature - the word "tragedy" has become less-specific than its original meaning in colloquial usage, while "decimate" has broadened in scope and words like "literally" and "epic" have had their meanings obliterated completely and semantic bleaching morphs words all the time. but "poetry," too?? has poetry become "anything written in choppy little line breaks?" i'm not even a huge fan of poetry, but i know that it's more than just words scattered on a page. and don't give me that "free verse" nonsense. because even free verse has rules. and here are some of them:
Free Verse is poetry that is based on the irregular rhythmic cadence recurring, with variations of phrases, images, and syntactical patterns rather than the conventional use of meter. In other words, free verse has no rhythm scheme or pattern. However, much poetic language and devices are found in free verse.
Rhyme may or may not be used in free verse, but, when rhyme is used, it is used with great freedom. In other words, free verse has no rhyme scheme or pattern.
Free verse does not mean rhyme cannot be used, only that it must be used without any pattern.
so, for example, a poem like this:
cannot be deemed "free verse" because there is an attempt at patterned rhyme, it's just poorly done. if you're going to make the effort to rhyme, follow through and be consistent. otherwise, the reader will find the hiccup grating and it just ruins any emotional connection you may have had to the poem because you are taken out of the moment and you have to start over and see what the hell happened. if you're going to choose to be rhyme-y - BE RHYME-Y - you can't go rogue in the middle or the end of a poem. find a way to make it work or abandon the idea of rhyme scheme altogether if it's clipping your wings, because honestly - greeting card rhyme patterns do not a sophisticated poem make, and i don't understand her commitment to this style when she can't even seem to do it correctly half of the time.
this one, okay, this one IS free verse - hooray.
but here, leaving aside the jejeune sentiment and the tra la la of it, which may be appealing to some readers, there's a structural problem here in the scansion; the way the reader is led along by the nose in a consistent cadence and meter until that off-putting stumble over the finish line. it's terrible execution and shows complete disregard for the reader.
and this is something that occurs frequently throughout this collection - one lazy rhyme in the middle of a poem that otherwise has a very rigid rhyme scheme which throws the whole thing off. or one dissonant rhythm break that makes you wince.
it's not just the rhyme scheme and scansion - there's also just plain lousy editing.
this is the second poem in the book. "i would not nearly had so much" is not the way you want to introduce a collection.
but wait, there's more!
this book also contains a number of prose pieces, many of which are trying so hard to be clever and conceptual through the conceit of personifying abstractions (Patience and Love agreed to meet at a set time and place; beneath the twenty-third tree in the olive orchard), but they're so forced and artless. capitalizing a word does not automatically make it meaningful. you gotta supply the meaning with the other words.
There was a girl named Despondency, who loved a boy named Altruistic, and he loved her in return.
for grammatical/semantic balance, shouldn't that be "altruism"? or "despondent?" noun/noun or adjective/adjective? this is what is so frustrating - it's all surface-pretty, but utterly thoughtless. you can be as surprising or poetic as you like, but there should also be lyrical elegance. there's no sense that any effort went into the writing of these, no going back and rereading to make sure these words work together. it's all churn with no meaning.
and jesus, this:
that is the complete poem. and it's a mess. analogies are meant to be gracefully balanced comparisons of the relationships between disparate things. (hot is to cold as fire is to ice) but this one is ass-backwards, as anyone studying for the sats could tell you. i assume she's riffing off the adage that "time heals all wounds." and she's aware that a suture is used to close a wound, which is a literal comparison to the metaphorical healing that time performs. but in the syntax she's using here, she's basically saying that "wounds heal all sutures." which is incorrect. and i'm sure she thought it sounded pretty and was so darn proud of her rhyme she thought no one would notice how sloppy and illogical it was. but i certainly did.
these instances of "i am making pretty words say things that sound kinda smart and poetical" but make no sense occur frequently, like Sometimes when I read a book, parts will lift from the pages in an anagram of your name. Like a code to remind me it's not over. Like dyslexia in reverse, which makes my head hurt too much to even begin to parse.
and it goes on and on - incomplete thoughts, missing words, elisions:
how they easily WHAT?
what is the "it" here; the reason for their being? does this refer to "time is told by seeing?" so - "time is told by seeing" is the reason for the existence of clocks? what the shit does that mean and why did this insight necessitate a poem?
leaving aside the fact that a circle IS a line, are we supposed to fill in the blanks ourselves? "towards" is a preposition and requires a noun or a pronoun to complete the thought, which i assume in this case is "you," but again - really sloppy syntax. and this is what is so galling and made me so furious reading this collection - the sacrifice of meaning for the sake of rhythm in some instances, while so frequently being cavalier about maintaining consistent rhythm in others.
more slipshod scansion, more jacked-up sentence structure. to compete with? to compete for? to compete in? finish your thought.
and i know that some people love these poems because OMG the feels. and maybe this is a generational thing or a byproduct of people who get book deals based on their internet popularity where there is less editorial oversight, and maybe my complaints about this put me in the same category as people who complain about the infantilization of america with its grown men in baseball caps and those kids and their video games and how all the pop stars are under the drinking age and that's not music why in my day and get off my lawn. but maybe it's just disgust at the fact that people are willingly shelling out seventeen dollars for a hundred or so carelessly-written poems, many of which do not exceed eight lines, and it's the poetic equivalent of nursery food.
and that is what i thought of this book.
and i know i'm gonna have all these people come out and tell me how much they liked this book and how it changed their life and how wrong i am for scrutinizing it because poetry is like rainbows and it is immune to judgment. and yay for you if you liked this and it had value for you, sincerely. but opinions and an asshole - i have both. and even my asshole thought this collection was unsophisticated and sloppy.
*************************************************
2014:
pulitzer prize nominee maya angelou, in the year of her death, writes a poem commemorating the life of nobel peace prize recipient nelson mandela, (who died in december 2013, but that's pretty much 2014), and we honor their lives by allowing this to win the 2014 goodreads best poetry award?:
Stay
The words I heard
from you today,
are said when
there's nothing
left to say.
What I would give
to make you stay,
I would give it
all away.
i was hoping i wouldn't have to read this, but goodreads voters have forced my hand.
i'll let you know if it's any good.
come to my blog!
april is national poetry month,
so here come thirty floats!
the cynics here will call this plan
a shameless grab for votes.
and maybe there’s some truth to that—
i do love validation,
but charitably consider it
a rhyme-y celebration.
i don’t intend to flood your feed—
i’ll just post one a day.
endure four weeks of reruns
and then it will be may!
**************************
okay, i have finally reviewed this. it has been sitting in my windowsill-stack of "books i gotta review" long enough, and i just can't look at it anymore. as little as i wanted to revisit it, i feel anxious when i have placeholders or blank spaces in the review field, so here goes nothing.
i give every author three chances to impress me. you know the old saying: fool me once - shame on you. fool me twice, shame on me. fool me three times - it's back on you.
and sometimes it pans out - hermann hesse had a great last-minute save with Demian after failing to wow me with either Siddhartha or Narcissus and Goldmund. jane austen, i am sorry to say, got her three shots and none of them made me see what all the fuss was about.
this one… well, this one's on me.
that is a picture of the folded-over pages in my copy of this book, each one representing a poem in this collection that i found problematic in some way: sloppy rhyme/meter/rhythm, misused words, superficial abstractions, vague intention masked by "pretty" conceits, and just general "offness." no one has the time or inclination to go through the whole book with a red pen, but i'll refer to some specific examples in this review, lest anyone think my negativity is some knee-jerk bitterness over the nonsense that happened on my thread for love and misadventure and then continued to escalate outside of goodreads in situations that were very character-revealing.
remember, hikers, sometimes nature will put its poison in a pretty, pretty flower.
when you write a book and it becomes popular, you have two choices as a writer: you can either stick with what has already proven successful and continue in the same vein, or you can take a risk; evolve as a writer, and deliver something that shows you have range beyond your first time out. there are risks and rewards no matter which way you choose: taking risks can sometimes end in failure, losing the fans who liked your early stuff, but maybe gaining the respect of discriminating readers who appreciate risk. staying the same might satisfy your already established fans, but people who didn't like the first book aren't going to like the second book.
this book is not taking any risks, and is exactly the same kind of singsongy pap as the first book, and there are even six poems from Love & Misadventure reprinted at the end. in case you wanted to revisit them.
it's another collection about love and obsession and regret and breakup woe and the joy of defining yourself in terms of another person's feelings for you. there's no growth in the writing; both the subject matter and the way it is expressed are extremely infantile.
although this time, she's all growed up and gettin' racy and in one of her prose pieces, after some pillow-talk lover's fantasy about stealing a book from a bookstore, which is already douchey enough, the piece ends like so:
Then do you know what I'd do?
