Snir Peleg’s World of Books

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I don’t always know which poetry book to choose from the ones waiting to be read.

Sometimes it’s a poet I already know, sometimes an intriguing cover, and sometimes a title that stirs my thoughts.

In this case, the combination of the cover illustration together with the unusual and thought-provoking title made me pause and feel compelled to explore the poetry inside.

The cover depicts a rag doll standing on its head, gazing from the ground up into the empty space above. On the right hangs a thread, from which a cloth bag shaped like a heart is suspended. The line work is simple, almost childlike, yet something about it generates a painful sense of disconnection. Anyone who moves from the cover into the pages will discover that this is not merely a feeling of alienation, but a collection of poems dealing with psychological struggle, bodily memory, grief, repair—and also a cautious glance outward from a very inner room.

The poems themselves move like an emotional process that does not rush to tie up loose ends. This is not sophisticated or mannered poetry. It is an attempt to stay with the pain, to write it from within. Ron Geva succeeds in capturing what happens not by telling a story, but by seizing moments from a long internal process—sometimes agonizing, sometimes life-saving. At times, there is a slight sense of embarrassment in the face of such emotional directness. But as one moves further into the book, credibility is built. Trust is built. There are peaks of exposure here that carry rare courage.

I am not a poetry critic, nor do I pretend to be. I read experience. And from my experience, this is a poetry book that demands a quiet entry and a willingness to remain with the unresolved. Not everyone will want to—or be able to—do that. But those who do will encounter an emotional diary whose power is hard to deny: writing that seeks not only to process pain, but to hold moments of truth. Perhaps even to hold a hand.