Alex Andy Phuong earned his Bachelor of Arts in English from California State University—Los Angeles in 2015 while also serving as an editor for Statement Magazine. He currently writes articles and film reviews online.  Alex is an altruistic individual who enjoys volunteering and helping people practically every day.

​A Matter of Selection
Carol Smallwood
Poetic Matrix Press, 2018
paperback, 97 pp.
ISBN-10: 0998146986
$17
ttps://www.amazon.com/Matter-Selection-Carol-Smallwood/dp/0998146986/ref=sr_1_3?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1528411119&sr=1-3&keywords=carol+smallwood
 
 
 
Michigan writer, Carol Smallwood is currently one of the most prolific authors writing today. Credited with numerous books, https://www.amazon.com/s/ref=sr_st_date-desc-rank?keywords=carol+smallwood&fst=p90x%3A1&rh=n%3A283155%2Ck%3Acarol+smallwood&qid=1487835814&sort=date-desc-rank she  continues to publish poetry on a wide variety of topics.  She has also received acclaim for her artistic merit and her ability to write elegantly and eloquently while also establishing her own sense of poetic style.  Her poetry resonates with readers because it dares to ask profound and philosophical questions without delivering easy answers.  For example, her poetry collection entitled In Hubble's Shadow explores the humbleness of mankind within the vastness of the universe.  Smallwood's poetry is very articulate because of its precise use of language and very simple, but also very powerful, ideas.  It is no surprise, then, that her newest poetry collection would continue that same tradition of very deep and moving words that established her as a wonderful poet.  Carol Smallwood's A Matter of Selection is a fantastic new poetry collection that features poems that remind readers about the humility associated with being natural human beings of all people while also celebrating the common humanity that unites all people.
Smallwood’s collection begins with a prologue about the power of choice.  Sometimes choices are hard to make because of the circumstances that can make life difficult.  There is also the fundamental fear about making the wrong choice.  Even with such hardship, Smallwood's poetry reveals the basic truth that sometimes things happen for a reason.  Some people might believe in destiny or fate.  Others would have a more humanistic outlook on life, and argue that choices really are based upon the decisions people make.  In spite of such conflicting philosophies about how much people can do in their lives, one basic fact is clear throughout this poetry collection.  Everyone in society really does all co-exist together on this planet called Earth, which is literally and metaphorically the only home of all people.  Carol Smallwood makes it clear that selections can be difficult to make, but it would also be comforting to know that new choices and opportunities are always coming up as long as people are still alive.  Therefore, there is an optimistic tone to the writing that can reassure readers that both bad times and good times must happen in order to make life what it truly is.
A Matter of Selection delves deeply into what it means to be alive while poetically examining the choices that people make.  Smallwood divides this poetry collection into four main sections while also including a preface, a prologue, and an epilogue.  The four sections are entitled, “Nature,” “Moments in Time,” “The Domestic” and “Speculations,” all of which deal with common themes in creative writing that relate to life itself.  The poem “Safety of Predictability,” found in “Moments in Time,” is a neatly organized poem that explores what life would be like if it consisted of a very simple routine.  One of the best lines in this poem is, “Sleeplessness encourages losing civility, a definite increase in irritability” (3).  The first line of this poem is, “A lack of sleep encourages awareness in the safety of predictability” (1), which also serves as the concluding line as well.  This simple, yet profound, poem consists of twelve lines with three stanzas that are four lines each.  The organization of this poem suggests that a simple and ordinary life is the most ideal life possible.  Indeed, such a powerful truth can make life so much easier if people did not over-complicate their lives with issues that would only hinder their way of living.  Therefore, Carol Smallwood suggests that people must enjoy their “moments in time” just because the greatest moment in time is the present moment, which truly is the greatest present of all in so many ways.
Carol Smallwood’s poetry also appears to make allusions to other famous written works.  For example, there is a poem in the “Speculations” section called “Prufrock Napkins,” which might be a reference to the famous poem “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,” and both poems relate to that iconic character from T.S. Eliot.  Interestingly, Smallwood has a similar poem within In Hubble's Shadow entitled, “A Prufrock Measurement” that also relates that same character.  It is clear that poetry from different writers have influenced Smallwood to create original works of art using her own skills as a poetess.
Carol Smallwood also establishes the fact that she is a woman capable of expressing independent thought while also honoring the writing of women who came before her.  That is because another poem within that same section entitled, “A Room of My Own” also appears to allude to the famous essay A Room of One's Own by Virginia Woolf.  Carol Smallwood is definitely a great writer in her own right while also paying respects to other writers, especially women who had to challenge the status quo in order to prove that women can just be as creative as their male counterparts.  It is a pleasure to know that Carol Smallwood is such a brilliant writer because of her way to explore profound themes about humanity while also writing about such topics with grace and elegance.  Therefore, Carol Smallwood is an established writer in her own right.
A Matter of Selection is a special poetry collection because it combines the historical context and biological concepts associated with Charles Darwin and his famous “natural selection” theory, but Carol Smallwood masterfully blends scientific concepts with creative writing to form stylized poems that captivate readers.  A special feature of Carol Smallwood's writing is her ability to merge scientific topics with common poetic themes.  Such talent makes Smallwood a masterful writer who demonstrates the fundamental fact that interconnections form bonds between everything within the universe.  Smallwood might have mentioned in her prologue that some choices are good and some are not, but hopefully readers will make the choice to enjoy her poetry so that they could learn more about what it means to be human.  All that exists really is just a matter of selection because of the basic fact that choices determine character in a very diverse world.