What - would - you -do? she says between peals of laughter.
I'd take you out, fuck you up against the car.
stay classy, lang leav!
it's revealing to me that most of the glowing reviews of lang leav's books on here have expressed some variation of "this is my first poetry book" or "i never liked poetry before this." and that's great - it's always encouraging to see people enthusiastic about books, regardless of what the book actually is - every reader their book and yadda. and i understand that language is a constantly evolving creature - the word "tragedy" has become less-specific than its original meaning in colloquial usage, while "decimate" has broadened in scope and words like "literally" and "epic" have had their meanings obliterated completely and semantic bleaching morphs words all the time. but "poetry," too?? has poetry become "anything written in choppy little line breaks?" i'm not even a huge fan of poetry, but i know that it's more than just words scattered on a page. and don't give me that "free verse" nonsense. because even free verse has rules. and here are some of them:
Free Verse is poetry that is based on the irregular rhythmic cadence recurring, with variations of phrases, images, and syntactical patterns rather than the conventional use of meter. In other words, free verse has no rhythm scheme or pattern. However, much poetic language and devices are found in free verse.
Rhyme may or may not be used in free verse, but, when rhyme is used, it is used with great freedom. In other words, free verse has no rhyme scheme or pattern.
Free verse does not mean rhyme cannot be used, only that it must be used without any pattern.
so, for example, a poem like this:
cannot be deemed "free verse" because there is an attempt at patterned rhyme, it's just poorly done. if you're going to make the effort to rhyme, follow through and be consistent. otherwise, the reader will find the hiccup grating and it just ruins any emotional connection you may have had to the poem because you are taken out of the moment and you have to start over and see what the hell happened. if you're going to choose to be rhyme-y - BE RHYME-Y - you can't go rogue in the middle or the end of a poem. find a way to make it work or abandon the idea of rhyme scheme altogether if it's clipping your wings, because honestly - greeting card rhyme patterns do not a sophisticated poem make, and i don't understand her commitment to this style when she can't even seem to do it correctly half of the time.
this one, okay, this one IS free verse - hooray.
but here, leaving aside the jejeune sentiment and the tra la la of it, which may be appealing to some readers, there's a structural problem here in the scansion; the way the reader is led along by the nose in a consistent cadence and meter until that off-putting stumble over the finish line. it's terrible execution and shows complete disregard for the reader.
and this is something that occurs frequently throughout this collection - one lazy rhyme in the middle of a poem that otherwise has a very rigid rhyme scheme which throws the whole thing off. or one dissonant rhythm break that makes you wince.
it's not just the rhyme scheme and scansion - there's also just plain lousy editing.
this is the second poem in the book. "i would not nearly had so much" is not the way you want to introduce a collection.
but wait, there's more!
this book also contains a number of prose pieces, many of which are trying so hard to be clever and conceptual through the conceit of personifying abstractions (Patience and Love agreed to meet at a set time and place; beneath the twenty-third tree in the olive orchard), but they're so forced and artless. capitalizing a word does not automatically make it meaningful. you gotta supply the meaning with the other words.
There was a girl named Despondency, who loved a boy named Altruistic, and he loved her in return.
for grammatical/semantic balance, shouldn't that be "altruism"? or "despondent?" noun/noun or adjective/adjective? this is what is so frustrating - it's all surface-pretty, but utterly thoughtless. you can be as surprising or poetic as you like, but there should also be lyrical elegance. there's no sense that any effort went into the writing of these, no going back and rereading to make sure these words work together. it's all churn with no meaning.
and jesus, this:
that is the complete poem. and it's a mess. analogies are meant to be gracefully balanced comparisons of the relationships between disparate things. (hot is to cold as fire is to ice) but this one is ass-backwards, as anyone studying for the sats could tell you. i assume she's riffing off the adage that "time heals all wounds." and she's aware that a suture is used to close a wound, which is a literal comparison to the metaphorical healing that time performs. but in the syntax she's using here, she's basically saying that "wounds heal all sutures." which is incorrect. and i'm sure she thought it sounded pretty and was so darn proud of her rhyme she thought no one would notice how sloppy and illogical it was. but i certainly did.
these instances of "i am making pretty words say things that sound kinda smart and poetical" but make no sense occur frequently, like Sometimes when I read a book, parts will lift from the pages in an anagram of your name. Like a code to remind me it's not over. Like dyslexia in reverse, which makes my head hurt too much to even begin to parse.
and it goes on and on - incomplete thoughts, missing words, elisions:
how they easily WHAT?
what is the "it" here; the reason for their being? does this refer to "time is told by seeing?" so - "time is told by seeing" is the reason for the existence of clocks? what the shit does that mean and why did this insight necessitate a poem?
leaving aside the fact that a circle IS a line, are we supposed to fill in the blanks ourselves? "towards" is a preposition and requires a noun or a pronoun to complete the thought, which i assume in this case is "you," but again - really sloppy syntax. and this is what is so galling and made me so furious reading this collection - the sacrifice of meaning for the sake of rhythm in some instances, while so frequently being cavalier about maintaining consistent rhythm in others.
more slipshod scansion, more jacked-up sentence structure. to compete with? to compete for? to compete in? finish your thought.
and i know that some people love these poems because OMG the feels. and maybe this is a generational thing or a byproduct of people who get book deals based on their internet popularity where there is less editorial oversight, and maybe my complaints about this put me in the same category as people who complain about the infantilization of america with its grown men in baseball caps and those kids and their video games and how all the pop stars are under the drinking age and that's not music why in my day and get off my lawn. but maybe it's just disgust at the fact that people are willingly shelling out seventeen dollars for a hundred or so carelessly-written poems, many of which do not exceed eight lines, and it's the poetic equivalent of nursery food.
and that is what i thought of this book.
and i know i'm gonna have all these people come out and tell me how much they liked this book and how it changed their life and how wrong i am for scrutinizing it because poetry is like rainbows and it is immune to judgment. and yay for you if you liked this and it had value for you, sincerely. but opinions and an asshole - i have both. and even my asshole thought this collection was unsophisticated and sloppy.
*************************************************
2014:
pulitzer prize nominee maya angelou, in the year of her death, writes a poem commemorating the life of nobel peace prize recipient nelson mandela, (who died in december 2013, but that's pretty much 2014), and we honor their lives by allowing this to win the 2014 goodreads best poetry award?:
Stay
The words I heard
from you today,
are said when
there's nothing
left to say.
What I would give
to make you stay,
I would give it
all away.
i was hoping i wouldn't have to read this, but goodreads voters have forced my hand.
i'll let you know if it's any good.
come to my blog!
December 6, 2014
A few years ago, me and my sister nearly killed ourselves laughing when we discovered a "song" our dad wrote when he was about 9 years old. It opens:
The streets are straight
They're very cool
So is our house
It's got a pool.
Talent for poetry aside, that is a downright lie! I don't know anyone in Britain who has a pool.
But regardless, my dad evidently missed out on his opportunity to have a career writing poems if this book is anything to judge it by. Because I swear that some of the "poetry" in this book is of about the same standard as my dad's 9-year-old efforts.
I mean, it's hard to know where to begin. I could criticise the simplistic (not in a good way) nature of almost all the poems, or the awkward rhymes some of them try to get away with. But even without that, these are so steeped in teen emo angst that it's hard to imagine anyone can take them seriously.
And they're all about boys being your life, your hero, your everything... nothing else can compare, you will never get over him, and - get this! - you wish "to die so I can end this on a high." Feminism and female independence get murdered by this book:
“I feel the end is drawing near,
would time be so kind to slow?
You are everything to me, my dear,
you are all I really know.”
