"Storm Warning" by Gerry Wilson

 

The stories in Gerry Wilson’s brilliant new collection, “Storm Warning,” take place on, or near, a fictional island off the coast of Georgia. Wilson’s characters are all in the middle of tenuous or completely fractured relationships as they prepare for beach weddings, boat outings, visits to lighthouses, or as they merely seek to survive beside a potentially violent ocean.

The fear of both physical and relational death runs powerfully through the stories, and the way Wilson weaves them together is incredibly well done. Besides threatening destruction of one sort or another, the ocean also creates for each protagonist an issue that becomes a catalyst for a painfully acquired epiphany.

Every story reveals resilience and small triumphs, and most end with a degree of ambivalence; a tiny ray of light, a small glimpse of hope. But Wilson’s plots are set up so skillfully and her writing is so beautiful that I felt the ending of each tale in my solar plexus. Her restrained way of writing emotional scenes elevates these stories of ordinary human beings to exquisite works of literary art.

With “Storm Warning,” Gerry Wilson has captured something indescribably beautiful about the pain and poignancy of the human experience. These stories are profound tales of flawed people in impossible relationships and situations all played out before the backdrop of the unpredictable southern Atlantic Ocean.

Gerry Wilson's website 

Buy Storm Warning on Amazon

(This review first appeared in the September 2026 issue of Midwest Book Review. MBR Bookwatch, Kathryn Atwood's Shelf. )

"Twilight in the Country"

 

Goldfish vanish beneath lily pads

as bats barrel out of the attic

to hear squirrels and cicadas scream in concert

while a single black hawk circles the crimson sky

(These phone pics were taken when my daughter and I visited semi-rural Illinois four years ago, a jaunt that inspired the above poem). 

The Girl Who Talked to the Moon: A new poetry collection by Christine Candland

 

(Backdrop handcrafted by Gooseberry Arts)

“If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry.”

--Emily Dickinson

While reading Christine Candland’s poems, I often experienced something akin to what Dickinson described in her famous quote. Please allow me to reconstruct my head as I elucidate the beauties of The Girl Who Talked to the Moon.

Whether she is observing patrons in “The Coffee Shop,” recalling an old friend in “The Selvedge Edge,”  or visiting a woman living alone with her dog in a tiny, rented house in “Gallup, New Mexico,” Candland displays substantial powers of observation and treats each of her subjects with great respect.

The same can be said of her nature poems, which reflect an individual completely immersed in the grandeur of the natural world. Candland uses her pen to far better effect than any other means of recollection, as evidenced by the following lines from “Tycho’s Star”:

As light spills out, pockets of nearby song can be heard

to capture the shine; trails light up never seen before.

The full moon’s flame pierces spectrum, a rainbow

suspended in space…

And while observing nature, her mind often travels to mythology, as seen in “Swimming in Waimea Bay.” Similarly, her love for classical literature is evidenced in “Antigone’s Good-bye,” “Chiron’s Enchantment,” “Imogen Drinks the Potion,” and “Cressida Waits.” The latter, written in first-person and sympathetic to an oft-maligned character, allows the reader to experience the mounting tension and hopelessness of Cressida waiting for her royal warrior lover:

Oh, Troilus! Night stalks me without you…

Fight for the day we will be together again…

Troilus, where is your resolve—you who boast of a

royal’s boldness—has your courage abandoned you,

your chivalry no longer viable?

My love, rescue me now!

Candland writes in free verse while making brilliant use of assonance and alliteration as noted in the following from “Hunter’s Moon”:

A gulf of turquoise

discerned in the dark.

How high will the shine rise?

 

And from “Riding Darkness”:

Just before Dawn, Darkness spreads ruby lined wings

descends so softly, only flickers feel the majesty of

its flutter.

The lines that threatened to remove the top of my head are too numerous to mention, but perhaps those that affected me the most came from the titular Pushcart-nominated “The Girl Who Talked to the Moon”:

In the Sea of Rains the sun blows scarlet,

sunset after sunset, while scattered opal light

leads right out of the basin…

We’ll ride gondolas perched in the sky;

fly from peak to peak, as stars settle around us

wondering who we are.

This collection exhibits an immense admiration for nature, as well as for individuals both real and mythological. Every poem in The Girl Who Talked to the Moon is a quietly stunning revelation, clearly the work of an artist whose technique is in perfect synchronization with her expansive soul.

 

Bio:

Christine Candland has published two previous collections of poetry: When Snow Walks In and Paris Spoken Here, as well as two novels: Topaz Woman, which was a National Best Books Award Finalist, and Pleiades Rising, an Eric Hoffer Book Award finalist.

Her work has been featured in California Quarterly, Altadena Review and was nominated for the Pushcart Prize.

This was my first poetry review for Midwest Book Review and I was completely charmed when the collection arrived in the above manner. 

The Belgian Girls and the Kate Quinn connection

I never considered writing a historical novel until Kate Quinn sent me a signed copy of The Alice Network, a fact I am not making up. At the direction of Louise de Bettignies's grandnephew, Quinn discovered my book, Women Heroes of World War I, utilized the chapter on the great De Bettignies for her novel, and then sent me a copy by way of thanks. 

