I’ve spent a lot of time in Eastern Europe. I’ve long been fascinated with the gypsies and their wild and nomadic ways, living as though in some parallel universe to everyone else. They’re held so separate, often discriminated against or ignored. For me, I often think it’s as if their passionate and colorful lifestyle is an attempt to wring any pleasure they can obtain from an otherwise difficult and dreary life. Last time I was overseas, I mourned the loss of the gypsies who left my favorite city in droves. I hardly saw any at all. It didn’t seem right, and I for one missed the distinct and vivid cultural flavor they gave the city streets.

Károly Bari is a Hungarian poet whose gypsy blood flows through every poem in his collection Winter Diary. His transient upbringing permeates every page, giving the reader a taste of the love and fear of nature when you’ve grown up under the sky, playing by the rules of the unforgiving elements. Each poem sees nature as a living, breathing thing that constantly shifts and moves; Bari’s nature is not the warm and embracing Mother Earth, but rather a phantom that gives and takes without warning. His writing sweeps you into the feeling of a dark Gothic fairy tale.

Accompanying Bari’s poetry are colorful plates of his artwork, which merge nature and human together, further building a sense of the Old World ancient tale. Throughout the book, readers will notice the constant intertwining of life and death, blazing color and darkness of night.

Once again we have a book of poetry meticulously designed by the publisher, in this case Mercury House. This book is special – only 500 in print, each book hand numbered. Even the paper stock is something you’ll run your fingers over and appreciate. Mercury House tells me they don’t have a lot of these left, so if you’re interested visit their site and order a copy. Poetry lovers will want to keep this one in a special place – in their hearts and on their bookshelves.

“Herds of whitewashed houses graze by the roadside
and nibble at stars with window teeth.”
(page 20, Night.)

“My gypsy village, with its starving smoke
crumbling walls, wind-ripped roofs
wrapped in trouble up to here,
dangled its raw poverty into the world.”
(page 33, Suffering Set Me on the Road)