“He has me at his every whim;
everything starts with him.
To all the boys I used to kiss—
everything stops with his.”
I don't know who voted for this collection as a Goodreads Choice Award winner, but I do know who I would recommend this book for: myself at thirteen. I was that kid at thirteen who was enjoying being the first generation growing up with the internet, which meant collecting depressing quotes on Photobucket and checking out emo graphics on other people's Myspace profiles. Goddamn, I would have eaten this up.
Thirteen year old self, this is one for you.
The streets are straight
They're very cool
So is our house
It's got a pool.
Talent for poetry aside, that is a downright lie! I don't know anyone in Britain who has a pool.
But regardless, my dad evidently missed out on his opportunity to have a career writing poems if this book is anything to judge it by. Because I swear that some of the "poetry" in this book is of about the same standard as my dad's 9-year-old efforts.
I mean, it's hard to know where to begin. I could criticise the simplistic (not in a good way) nature of almost all the poems, or the awkward rhymes some of them try to get away with. But even without that, these are so steeped in teen emo angst that it's hard to imagine anyone can take them seriously.
And they're all about boys being your life, your hero, your everything... nothing else can compare, you will never get over him, and - get this! - you wish "to die so I can end this on a high." Feminism and female independence get murdered by this book:
“I feel the end is drawing near,
would time be so kind to slow?
You are everything to me, my dear,
you are all I really know.”
“He has me at his every whim;
everything starts with him.
To all the boys I used to kiss—
everything stops with his.”
I don't know who voted for this collection as a Goodreads Choice Award winner, but I do know who I would recommend this book for: myself at thirteen. I was that kid at thirteen who was enjoying being the first generation growing up with the internet, which meant collecting depressing quotes on Photobucket and checking out emo graphics on other people's Myspace profiles. Goddamn, I would have eaten this up.
Thirteen year old self, this is one for you.
July 20, 2016
I'm not going to play by the rules and write a proper review of this book. Poetry isn't supposed to be judged, it's supposed to be experienced.
Lang Leav does not only write poems, but she's also an artist. Which is quite fitting because I often see writers as artists. They create art. And art is something I enjoy in all its glorious forms. It's funny how words can make us feel and experience things without leaving the comfort of our minds. See places we've never been before and meet people that only exists between pages of a book.
But unlike fictional books, poetry is connected to the people who write them. It's sharing pieces of who they are to people who are willing to read between their lines. And I am very happy and honored that Ms. Lang gave us the opportunity to read a piece of herself.
One thing I admire about this book is how easy people can relate themselves to the words written. Some poetry are hard to understand. It's just the nature of it. Like paintings, it needs self-interpretation.
The theme of Lullabies is the universal language spoken by everyone in the world--love. Ms Lang's writing has always been a favorite of mine in this aspect. From Love & Misadventure to Lullabies, I saw the evolution of her writing. These books are something that I would pick up on a rainy day, or read snippets before I head to bed. It's something that keeps me accompanied and as if it says "you're not alone."
I love the comfort it gives and the familiarity it resonates. I have so many favorite poems from the book. And I can proudly say that I am one of those people who will read whatever Ms. Leav writes.
----
Edited review. Originally posted on Baked Book Pages
Lang Leav does not only write poems, but she's also an artist. Which is quite fitting because I often see writers as artists. They create art. And art is something I enjoy in all its glorious forms. It's funny how words can make us feel and experience things without leaving the comfort of our minds. See places we've never been before and meet people that only exists between pages of a book.
But unlike fictional books, poetry is connected to the people who write them. It's sharing pieces of who they are to people who are willing to read between their lines. And I am very happy and honored that Ms. Lang gave us the opportunity to read a piece of herself.
One thing I admire about this book is how easy people can relate themselves to the words written. Some poetry are hard to understand. It's just the nature of it. Like paintings, it needs self-interpretation.
The theme of Lullabies is the universal language spoken by everyone in the world--love. Ms Lang's writing has always been a favorite of mine in this aspect. From Love & Misadventure to Lullabies, I saw the evolution of her writing. These books are something that I would pick up on a rainy day, or read snippets before I head to bed. It's something that keeps me accompanied and as if it says "you're not alone."
I love the comfort it gives and the familiarity it resonates. I have so many favorite poems from the book. And I can proudly say that I am one of those people who will read whatever Ms. Leav writes.
----
Edited review. Originally posted on Baked Book Pages
June 5, 2020
“There is a certain quality to words that—when strung in a certain way—has an almost hypnotic effect.”
Lullabies was my second poetry read by Lang Leav, and save for a handful of excerpts, I was a bit let down. From what I recall of The Universe of Us, it was an enchanting collection with a number of gems thrown in for good measure.
But the poems in this one, especially the few that tried to come of as witty or rhythmic, were puzzling and perplexing and just why.... Leav tries to tackle down poems “of hope and ecstasy, of tenderness and betrayal,” but in the end I was just left with little to no emotions. However, I did love the splendid illustrations featured in here:
And so instead of focusing on those aforementioned nonsensical pieces, I decided to share those rare quotes and poems that captured my heart for a hot minute:
Patience
“Patience and Love agreed to meet at a set time and place; beneath the twenty-third tree in the olive orchard. Patience arrived promptly and waited. She checked her watch every so often but still, there was no sign of Love.
Was it the twenty-third tree or the fifty-sixth? She wondered and decided to check, just in case. As she made her way over to the fifty-sixth tree, Love arrived at twenty-three, where Patience was noticeably absent.
Love waited and waited before deciding he must have the wrong tree and perhaps it was another where they were supposed to meet.
Meanwhile, Patience had arrived at the fifty-sixth tree, where Love was still nowhere to be seen.
Both begin to drift aimlessly around the olive orchard, almost meeting but never do.
Finally, Patience, who was feeling lost and resigned, found herself beneath the same tree where she began. She stood there for barely a minute when there was a tap on her shoulder.
It was Love.
..................................
“Where are you?” She asked. “I have been searching all my life.”
“Stop looking for me,” Love replied, “and I will find you.”
Little tales like the above ones are my Achilles' heel.
And/Or
“I wanted everything because I didn’t want anything enough.”
Message in a Bottle
“We can’t see ourselves the way others see us.”
This piece me think a lot on whether that's a good or bad thing. I'm still contemplating.
That Night
“It was one of those nights that you are not altogether sure really did happen. There are no photographs, no receipts, no scrawled journal entries.”
Three Questions
“What was it like to love him? asked Gratitude.
It was like being exhumed, I answered. And brought to life in a flash of brilliance.
What was it like to be loved in return? asked Joy.
It was like being seen after a perpetual darkness, I replied. To be heard after a lifetime of silence.
What was it like to lose him? asked Sorrow.
There was a long pause before I responded:
It was like hearing every good-bye ever said to me—said all at once.”
Poker Face
“There was a time I would tell you,
of all that ached inside;
the things I held so sacred,
to all the world I’d hide.
But they became your weapons,
and slowly I have learnt,
the less that is said, the better—
the lesser I’ll be hurt.
Of all you’ve used against me,
the worst has been my words.
There are things I’ll never tell you,
and it is sad to think it so;
the more you come to know me—
the less of me you’ll know.”
This haunting poem remains my favorite one. It was worth going through all of it, just to find this one shining gem.
Remembering You
“The day you left, I went through all my old journals, frantically looking for the first mention of you. Searching for any details I can no longer recall—any morsel of information that may have been lost to my subconscious. The memory of you is fading, a little at a time, and I can feel myself forgetting. I don’t want to forget.”
A Ghost
“Strange how it mattered so much,
when now it matters
so little.”
Overall, since my expectations were lower than low, Lullabies was a lot better than I was anticipating. It managed to hit my heart in a couple of places, so I'm glad I gave it my best shot.
Note: I'm an Amazon Affiliate. If you're interested in buying Lullabies, just click on the image below to go through my link. I'll make a small commission!
This review and more can be found on my blog.
Lullabies was my second poetry read by Lang Leav, and save for a handful of excerpts, I was a bit let down. From what I recall of The Universe of Us, it was an enchanting collection with a number of gems thrown in for good measure.