I wasn't all that interested in historical fiction at the time, but I was absolutely blown away by Quinn's portrayal of De Bettignies. I realized then that while well-written nonfiction can press a reader's face up against the window of a room, historical fiction, when done the right way, can bring the reader directly into the room. 

I decided I might try this for my favorite WWI spy, Gabrielle Petit. The result is my novel, The Belgian Girls, which has received some high praise since being published last year: 

THE BELGIAN GIRLS | Kirkus Reviews "Intriguing, disturbing and historically compelling." 

The Belgian Girls - Historical Novel Society "Beautifully written...highly recommended." 

 “The Belgian Girls” by Kathryn J. Atwood (Discovering Belgium): "...a poignant and powerfully told dual-timeline novel."

The Belgian Girls by Kathryn J. Atwood | Goodreads

And the ever-gracious Kate Quinn agreed to endorse my novel when it came out: 

Poetry Review: On the Lip of Night by Julie Esther Fisher

 

“Poetry is a deal of joy and pain and wonder, with a dash of the dictionary.” 

--Kahlil Gibran

There is definitely “a dash of the dictionary” in Julie Esther Fisher’s new collection, On the Lip of Night. I know this because I had to look up an occasional word. But while encountering these exceptional poems, I spent far less time with a reference book and far more being overwhelmed with the “joy and pain and wonder” of well-written verse.

The prodigious skill of this Pushcart-nominated poet is clear in her preface poem in which she encapsulates the simultaneous exaltation and limitations of childhood in four simple lines:

A girl on a swing

watches the shadow of her legs on asphalt

She travels like a pale pint of milk through the sky

on the creaking chains of childhood

Speaking of dairy products, “At the Hour of Milk” begins with the sadness (or fear) experienced by a group of cows when their farmer first utilized electricity in the barn. Not only did the bovines sense something intrinsically wrong when bright artificial light replaced the softness of early dawn, but as the poem progresses, Fisher notes that a precious human experience was also lost:

His boy used to join him in the barn

at the hour of milk

when sweetness

instinctive in both

called lip to dipper

and they tasted brightness.

Along with its beautifully portrayed pathos, “At the Hour of Milk” juggles images of light and darkness  with effortless brilliance. The buckets meant to capture the cow’s milk in the bright light are described as “deep black holes,” a color then compared to a line of ravens standing in a line “reaching the farm/like the new electricity.”

Fisher’s masterful ability to stretch a single metaphor through an entire poem is apparent in “Bone Mountain” where she describes a monastery as “an atlas bone holding up/the heavens.” The older people there, she says, are “already half fused into the mountain’s spine.” She wonders which of her bones she should “give to the gods” and ends the poem with these lines which suggest both weight training and death:

While I weight it out

The gossip I hear

the clack of so many femur bones buried

in the mountain

As the Gibran quote implies, poetry is often rooted in pain and this is most notably evident in “Masterclass” and “Hemlines,” poems that only hint at their source of suffering; Fisher’s meanings are often hidden within her beautiful lines and take more than a single reading to discern.

Not so with “Take My Breath Away” in which Fisher presents jarringly humorous images: the breath of ancient British Queen Boudicca crashes “through the traffic at Midtown” before she parks her chariot in the poet’s driveway where it is inspected by “the AAA guy” who “breathes new life into it.”

While tripping out on Fisher’s phenomenal imagery, it’s easy to overlook her skillful use of  assonance and consonance which makes her poems a great pleasure to read aloud, such as these lines from “Save the Date”:

I shrink myself into the darkness

of the little black dress.

Death zips me in.

A new companion, he does

for me, everything but

change his mind.

He cleans with me, pays my bills. Tells

jokes, his jaws a crowd of

tombstones.

And because of its internal rhyme, the following poem title is simply fun to say, especially if you( like me) have a Chicago accent: “The landlord is at the door”

Julie Esther Fisher is a prodigiously talented poet who handles the English language like an artist utilizes paint. Her experiences and interests are extensive and her ability to create connections with imagery is exceptional. Lovers of good poetry will find themselves reading and rereading the verses in On the Lip of Night as they seek to uncover the truth beneath each beautiful line.

Julie's website

Publisher's website

This review was published by the Midwest Book Review, MBR Bookwatch October 2026, Kathryn Atwood's bookshelf. 

The Ring of Dark Elves by Victoria Randall

In the introduction to her book, The Ring of the DarkElves, Victoria Randall states that composer Richard Wagner combined the ancient Viking Volsunga Saga with the Germanic Nibelungenlied legend to create his epic “Ring Cycle” operas. Randall has taken the same characters who have been singing Wagner’s arias on international stages since 1876 and placed them in a literary work. She is not the first modern writer to do this, but I can’t imagine anyone else creating a more accessible and beautiful version of these ancient narratives.

