Ratings & Reviews

Log in to review this item
Lulu Sales Rank: 271699
1 Person Reviewed This Product
  • By Hollace M Metzger
    Aug 20, 2010
    A review by Christina Westover, novelist and author of 'Precipice' (2010) August 12, 2010 "While reading 'Transcriptions of Time' by Hollace M. Metzger, one has the feeling of witnessing history in the making. Her emotionally descriptive prose proves that she is one of the greatest existentialist writers of our time. 'Transcriptions of Time' is a journey without a definite destination, an open-ended book, because time is infinite. Brutally honest, the richly colored prose paints living breathing pictures, and makes tangible the intangible. Written from the viewpoints of various cities, one experiences the feeling of being invisible, insignificant, yet free all at once. It is a tale of remembrance, bringing to mind the various individuals a person comes into contact with in a lifetime. It beckons one to remember the sacred ancient places in this world now hidden by factories and concrete--for they still stand, and magic is all around us. Hollace M. Metzger reminds us of the moon's... More > influence--its gravitational pull of one's soul, one's body, one's mind. Like the moon, it is difficult to resist the gravitational pull of Metzger's poetry." A review by Garry Franks, BOWL Publishers Spring 2009 In these poems: people, place and words dance together in a moment of time: "...just when I’ve tasted freedom from air breathed in between twirling in my circle of sensuality and then, smiling at first feeling of the room rotating around my waist, pull me back, closer, and taste my sweat from your lingering finger that you used to push my spine nearer this time..." ("Teach Me to Tango") Hollace’s contemporary voice brings the loveliest poems unexpectedly from the early Traditional and Song- books; "Little bird, what news have you heard today? You hide between autumn’s leaves of such varied color, so different from one another that they make no difference to you because your plumes seem to have preserved every last one that has f a l l e n." (“Rondine”) Hollace adopts a Middle English voice to startling effect (I have to quote the whole poem): "Softe was the Somer Morwnynge. Fairie bifel the world Werkes on wyde hulles Shrouded in the sonne. An unholy hermite, I wente To here the sesun. Bote, when I schop me Into habite as an scheap, Fairie bifel me! Me-thought A ferly in a sesun." (“Somer Morwnynge”) What has Hollace learnt in her “Transcriptions of Time” so far? "I’m also learning the only thing that can lay a foundation for solace, for happiness, is not calculating its p-s-i perfectly before its concrete is poured. Then, the rest should come. The rest." (“Mère Adoptif”) This reminds us that Hollace M. Metzger is also an architect, creator of physical places that contain real lives with textures of words like the following: "Fervent northern winds rattle open chalet shutters latch-pinned with missing pinions into rusty, forged iron, secured with weighty corners and courtesy of retired hinges, pierced through a plasticized epidermis of matted foliage above seedy, saturated ground." (“Normandie”) There are leitmotifs that Hollace keeps returning to: "I want to make love to you at the same speed as the earth is moving." (“Time and Tide”) "They leave trails of springtime behind them, never returning on the same path to find home again." (“Dilution”) Hollace writes beautifully of the Parisian moment: "Ask me my name And I will tell you Where I am from. Ask me where I am from And I will tell you How I got to where I am. Ask me what I am doing And I will say, 'Enjoying today.'…" (“20 Questions”) "The Artiste at Montparnasse, with paint on his fingers, who wiped my tears and left color on my face." (“The Artiste at Montparnasse”) "I want to open my computer to see what time it is, but in this garden of leisure and senses it would be sacrilegious. I’m watching two young lovers kiss as if it’s their first… I’ve climbed to the fifth floor five times and back again at 3, rue Mirbel. I’m going on forty-eight hours of being awake. Well, maybe seventy-two, but who counts days anyway. This is Paris." (“Prose-ish in Paris”) "…The visible treble clef floating above the bass man’s hands, just in case you forget the time. Sound continues, but frames seem captured in low-resolution, randomly deciding when to stop or start again. The time it took to arrange it? A Parisian Minute." (“Still-Life”)< Less
There are no reviews for previous versions of this product

Product Details

MiDEA, New York
January 9, 2009
Hardcover (dust-jacket)
Interior Ink
Black & white
0.84 lbs.
Dimensions (inches)
6 wide x 9 tall
Product ID
Report This Content to Lulu >

Moderation of Questionable Content

Thank you for your interest in helping us moderate questionable content on Lulu. If you need assistance with an order or the publishing process, please contact our support team directly.

How does this content violate the Lulu Membership Agreement?