But the poems in this one, especially the few that tried to come of as witty or rhythmic, were puzzling and perplexing and just why.... Leav tries to tackle down poems “of hope and ecstasy, of tenderness and betrayal,” but in the end I was just left with little to no emotions. However, I did love the splendid illustrations featured in here:
And so instead of focusing on those aforementioned nonsensical pieces, I decided to share those rare quotes and poems that captured my heart for a hot minute:
Patience
“Patience and Love agreed to meet at a set time and place; beneath the twenty-third tree in the olive orchard. Patience arrived promptly and waited. She checked her watch every so often but still, there was no sign of Love.
Was it the twenty-third tree or the fifty-sixth? She wondered and decided to check, just in case. As she made her way over to the fifty-sixth tree, Love arrived at twenty-three, where Patience was noticeably absent.
Love waited and waited before deciding he must have the wrong tree and perhaps it was another where they were supposed to meet.
Meanwhile, Patience had arrived at the fifty-sixth tree, where Love was still nowhere to be seen.
Both begin to drift aimlessly around the olive orchard, almost meeting but never do.
Finally, Patience, who was feeling lost and resigned, found herself beneath the same tree where she began. She stood there for barely a minute when there was a tap on her shoulder.
It was Love.
..................................
“Where are you?” She asked. “I have been searching all my life.”
“Stop looking for me,” Love replied, “and I will find you.”
Little tales like the above ones are my Achilles' heel.
And/Or
“I wanted everything because I didn’t want anything enough.”
Message in a Bottle
“We can’t see ourselves the way others see us.”
This piece me think a lot on whether that's a good or bad thing. I'm still contemplating.
That Night
“It was one of those nights that you are not altogether sure really did happen. There are no photographs, no receipts, no scrawled journal entries.”
Three Questions
“What was it like to love him? asked Gratitude.
It was like being exhumed, I answered. And brought to life in a flash of brilliance.
What was it like to be loved in return? asked Joy.
It was like being seen after a perpetual darkness, I replied. To be heard after a lifetime of silence.
What was it like to lose him? asked Sorrow.
There was a long pause before I responded:
It was like hearing every good-bye ever said to me—said all at once.”
Poker Face
“There was a time I would tell you,
of all that ached inside;
the things I held so sacred,
to all the world I’d hide.
But they became your weapons,
and slowly I have learnt,
the less that is said, the better—
the lesser I’ll be hurt.
Of all you’ve used against me,
the worst has been my words.
There are things I’ll never tell you,
and it is sad to think it so;
the more you come to know me—
the less of me you’ll know.”
This haunting poem remains my favorite one. It was worth going through all of it, just to find this one shining gem.
Remembering You
“The day you left, I went through all my old journals, frantically looking for the first mention of you. Searching for any details I can no longer recall—any morsel of information that may have been lost to my subconscious. The memory of you is fading, a little at a time, and I can feel myself forgetting. I don’t want to forget.”
A Ghost
“Strange how it mattered so much,
when now it matters
so little.”
Overall, since my expectations were lower than low, Lullabies was a lot better than I was anticipating. It managed to hit my heart in a couple of places, so I'm glad I gave it my best shot.
Note: I'm an Amazon Affiliate. If you're interested in buying Lullabies, just click on the image below to go through my link. I'll make a small commission!
This review and more can be found on my blog.
November 24, 2014
I disliked this book.
Okay, okay. I know you're probably wondering why I would read this book when I loathed the first book with every fiber of my being. Well I read this mainly because I didn't want to be the kind of girl who bashed an author after only reading one of her works; and my friends were pushing me to read this.
Well what can I say? This book was a continuation of Love and Misadventures. The girl fell deeply in love when she wasn't even happy with herself yet. She pushed him away and at the same time clung desperately to him. But he still left her. She wallowed in her depression and reminisced about their past. She was neurotic and I didn't like her. It also didn't help that she want to move on.
The poems were the same as the previous book. Same style, same tone, same message, same emotions. The drawings were great but I just got agitated after I read the book. I was pissed when there was a line about only falling in love once in a lifetime and anything after that meant it wasn't love in the first place. Like hello? People have the innate capacity to heal and move on. Normal people are able to love again because love is infinite. Besides, there are different forms of love so why would you state such naive philosophies? I don't like the know-it-all tone of the MC. People love and experience pain differently, you can't make generalizations or give advice like you are an expert.
Anyway, I regret picking this up and I blame my curiosity. *Sigh*.
Okay, okay. I know you're probably wondering why I would read this book when I loathed the first book with every fiber of my being. Well I read this mainly because I didn't want to be the kind of girl who bashed an author after only reading one of her works; and my friends were pushing me to read this.
Well what can I say? This book was a continuation of Love and Misadventures. The girl fell deeply in love when she wasn't even happy with herself yet. She pushed him away and at the same time clung desperately to him. But he still left her. She wallowed in her depression and reminisced about their past. She was neurotic and I didn't like her. It also didn't help that she want to move on.
The poems were the same as the previous book. Same style, same tone, same message, same emotions. The drawings were great but I just got agitated after I read the book. I was pissed when there was a line about only falling in love once in a lifetime and anything after that meant it wasn't love in the first place. Like hello? People have the innate capacity to heal and move on. Normal people are able to love again because love is infinite. Besides, there are different forms of love so why would you state such naive philosophies? I don't like the know-it-all tone of the MC. People love and experience pain differently, you can't make generalizations or give advice like you are an expert.
Anyway, I regret picking this up and I blame my curiosity. *Sigh*.
March 17, 2018
Stunning imagery! A study of contrasts!
Q:
Déjà Vu
I saw it once,
I have no doubt;
but now can’t place
its whereabouts.
I try to think it,
time and time;
but what it is,
won’t come to mind.
A word, a scent—
a feeling, past.
It will not show,
though much I’ve asked.
And when it comes,
I soon forget—
this is how it felt,
when we first met. (c)
Q:
Thoughts
Dawn turns to day,
as stars are dispersed;
wherever I lay,
I think of you first.
The sun has arisen,
the sky, a sad blue.
I quietly listen—
the wind sings of you.
The thoughts we each keep,
that are closest to heart,
we think as we sleep—
and you’re always my last. (c)
Q:
I hope you enjoy reading Lullabies as much as I enjoyed putting it together. I imagine it to be a bedside table kind of book—hopefully, one that you will pick up on some windy, restless night and it will help sing you to sleep. Though it has a start, middle, and end, you can begin reading Lullabies from any page you wish. Some pieces will sing to your present, others may echo of your past, and the rest could whisper of your future. Remember, while the words on these pages remain static, this book—like all other books—is a living and breathing thing. Much like a mirror reflecting its ever-changing landscape, Lullabies is a book that, over time, will reveal itself to you slowly. (c)
I loved the author's idea of the book!
Q:
A midnight scribble, a morning sigh;
you watch the words curl up and die.
Madness lives inside your head,
of poems lost and pages dead.
“A mind possessed by unmade books.” This line, taken from the poem Lost Words by Michael Faudet, illustrates my lifelong preoccupation with books. (c)
Q:
It was from a very young age that I fell in love with this wonderful artifact —the turn of the first page is almost like a sacred ritual to me. (c)
Q:
Yet never have I been bolder or brighter than I am with you. Not once have I ever felt so alive. Whatever vessel we pour ourselves into, mine is now overflowing, brimming with life. It is transcending into something new. (c)
Q:
My nine
is your noon;
I’m just packing now—
your winter,
my June.
wish I could pack you. (c)
Q:
Well Wishes
My love, are you well,
past the sea and the swell,
out in the world, where danger
is fraught.
Amidst the doom and the gloom,
and the hospital rooms,
where hearts can be bartered
and bought.
There are words to betray
and the things that we say,
can sometimes be snappy and
short.
Where the strangers we meet,
take us down one way streets,
and forgetting is something
we’re taught.
Where earthquakes will reign,
between terror and planes—
and colds are so easily caught. (c)
Q:
I
wanted
everything
because I didn’t want anything
enough. (c)
Q:
Hearts don’t have locks, she said.
Some do, he replies. There are people
who give away the key to theirs for
safekeeping. Others are mistrustful and
give out several keys, just in case. Then
there are those who have misplaced
them but never cared to look.