While reading The Ring of the Dark Elves, I was fascinated to discover just how much Tolkien had dipped into the same (as he put it) “Caldron of Story” that inspired Wagner. And while the Oxford don created his own mythology from what he discovered in that cauldron, I must admit that I have never been able to get through “The Silmarillion” though I’ve tried more than once. Though Tolkien’s story was his own, I’ve always felt that his prose was influenced by something very ancient; after all, he personally translated the Volsunga Saga into English and, while participating in two pre-Inkling literary circles, read it aloud in its original Old Norse.

Though Randall’s plot sticks closely to Wagner’s, and though there is certainly something a bit lofty about her prose, in my opinion it is more beautifully written than Tolkien’s. Consider the following excerpt from the first chapter describing Urda, guardian of the well of wisdom, as Odin leaves after his costly drink:

“She stood and watched until the shadows of night swallowed him. Tears blinded her own eyes, and she let them fall. So proud, she thought, so mighty, and so weak. She turned at last and went to sit beside the well in the darkness, as the stars began to shine in the cold remote sky.”

Or this one, describing Asgard:

“Scattered within the walls were other halls: Breidablik, where Nanna lived in lonely splendor now that Baldr was gone; Bilskirnir, where Thor lived with his beautiful Sif; and Vingolf, with its high seats for Odin’s wife Frigga and the other women of the Aesir. There he could just catch the movement of the leaves in Freya’s garden, where grew the tree with golden apples, the secret of the Aesirs’ youth and strength. Beside it stood Valhalla, many-doored, where the heroes lived who had been brought from many battles; his heart swelled at sight of it. Far beyond the cliffs, shrouded in cloud now on this blustery day, gleamed Bifrost the rainbow bridge, its smooth shape shifting and shining with color as it arched down to the lands of men.”

Speaking of mythological characters, Randall includes an exhaustive list of them at the beginning of the book, which is helpful, but each is so uniquely drawn in the text and introduced with such tension that the reader can easily keep them straight. It’s rare that a writer excels equally well at characterization, dialogue, and description, but Randall, a phenomenal storyteller, accomplishes this with seeming effortlessness.

Readers who enjoy stories deeply rooted in ancient myth told in in breathtakingly beautiful prose will not be able to stop turning the pages of The Ring of the Dark Elves.

 

"When snatched from all effectual AID!" Marianne Dashwood and Edward Ferrars read Cowper :)

Remember that bit in Emma Thompson's Sense and Sensibility when Marianne Dashwood (Kate Winslet) forces Edward Ferrars (Hugh Grant) to read more expressively? I never Googled which poem she was torturing him with (or was he torturing her with his monotone rendering?), but I encountered it serendipitously this morning, so I thought I'd share it here. "The Castaway" by William Cowper, last stanza. Leave it to Cowper to dwell on depressing scenarios, but leave it to Screenwriter Emma Thompson to place this bit of darkness in a hilarious scene, perfectly illustrating Marianne Dashwood's craving for emotionalism: 

Obscurest night involv'd the sky,

         Th' Atlantic billows roar'd,

When such a destin'd wretch as I,

         Wash'd headlong from on board,

Of friends, of hope, of all bereft,

His floating home for ever left.

No braver chief could Albion boast

         Than he with whom he went,

Nor ever ship left Albion's coast,

         With warmer wishes sent.

He lov'd them both, but both in vain,

Nor him beheld, nor her again.

Not long beneath the whelming brine,

         Expert to swim, he lay;

Nor soon he felt his strength decline,

         Or courage die away;

But wag'd with death a lasting strife,

Supported by despair of life.

He shouted: nor his friends had fail'd

         To check the vessel's course,

But so the furious blast prevail'd,

         That, pitiless perforce,

They left their outcast mate behind,

And scudded still before the wind.

Some succour yet they could afford;

         And, such as storms allow,

The cask, the coop, the floated cord,

         Delay'd not to bestow.

But he (they knew) nor ship, nor shore,

Whate'er they gave, should visit more.

Nor, cruel as it seem'd, could he

         Their haste himself condemn,

Aware that flight, in such a sea,

         Alone could rescue them;

Yet bitter felt it still to die

Deserted, and his friends so nigh.

He long survives, who lives an hour

         In ocean, self-upheld;

And so long he, with unspent pow'r,

         His destiny repell'd;

And ever, as the minutes flew,

Entreated help, or cried—Adieu!

At length, his transient respite past,

         His comrades, who before

Had heard his voice in ev'ry blast,

         Could catch the sound no more.

For then, by toil subdued, he drank

The stifling wave, and then he sank.

No poet wept him: but the page

         Of narrative sincere;

That tells his name, his worth, his age,

         Is wet with Anson's tear.

And tears by bards or heroes shed

Alike immortalize the dead.

I therefore purpose not, or dream,

         Descanting on his fate,

To give the melancholy theme

         A more enduring date:

But misery still delights to trace

   Its semblance in another's case.

No voice divine the storm allay'd,

         No light propitious shone;

When, snatch'd from all effectual aid,

         We perish'd, each alone:

But I beneath a rougher sea,

And whelm'd in deeper gulfs than he.

And here is the link to the hilarious moment in the film: https://youtu.be/fzQuOJIi8sI?feature=shared