Lois Greene Stone, writer and poet, has been syndicated worldwide. Poetry and personal essays have been included in hard & softcover book anthologies.  Collections of her personal items/ photos/ memorabilia are in major museums including twelve different divisions of The Smithsonian.  The Smithsonian selected her photo to represent all teens from a specific decade.

 
            "When did you start being grown-up, Grandma?"  Jennifer asked me after her breath blew out birthday candles.
             I was surprised at such a question from an eight year old.
            "I'm pretty grown up now, Grandma, aren't I?"  Her blue eyes stared at my face insisting on a response.
            "You sure are."  I searched my memory for the real answer.  "It wasn't a physical thing."  I paused wondering if she were ready to hear my personal interpretation of 'grown-up'.  "Guess it was when I first really stopped thinking about myself, noticed my older sister was a person and, without seeking praise, I gave something up for her."
            "What thing could you do that made you grown up?"
            Feeling somewhat self-conscious sharing a piece of my past at a family birthday table, I closed my eyes viewing a long-ago scene, then began my story:
            A school poster noted TRYOUTS for Good News, a musical, needs actors, singers, dancers.  Auditions in high school auditorium, 3:30 PM, Tuesday.
            I took singing, dancing, piano lessons, and imagined myself the star kicking my legs to the Charleston feeling a fringed skirt flutter around my fourteen year old legs.
            Tryouts were into the second half-hour when I entered a somewhat darkened auditorium;  I was delayed because of a Sports' Gym meeting.
            I stayed in the back, moved into a wooden seat.  I lowered the adjacent seat from its upright position, then dropped my purse and books.  Walking onstage was my older sister, Carole, who I believed had no ability to do anything except boss me around.
            She read with a pleasing and believable voice.  All inflections were in the right place.  "Would you like me to sing a little from one of the songs?"  Carole looked out from the lit stage.
            "Nice reading," the teacher remarked, "and, yes.  Why don't you."
            In a torch-singer's style, Carole began one of the show's ballads.
            I sat motionless.  Carole could sing.  Carole could act.  My obnoxious, overweight, nail-biting sister, who became a dictator when Mom and Dad couldn't see it, who didn't like school or sports, didn't have lots of friends or dates, actually had "talent".   I whispered to myself, "talent." 
            "Thank you, Carole.  Nicely done.  Next?"
            Carole left the stage.  I ducked pretending to find something that had dropped on the floor;  I stayed crouched in that position in case she walked out via the aisle I was sitting near.  I noticed chewing gum under the seats.  I could hear the next tryout's reading;  it was stilted.
            "Thanks, Emily.  Next?"
            I sat up.  In the darkness, I wondered if my parents knew Carole could sing and act;  my father always said his girls were talented.  "But she really is, Dad," I mumbled to myself. "Whod've believed it." 
            "Skinny sorority sisters tryout next."  The teacher's voice echoed in the almost empty theatre.  "Line up onstage in three minutes.  All.  Take a seat.  Hand me your name and other pertinent data as you get up to read."
            "That's me," I muttered.  I knew I, too, could be natural as an actress and performer.  In summer camp productions, I'd been both Snow White wearing a black wig, and The Little Prince wearing a boy's wig.  "But..."  I talked to myself as I gathered books and put the purse strap over my right shoulder, "if Carole gets a part, she shouldn't have me in the show, too, and if I get a part and not her she'd feel rotten.  I'm younger.  I've time.  I got all that good stuff people see;  I guess I hope she has her own day."  Yet a part of me wondered why I gave up the tryouts.