What about your heart, she asked.
He smiled.
Your words are the key to mine, he
replied.
Never forget your words. (c)
Q:
Message in a Bottle
No one truly knows who they are, he
sighs. The glass bottle does not know
its own contents. It has no idea
whether it is a vessel for the most
delicious apple cider, a lovingly crafted
wine, or a bitter poison. People are the
same. Yet like the bottle, we are
transparent. We can’t see ourselves the
way others see us.
How do you see me? she asked.
You are a bottle floating out at sea, he
says. One that contains a very
important message. It may never reach
its recipient, but as long as there is
someone waiting, it will always have
purpose.
Will you wait for mine?
I will, he promised. I will look for you
every time I stand at the edge of the
ocean. (c)
Q:
You
There are people I will never know
and their lives will still ensue;
those that could have loved me
so
and I’ll never wonder who.
Of all the things to come and go,
there is no one else like you.
The things I never think about—
and the only thing I do. (c)
Q:
I found you when I reached the
seventh sea, just as I had stopped
looking. (c)
Q:
She, with a small,
amused smile on her tiny lips, raven hair
tousled by the sea wind. She was
different from anything he had ever
known. (c)
Q:
Then rainbows arching over and the
most beautiful sunsets I have ever seen.
How the wind howls as the sea
whispers, I miss you.
Come back to me. (c)
Q:
He gave her such gifts
—not the kind that were put in boxes,
but the sort that filled her with
imagination, breathing indescribable
happiness into her life. (c)
Q:
“Your lips would
look beautiful, painted with butterfly
wings,” he would tease her.
“Never!” she’d cry, alarmed. (c)
Q:
Finale
They gave us years,
though many ago;
the spring cries tears—
the winter, snow. (c)
Q:
I felt you before I knew you and I still feel you now. (c)
Q:
Sometimes when I read a book, parts will lift from the pages in an anagram of your name.
Like a code to remind me it’s not over.
Like dyslexia in reverse. (c)
Q:
For now, all you can do is take your time. Take all the time you need. (c)
Q:
I want you to remember my lips beneath your fingers and how you told me things you never told another soul.
I want you to know that I have kept sacred, everything you had entrusted in me and I always will.
Finally, I want you to know how sorry I am for pushing you away when I had only meant to bring you closer.
And if I ever felt like home to you, it was because you were safe with me. I want you to know that most of all. (c)
Q:
Always with Me
Your love I once surrendered,
has never left my mind.
My heart is just as tender,
as the day I called you mine.
I did not take you with me,
but you were never left behind. (c)
Q:
There was never another to compare with you. (c)
Q:
Each day was spent
living and breathing and longing for
twisted paths and murderous wolves.
You’re living in a fantasy, her
mother said. (c)
Q:
The faces he saw and the voices he heard. The soundtrack to a thousand tragic endings, real or imagined.
The first time I saw him, I noticed how haunted his eyes were. And I was drawn to him, in the way a melody draws a crowd to the dance floor. Pulled by invisible strings. (c)
Q:
“I want to catch all fish in the ocean,” he replied. “But there are none I wish to keep.” ...
“There is only one fish I want to catch and so, no other holds my interest.” (c)
Q:
The Most
You may not know
the reason why,
for a time
I wasn’t I.
There was a man
who came and went,
on him every breath
was spent.
I’m sorry I forgot
all else—
it was the most
I ever felt. (c)
Q:
Wishing Stars
I still search
for you in crowds,
in empty fields
and soaring clouds.
In city lights
and passing cars,
on winding roads
and wishing stars.
I wonder where
you could be now,
for years I’ve not said
your name out loud.
And longer since
I called you mine—
time has passed
for you and I.
Yet I have learned
to live without,
I do not mind—
I still love you anyhow. (c)
Q:
Déjà Vu
I saw it once,
I have no doubt;
but now can’t place
its whereabouts.
I try to think it,
time and time;
but what it is,
won’t come to mind.
A word, a scent—
a feeling, past.
It will not show,
though much I’ve asked.
And when it comes,
I soon forget—
this is how it felt,
when we first met. (c)
Q:
Thoughts
Dawn turns to day,
as stars are dispersed;
wherever I lay,
I think of you first.
The sun has arisen,
the sky, a sad blue.
I quietly listen—
the wind sings of you.
The thoughts we each keep,
that are closest to heart,
we think as we sleep—
and you’re always my last. (c)
Q:
I hope you enjoy reading Lullabies as much as I enjoyed putting it together. I imagine it to be a bedside table kind of book—hopefully, one that you will pick up on some windy, restless night and it will help sing you to sleep. Though it has a start, middle, and end, you can begin reading Lullabies from any page you wish. Some pieces will sing to your present, others may echo of your past, and the rest could whisper of your future. Remember, while the words on these pages remain static, this book—like all other books—is a living and breathing thing. Much like a mirror reflecting its ever-changing landscape, Lullabies is a book that, over time, will reveal itself to you slowly. (c)
I loved the author's idea of the book!
Q:
A midnight scribble, a morning sigh;
you watch the words curl up and die.
Madness lives inside your head,
of poems lost and pages dead.
“A mind possessed by unmade books.” This line, taken from the poem Lost Words by Michael Faudet, illustrates my lifelong preoccupation with books. (c)
Q:
It was from a very young age that I fell in love with this wonderful artifact —the turn of the first page is almost like a sacred ritual to me. (c)
Q:
Yet never have I been bolder or brighter than I am with you. Not once have I ever felt so alive. Whatever vessel we pour ourselves into, mine is now overflowing, brimming with life. It is transcending into something new. (c)
Q:
My nine
is your noon;
I’m just packing now—
your winter,
my June.
wish I could pack you. (c)
Q:
Well Wishes
My love, are you well,
past the sea and the swell,
out in the world, where danger
is fraught.
Amidst the doom and the gloom,
and the hospital rooms,
where hearts can be bartered
and bought.
There are words to betray
and the things that we say,
can sometimes be snappy and
short.
Where the strangers we meet,
take us down one way streets,
and forgetting is something
we’re taught.
Where earthquakes will reign,
between terror and planes—
and colds are so easily caught. (c)
Q:
I
wanted
everything
because I didn’t want anything
enough. (c)
Q:
Hearts don’t have locks, she said.
Some do, he replies. There are people
who give away the key to theirs for
safekeeping. Others are mistrustful and
give out several keys, just in case. Then
there are those who have misplaced
them but never cared to look.
What about your heart, she asked.
He smiled.
Your words are the key to mine, he
replied.
Never forget your words. (c)
Q:
Message in a Bottle
No one truly knows who they are, he
sighs. The glass bottle does not know
its own contents. It has no idea
whether it is a vessel for the most
delicious apple cider, a lovingly crafted
wine, or a bitter poison. People are the
same. Yet like the bottle, we are
transparent. We can’t see ourselves the
way others see us.
How do you see me? she asked.
You are a bottle floating out at sea, he
says. One that contains a very
important message. It may never reach
its recipient, but as long as there is
someone waiting, it will always have
purpose.
Will you wait for mine?
I will, he promised. I will look for you
every time I stand at the edge of the
ocean. (c)
Q:
You
There are people I will never know
and their lives will still ensue;
those that could have loved me
so
and I’ll never wonder who.
Of all the things to come and go,
there is no one else like you.
The things I never think about—
and the only thing I do. (c)
Q:
I found you when I reached the
seventh sea, just as I had stopped
looking. (c)
Q:
She, with a small,
amused smile on her tiny lips, raven hair
tousled by the sea wind. She was
different from anything he had ever
known. (c)
Q:
Then rainbows arching over and the
most beautiful sunsets I have ever seen.
How the wind howls as the sea
whispers, I miss you.
Come back to me. (c)
Q:
He gave her such gifts
—not the kind that were put in boxes,
but the sort that filled her with
imagination, breathing indescribable
happiness into her life. (c)
Q:
“Your lips would
look beautiful, painted with butterfly
wings,” he would tease her.
