While residing
in this “mystical forest” in Sewanee, Tennessee, I’ve completed another book of
poetry which is now available on amazon.com and, of course, at Border Press. I’m
blessed to have the quiet time necessary to write while living on The Mountain,
and some of the poems are about my life here. The title poem explores the
feelings of an artist (my brother Paul) when he painted his perception of a
mystical forest for his wife, Lori.
A section of the
book focuses on another chapter in the ongoing “Going to Diddy Wah Diddy” saga,
a saga fueled by postcards my mother bought on my childhood journey to
California during the 40’s. Other poems focus on everyday life and people in
Louisiana and on the Cumberland Plateau, as well as a poet’s struggle with the
past and aging.
That’s a brief
summary of the book. I’m not so self-aggrandizing as to review my own book, so
I include here some of the wonderful affirmations and endorsements of Mystical Forest written by other authors, teachers, and poets:
“
Mystical Forest is a feast of a book. It finds
its spiritual rhymes in poets as various as Donne and Herbert, as various as
Hildegard, May Sarton and Mary Oliver. Diane Marquart Moore is a metaphysician
who brings the sacred to this world she loves even with the dirt and grit ever
in it; even with the hurt and wound ever a part of the mystical pact. Just as
she loves and honors the imperfect world in these poems, so too does she love and
honor whatever comes before and whatever comes afterward. If you should hear
something like the birdsong of Olivier Messiaen and the risings in Arvo Pärt’s
compositions when you read these poems, you are not just hearing things. Moore
is that good.” –Darrell Bourque, author of Megan’s Guitar and Other Poems from Acadie, and former
Louisiana poet laureate.
“‘A small world blooms/at the edge of a
disturbed bay’ in numerous poems of Diane Marquart Moore’s newest collection,
Mystical Forest. Whether in an affirmation of solidarity out of a history of
abuse (‘Barbara’s painting’) in solitary prophecies received on a family
pilgrimage by the young poet-to-be, or in a couple’s intimate twirl on the
dance floor of the world (‘Dancing With the Stars’)–Moore’s poems illuminate
small worlds with precision and poignancy as though one is entering the
mystical purple light of her artistic mother’s ‘fragile dream.’ Is the real
world truly the ‘backyard of paradise’? Could an owl’s hole in a tree offer a
refuge of escape? Can a blast of Mozart sonatas evoke a world to counteract the
doldrums of a gray winter’s freeze (‘Too Much Gray in the Day’)? These artfully
crafted poems–‘words creating the plenty/of moments left standing’ – answer Yes.”
–Isabel Anders, author of
Miss Marple: Christian Sleuth;
Becoming Flame; and
Spinning Straw, Weaving Gold.
“With a poet’s craft, with a painter’s eye,
Diane Moore’s evocative poems lead to places that are personal and universal. ‘Giving
birth to simple insights,’ Moore writes – just one more reason to follow her on
a rewarding journey.” –Michael Miller, author of
Into This World.
“This wonderful collection sings of friends,
family, and place, but also of loss, regret, and wonder – all part of a life
well lived, richly imagined, and beautifully expressed. Its poems resonate with
clear observation and earned wisdom. Whether tracing a childhood odyssey out
west, or simply capturing the landscapes of her Louisiana and Tennessee homes,
Diane Moore gives us a world that brings us back to our own with renewed
clarity and insight.” –Mary Ann Wilson, Departments of English and Women’s
Studies, University of Louisiana, Lafayette.
I’m humbled by
the endorsements these fine writers have written about
Mystical Forest and hope
that you enjoy this, my 34
th book.
His life passed before me, and my grief is deeper than sentiment, blood thicker than all the sins he buried in the garden he made for his wife, colors made bolder in a place where he could not hide his soul. "The place" dead-ended in a small wood and was surrounded by a tall cedar fence. Several small bungalows flanked a stone and cedar house with a square bay window in front. Flowers covered every space in the yard—yellow nasturtiums, red salvia, petunias, hollyhock—blossoms hovering over stones and settled among small pieces of driftwood. Birdbaths nestled in clumps of elephant ears and fern; begonias in
wooden tubs. It was a place of nooks and wooden bridges, and at the farthermost point of the yard, a forest of cedars and redwoods loomed.
Ineffably, part of him will go down into the soil that nourished his plants; the rest will ride the wild, blue waves of the Pacific that he was always painting. And I have the photographs in the notebook and the covers of most of my poetry books for which he rendered beautiful paintings—valuable keepsakes that reflect a kind of artistic endurance.