“Never!” she’d cry, alarmed. (c)
Q:
Finale
They gave us years,
though many ago;
the spring cries tears—
the winter, snow. (c)
Q:
I felt you before I knew you and I still feel you now. (c)
Q:
Sometimes when I read a book, parts will lift from the pages in an anagram of your name.
Like a code to remind me it’s not over.
Like dyslexia in reverse. (c)
Q:
For now, all you can do is take your time. Take all the time you need. (c)
Q:
I want you to remember my lips beneath your fingers and how you told me things you never told another soul.
I want you to know that I have kept sacred, everything you had entrusted in me and I always will.
Finally, I want you to know how sorry I am for pushing you away when I had only meant to bring you closer.
And if I ever felt like home to you, it was because you were safe with me. I want you to know that most of all. (c)
Q:
Always with Me
Your love I once surrendered,
has never left my mind.
My heart is just as tender,
as the day I called you mine.
I did not take you with me,
but you were never left behind. (c)
Q:
There was never another to compare with you. (c)
Q:
Each day was spent
living and breathing and longing for
twisted paths and murderous wolves.
You’re living in a fantasy, her
mother said. (c)
Q:
The faces he saw and the voices he heard. The soundtrack to a thousand tragic endings, real or imagined.
The first time I saw him, I noticed how haunted his eyes were. And I was drawn to him, in the way a melody draws a crowd to the dance floor. Pulled by invisible strings. (c)
Q:
“I want to catch all fish in the ocean,” he replied. “But there are none I wish to keep.” ...
“There is only one fish I want to catch and so, no other holds my interest.” (c)
Q:
The Most
You may not know
the reason why,
for a time
I wasn’t I.
There was a man
who came and went,
on him every breath
was spent.
I’m sorry I forgot
all else—
it was the most
I ever felt. (c)
Q:
Wishing Stars
I still search
for you in crowds,
in empty fields
and soaring clouds.
In city lights
and passing cars,
on winding roads
and wishing stars.
I wonder where
you could be now,
for years I’ve not said
your name out loud.
And longer since
I called you mine—
time has passed
for you and I.
Yet I have learned
to live without,
I do not mind—
I still love you anyhow. (c)
December 18, 2014
How the heck this won the Goodreads Choice Award for Poetry is beyond me.
I read Love & Misadventure earlier this year and gave it the benefit of the doubt. That was probably a mistake. Her sophomore effort isn't any better. Just a tad more sexual, but still sticking to the same insipid rhyming scheme and half-baked "romantic" themes that aren't any better than those in my secondary school yearbooks.
I think what's so unbelievable about Lang Leav's writing is how people seem to eat it up but don't want to read Mary Oliver, or Billy Collins, or even Andrea Gibson. Is this really the new mainstream standard of modern poetry?
Accessible poetry doesn't have to be so blandly terrible. Does it?
I read Love & Misadventure earlier this year and gave it the benefit of the doubt. That was probably a mistake. Her sophomore effort isn't any better. Just a tad more sexual, but still sticking to the same insipid rhyming scheme and half-baked "romantic" themes that aren't any better than those in my secondary school yearbooks.
I think what's so unbelievable about Lang Leav's writing is how people seem to eat it up but don't want to read Mary Oliver, or Billy Collins, or even Andrea Gibson. Is this really the new mainstream standard of modern poetry?
Devotion
He is more to me
than I.
I love him more
than I can bear.
So much at times
I wish to die,
so I can end this
on a high.
Accessible poetry doesn't have to be so blandly terrible. Does it?
Shelved as 'i-don-t-dare'
September 8, 2016I forgot to add this book to my no-shelf. Thoughts: a little pricey Kindle edition, considering... Giving this thing away for free would be already a crime against poetry and common sense. And you want me to pay for this. The only way I would do that is if I cannot refrain from wanting to know if this book is worse than the first one. But still, I think my curiosity has its limits. And an instinct of self-preservation. So no, I'm not reading this book. I guess you figured that out. I'm sorry and I get subjectivity and all but I still can't believe that these kindergarten rhymes are considered great poetry and the best of 2014.
Wait. Do you hear that? Yeah, that's Byron laughing from the pool of the afterlife.
Best of 2014... No. I will never let this go!
Okay, I'm done.
Dec 24, 14
Wait. Do you hear that? Yeah, that's Byron laughing from the pool of the afterlife.
Best of 2014... No. I will never let this go!
Okay, I'm done.
Dec 24, 14
![Profile Image for [S] Bibliophage.](https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/users/1517936499i/11854153._UX200_CR0,52,200,200_.jpg)
February 19, 2018
Rating: 3.5
I had high hopes on these poetry books of this author because they are always in the bestseller list in our local bookstores here. So I was really curious on what's the hype and give some time to read them. Just like my review on her book Love & Misadventure, I was thinking that maybe I was neither in love or heartbroken that's why I cannot fully grasp those poems. But I guess it's not me because there are other not-so-good reviews about this.
Still, regardless of the low rating I gave and the bad review, I found some good poems in this book such as When, An Artist in Love, Forewarned, The Dream, The Poet, Perfect, Ode to Sorrow, and
Almost.
While the short stories I enjoyed are Patience
Dyslexia
Dead Poets, Despondency, and Nostalgia for Today
I had high hopes on these poetry books of this author because they are always in the bestseller list in our local bookstores here. So I was really curious on what's the hype and give some time to read them. Just like my review on her book Love & Misadventure, I was thinking that maybe I was neither in love or heartbroken that's why I cannot fully grasp those poems. But I guess it's not me because there are other not-so-good reviews about this.
Still, regardless of the low rating I gave and the bad review, I found some good poems in this book such as When, An Artist in Love, Forewarned, The Dream, The Poet, Perfect, Ode to Sorrow, and
Almost.
While the short stories I enjoyed are Patience
Dyslexia
Dead Poets, Despondency, and Nostalgia for Today
April 10, 2022
I love poetry. Always have.
However, it's usually the classics that appeal to me (Oscar Wilde, Walt Whitman, Emily Dickinson, the Bronte sisters, some German poets). Nevertheless, sometimes a contemporary poet/poetress manages to speak to me as well.
Lang Leav was completely unknown to me and had it not been for wonderful poems in Alex's status updates, I probably would have never found out she existed. One of those lucky coincidences because this poetress is a true master!
Honestly, Lang Leav has a delicate beauty to every line she writes, whether it is in rhymes or not; and although most poems in this collection are about love, it never gets tiresome or monotone. She has a subtle way of getting under your skin and waking slumbering emotions (locked away or forgotten). It's as if this book had been written just for me.
A few examples:
The book is divided into three chapters called
Duet
Interlude
Finale
and ends with an Encore.
At the end, there is also a little information about the author that I could not have put in better words:
"The work of poet and artist Lang Leav swings betwen the whimsical and woeful, expressing a complexity beneath its childlike facade."
And yes, that means that the above included art was drawn by the poetress herself.
I will definitely get her other book that will be published in November and maybe even her first, just to complete the collection. Great work!
However, it's usually the classics that appeal to me (Oscar Wilde, Walt Whitman, Emily Dickinson, the Bronte sisters, some German poets). Nevertheless, sometimes a contemporary poet/poetress manages to speak to me as well.
Lang Leav was completely unknown to me and had it not been for wonderful poems in Alex's status updates, I probably would have never found out she existed. One of those lucky coincidences because this poetress is a true master!
Honestly, Lang Leav has a delicate beauty to every line she writes, whether it is in rhymes or not; and although most poems in this collection are about love, it never gets tiresome or monotone. She has a subtle way of getting under your skin and waking slumbering emotions (locked away or forgotten). It's as if this book had been written just for me.
A few examples:
Her Words
Love a girl who writes
and live her many lives;
you have yet to find her,
beneath her words of guise.
Kiss her blue-inked fingers,
forgive the pens they marked.
The stain of your lips upon her -
the one she can't discard.
Forget her tattered memories,
or the pages others took;
you are her ever after -
the hero of her book.
No Other
There is a moment I keep in my heart - I love him and no one else. It is a love that will die with me.
You may ask, death could be some time away - what if from now to then, you love someone new?
Well, I can tell you, there is only one love. If any person claims to have loved twice in all their life - they have not loved at all.
A Pilgrimage
Always seeking,
each moment fleeting;
this is where
my soul will rest.
With you I've fulfilled,
our destined meeting;
my tired hand,
against your chest.
This is the heart,
that keeps mine beating -
these are the eyes
that mine know best.
The book is divided into three chapters called
Duet
InterludeFinale
and ends with an Encore.
At the end, there is also a little information about the author that I could not have put in better words:
"The work of poet and artist Lang Leav swings betwen the whimsical and woeful, expressing a complexity beneath its childlike facade."
And yes, that means that the above included art was drawn by the poetress herself.
I will definitely get her other book that will be published in November and maybe even her first, just to complete the collection. Great work!
March 30, 2015
MEH. AGAIN.
May 4, 2017
3.5 stars.
If I say, I'd give you everything,
we know it can never be,
but I will give you anything-
I just hope that thing is me.
Love and Misadventure was a book that I just liked, I didn't love it. With Lullabies it was different. I liked it more but I couldn't loved it because of the format of the book -eBook- and I love to read on eBook, but this time I just didn't enjoy it at all. Maybe if I buy the physical copy and reread it, I could give it 4 stars.
Even though, it was a nice read, in my opinion much better than the first book.
If I say, I'd give you everything,
we know it can never be,
but I will give you anything-
I just hope that thing is me.
Love and Misadventure was a book that I just liked, I didn't love it. With Lullabies it was different. I liked it more but I couldn't loved it because of the format of the book -eBook- and I love to read on eBook, but this time I just didn't enjoy it at all. Maybe if I buy the physical copy and reread it, I could give it 4 stars.
Even though, it was a nice read, in my opinion much better than the first book.
September 23, 2014
I don't know what has gotten into me that I would think that reading this would be a good idea.
Spoiler alert: it wasn't.
This book was the bad kind of cliche and I guess there's a masochist in me somewhere that likes to subject me to horrendous writting. I can't find a single redeeming quality about this book. And even Darth Vader towards the end had one so that's saying something.
It doesn't even deserve a one star rating.
Spoiler alert: it wasn't.
This book was the bad kind of cliche and I guess there's a masochist in me somewhere that likes to subject me to horrendous writting. I can't find a single redeeming quality about this book. And even Darth Vader towards the end had one so that's saying something.
It doesn't even deserve a one star rating.
September 20, 2014
No sugarcoating:
Still that overly-cliched and utterly-pretentious, stinking crock of greeting card poetry. Money wasted.
Still that overly-cliched and utterly-pretentious, stinking crock of greeting card poetry. Money wasted.
October 10, 2014
Too much of the same thing is boring.
October 9, 2014
This book follows the course of a relationship and it's a two hundred and something page book full of hallmark card poems. This is the worst book of poetry I've ever read. There were three poems that I actually liked, but the rest of the book consisted of rhyming, repetitive fluff.
November 14, 2018
I have a weakness for love poetry. When I picked up this book, I was sure I'd like it, having heard so many praise it. I was wrong. I was so wrong.
My twelve-year-old self would've loved this book and its childish, oversimplified, spineless poetry. My current self does not. Reading this book was like biting into a peach and expecting your teeth to come into contact with the seed pit in the middle of it, but not finding it and ending up with your face covered in peach mush and feeling nauseous and disappointed with the whole experience.
This book lacks bite. This poetry is fluffy, artificially naive, starry-eyed humbug, any and all of the words already forgotten by the time the next page is turned. I want poetry to mean something, to have at least an indication of depth, and this is just sweet nothings that didn't move me in any way other than to laughing about it later.
The language is simple, the rhymes (where applicable, anyway) are infantile at best – why attempt a rhyming poem at all if you're just going to haphazardly abandon the rhyme scheme halfway through? I mean, is this book truly an indication of what contemporary poetry is? The future is bleak indeed if this is considered poetry:
I did not know
that it was love
until I knew.
Sure, I have been in love, and love is great and everything, but that doesn't mean I'll put together a 248 page 'poetry' book composed of every saccharine scrap of thought I come up with. The whole thing reminds me of a cheesy and awful Valentine's day card, except instead of having to bear looking at a single one of those cards, this is a book wholly composed of them.
I'm really glad I didn't pay any money to read this because I'd demand a refund. Stat.
My twelve-year-old self would've loved this book and its childish, oversimplified, spineless poetry. My current self does not. Reading this book was like biting into a peach and expecting your teeth to come into contact with the seed pit in the middle of it, but not finding it and ending up with your face covered in peach mush and feeling nauseous and disappointed with the whole experience.
This book lacks bite. This poetry is fluffy, artificially naive, starry-eyed humbug, any and all of the words already forgotten by the time the next page is turned. I want poetry to mean something, to have at least an indication of depth, and this is just sweet nothings that didn't move me in any way other than to laughing about it later.
The language is simple, the rhymes (where applicable, anyway) are infantile at best – why attempt a rhyming poem at all if you're just going to haphazardly abandon the rhyme scheme halfway through? I mean, is this book truly an indication of what contemporary poetry is? The future is bleak indeed if this is considered poetry:
I did not know
that it was love
until I knew.
Sure, I have been in love, and love is great and everything, but that doesn't mean I'll put together a 248 page 'poetry' book composed of every saccharine scrap of thought I come up with. The whole thing reminds me of a cheesy and awful Valentine's day card, except instead of having to bear looking at a single one of those cards, this is a book wholly composed of them.
I'm really glad I didn't pay any money to read this because I'd demand a refund. Stat.
August 15, 2017
I really, truly hate unfinished books. I try not to do it, but sometimes, it has to happen or I just go crazy. I don't think I deserve to inflict that much pain on myself.
This book, I can never understand. It's not hard, it's ridiculously mundane, full of everything ANYONE can write, and probably really-in-love 12 year olds can enjoy. I hated it. It had no deeper meaning, no beauty. It wasn't even cute at some parts like Love and Misadventure. It just has a pretty cover. Oh, and the art! Do people actually call that art? Because I used to be like that when I was 15 and now I look back and say to myself: Wow, I used to be awful!
Just look at this one:
“He has me at his every whim;
everything starts with him.
To all the boys I used to kiss—
everything stops with his.”
Do people actually call that poetry? To me, it's just a piece of heteronormative hell.
“He says they look at him with daggers when he has done something wrong. Like when he forgets to order olives on my half of the pizza.”
This one too. Oh God. I couldn't go past page 75 or I would find more like this. Why would I torture myself? I can go read something fun, if not amazing, at least.
This book, I can never understand. It's not hard, it's ridiculously mundane, full of everything ANYONE can write, and probably really-in-love 12 year olds can enjoy. I hated it. It had no deeper meaning, no beauty. It wasn't even cute at some parts like Love and Misadventure. It just has a pretty cover. Oh, and the art! Do people actually call that art? Because I used to be like that when I was 15 and now I look back and say to myself: Wow, I used to be awful!
Just look at this one:
“He has me at his every whim;
everything starts with him.
To all the boys I used to kiss—
everything stops with his.”
Do people actually call that poetry? To me, it's just a piece of heteronormative hell.
“He says they look at him with daggers when he has done something wrong. Like when he forgets to order olives on my half of the pizza.”
This one too. Oh God. I couldn't go past page 75 or I would find more like this. Why would I torture myself? I can go read something fun, if not amazing, at least.
July 18, 2017
This was the first Lang Leav book I ever read and I loved it. I've been wanting to read her poetry for a while since I am such a fan of her boyfriend's (Michael Faudet) poetry.
This collection is absolutely beautiful. I loved how it was broken up into three parts and the story it told.
Overall, I just adored this collection and will definitely be reading more from her.
This collection is absolutely beautiful. I loved how it was broken up into three parts and the story it told.
Overall, I just adored this collection and will definitely be reading more from her.
August 19, 2017
I enjoyed it was a quick read full of love and heartbreaking. It's like experiencing the ugly part of love.
February 3, 2016
“And if you should ask
which one you are,
my answer is—
you are a scar.”
4.5 STARS
This book is beautiful.
funny how a lot of things in this book reminds me of you.
which one you are,
my answer is—
you are a scar.”
4.5 STARS
This book is beautiful.
funny how a lot of things in this book reminds me of you.
November 12, 2014
What did I miss? I was thrilled when I read all the positive reviews this book got and enthusiastically set about devouring it, happy to have found it. There were a couple of poems at the beginning that I liked - "Metamorphosis", for example, but then, after a while, the sippy romance and what the blurb called the "child-like facade" between "woeful and whimsical" (and what that mean, really?) made them grow stale.
Reading about a "girl" whose most sole features are that she is in love and likes poetry and books and falls in love with a sad haunted "boy" to me is unappealing enough, but if those characteristics remain the only ones, I really don't have much to catch my attention as far as content goes. Since then I didn't find much striking imagery anymore or, to me, any discernible complexity because of that "child-like facade" and found myself more in what seems to be greeting card territory, I was out. I probably wouldn't be this disappointed if I hadn't been so enthusiastic about this.
Also, being a rather happily married woman in a same-sex partnership I think I was probably in the wrong mood, as you seem to need to be really young, heterosexual, and unhappily in love with an equally young heterosexual.
Reading about a "girl" whose most sole features are that she is in love and likes poetry and books and falls in love with a sad haunted "boy" to me is unappealing enough, but if those characteristics remain the only ones, I really don't have much to catch my attention as far as content goes. Since then I didn't find much striking imagery anymore or, to me, any discernible complexity because of that "child-like facade" and found myself more in what seems to be greeting card territory, I was out. I probably wouldn't be this disappointed if I hadn't been so enthusiastic about this.
Also, being a rather happily married woman in a same-sex partnership I think I was probably in the wrong mood, as you seem to need to be really young, heterosexual, and unhappily in love with an equally young heterosexual.
September 16, 2014
So beautiful. She got me even at the introduction of the book. T.T beautiful.
Except for that one poem Vania. And the one with panties. They feel so out of place. haha I think her partner wrote it and she decided to include that in.
He totally wrote it.
Except for that one poem Vania. And the one with panties. They feel so out of place. haha I think her partner wrote it and she decided to include that in.
He totally wrote it.
July 25, 2017
Nice and nite.
Inspiring
Inspiring
February 11, 2017
I had a holiday today, I was way behind on my reading schedule, and I wanted some...entertainment. First of all, let's talk a little about Ms Leav's Introduction to this collection of crap. I have always thought poems were a little like spells-incantations that are as old as time. There is a certain quality to words that-when strung in a certain way-has an almost hypnotic effect , she writes. Does she fucking realise how ironic this statement is, seeing as how she is completely incapable of stringing words together in that "certain" way? Or, in any way, in fact? Also, Ms Leav, I'm going to dock points for the inappropriate use of a dash. Or two. She continues, This combined with the universal theme of love, becomes ever more potent and intoxicating. After all, what greater magic is there than love? Is it just me, or does she sound awfully smug here?
Much like a mirror reflecting its ever-changing landscape, Lullabies is a book that, over time, will reveal itself to you slowly.
Much Love,
Lang
She should've concluded with "Much Pretence, Lang" instead.
Now, on to the poetry itself.
Clocks
Here in time,
you are mine;
my heart has not
sung louder.
I do not know
why I love you so-
the clock knows not
its hour.
Yet it is clear,
to all that's here,
that time is told
by seeing.
Even though
clocks do not know,
it is the reason
for their being.
What the actual fuck is "time is told by seeing" supposed to mean? And, yes, Ms Leav, by virtue of being clocks, i.e., inanimate objects that cannot "know", clocks don't "know" anything, much less that the reason for their being is...that time is told by seeing?
Wounded
A bruise is tender
but does not last,
it leaves me as
I always was.
But a wound I take
much more to heart,
for a scar will always
leave its mark.
And if you should ask
which one you are,
my answer is-
you are a scar.
When I was younger, like way, way younger, I used to write poetry. Something like
"I love Spring, it's so awesome,
look, there's a cherry blossom"
It was shitty poetry, and still, still, much better than this cornucopia of awfulness.
Tell Me
Tell me if you ever cared,
if a single thought
or me was spared.
Tell me when you lie in bed,
do you think of something
I once said.
Tell me if you hurt at all,
when someone says
my name with yours.
It may have been so long ago,
but I would give
the world to know.
I would give the world to know how much time it takes to come up with this drivel.
I'm not completely a horrible person, so I will give Ms Leav two things. One, that this is marginally better than her first collection of "poems", and two, that she is a good artist. Maybe if she stuck to the latter...
December 28, 2018
Lullabies is such a beautiful collections of poems I cannot get over it, everything I read by Lang Leav feels as if he is touching my very soul (cliché?). This book is about love, loss and so much more. I love it.
August 20, 2020
Lang Leav has a wonderful way with words that completely enthrals me.
July 30, 2017
Lang Leav, you're officially my new favourite poet!!!!
I LOVED this one so freaking much, that I read it slowly wanting to absorb EVERY single word, it was beautiful to read something that spoke to me on so many levels.
And here I leave you with some of my favourite poems from the book:
****
Love a girl who writes
and live her many lives;
you have yet to find her,
beneath her words of guise.
Kiss her blue-inked fingers,
forgive the pens they marked.
The stain of your lips upon her—
the one she can’t discard.
Forget her tattered memories,
or the pages others took;
you are her ever after—
the hero of her book.
****
He is more to me
than I.
I love him more
than I can bear.
So much at times
I wish to die,
so I can end this
on a high.
****
Dawn turns to day,
as stars are dispersed;
wherever I lay,
I think of you first.
The sun has arisen,
the sky, a sad blue.
I quietly listen—
the wind sings of you.
The thoughts we each keep,
that are closest to heart,
we think as we sleep—
and you’re always my last.
****
A bruise is tender
but does not last,
it leaves me as
I always was.
But a wound I take
much more to heart,
for a scar will always
leave its mark.
And if you should ask
which one you are,
my answer is—
you are a scar.
I LOVED this one so freaking much, that I read it slowly wanting to absorb EVERY single word, it was beautiful to read something that spoke to me on so many levels.
And here I leave you with some of my favourite poems from the book:
****
Love a girl who writes
and live her many lives;
you have yet to find her,
beneath her words of guise.
Kiss her blue-inked fingers,
forgive the pens they marked.
The stain of your lips upon her—
the one she can’t discard.
Forget her tattered memories,
or the pages others took;
you are her ever after—
the hero of her book.
****
He is more to me
than I.
I love him more
than I can bear.
So much at times
I wish to die,
so I can end this
on a high.
****
Dawn turns to day,
as stars are dispersed;
wherever I lay,
I think of you first.
The sun has arisen,
the sky, a sad blue.
I quietly listen—
the wind sings of you.
The thoughts we each keep,
that are closest to heart,
we think as we sleep—
and you’re always my last.
****
A bruise is tender
but does not last,
it leaves me as
I always was.
But a wound I take
much more to heart,
for a scar will always
leave its mark.
And if you should ask
which one you are,
my answer is—
you are a scar.
July 11, 2015
Disappointing.
I did enjoyed Love & Misadventure but some of the poems here didn't really captivated me. Even if I bookmarked some of it because I can relate to it and like it, some are just plain and I just couldn't feel the vibe like the previous one. *insert poker face here*
My favorite piece:
Loving You
I saw him the other day. His arms around another girl, his eyes when met with mine -- were slow in their recognition.
I wonder if he remembers what I once told him.
I will love you forever.
He had smiled at me sadly before giving his reply.
But I am so afraid you may one day stop.
Now all these years later, I am the one who is afraid. Because I love him, I still do. I haven't stopped. I don't think I can. I don't think I ever will.
I did enjoyed Love & Misadventure but some of the poems here didn't really captivated me. Even if I bookmarked some of it because I can relate to it and like it, some are just plain and I just couldn't feel the vibe like the previous one. *insert poker face here*
My favorite piece:
Loving You
I saw him the other day. His arms around another girl, his eyes when met with mine -- were slow in their recognition.
I wonder if he remembers what I once told him.
I will love you forever.
He had smiled at me sadly before giving his reply.
But I am so afraid you may one day stop.
Now all these years later, I am the one who is afraid. Because I love him, I still do. I haven't stopped. I don't think I can. I don't think I ever will.
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