            The hallways were empty and seemed wide without people walking in two directions.  I took long strides towards the main entrance of the building;  my soft-soled shoes made no sound on the linoleum tiles.
            "You walking home, like always?"  Carole happened to be by the door as I was leaving.  "I take the bus."
             Her eyes met mine.  The aqua color was pretty;  first time I ever really noticed.  She moved her purse to her fleshy shoulder but the strap slipped.
            How could I let her know I'd seen her talented performance, and she would most certainly get a role in Good News, if I couldn't even tell her that her eyes' color was remarkable?            
            Suddenly wanting to actually spend some real time with her, yet still wondering how it all came about, I asked,  "Have you change for fare as my bus pass, as usual, is at home?"
            Jennifer touched my arm as my story ended.  She looked at me, and, with quiet awareness said, "Growing up isn't just getting taller, Grandma, is it?" 
            I felt flushed.  My daughter and her family had been quiet during my reminiscence.  Now she asked, "Did Carole find out you saw the rehearsal?"
            "No," I replied, facing the party paper plate.  "I never told her."  I slowly looked up, still feeling embarrassed about my inability to ever reveal this incident to my sister, "Carole did get the part and was really perfect.  And we started doing more together but didn't have an adult relationship until we were both married."
            "You're still growing-up, aren't you, Grandma?"  Jennifer blurted out this sentence.
            "I guess it isn't just getting taller.  You're pretty sharp for an eight year old."  I realized I could still share this with my sister, before time runs out.  "Slice me a piece of cake.  After that, I've a long-distance phone call to make."  I touched Jennifer's small arm, and gently squeezed it with thanks.
 
November ©1998 Canadian Messenger of the Sacred Heart
reprinted June 24, 2011 The Jewish Press©
 

 ​ 
            It was green. Dark green. And it was old. Great-grandmother old.
I was in 9th grade, and I needed a bowl to display my prize winning raspberries and crème. I was determined to get an ‘A’ in Home Economics. For that, I would need the old green bowl.
            I was hesitant to ask mother because I knew how old the bowl was, and how much it meant to her. But a picture in my head, of that ‘A’ on my grade sheet, helped fend off any fear I may have had. Mother paused, looked up from her ironing, the right corner of her lip was higher than the left, and her left eye brow was higher than the right. I always wondered how she could make her face look like that.
            She wasn’t saying anything, so I asked again, “Momma, can I take the green bowl for a project at school?” I was afraid but prepared. I had a picture of the dessert, beautiful crème pudding with the reddest raspberries topping it, and held it up for her to see. “I’m going to make this for a grade in Mrs. Becker’s class. See, in the picture, it’s a green bowl. See how pretty it is?”
            She took the picture, and held it out at arm’s length, squinting, humming.
“Hmmm, that is very pretty.” Now she looked at me. “Do you promise to take care of the bowl, make sure it doesn’t get broken? It’s very old, you know. An heirloom. Irreplaceable.”
            “I will Momma. I promise I’ll take care of the bowl. I’ll guard it with my life,” I answered.
            “Okay, then, but take it to school in the box. To keep it safe.”
            I was ecstatic. I ran to the attic in search of the box. There it was in the far corner. I lifted the lid. The bowl was radiant. I held it up to the light from the high window, and smiled at how it sparkled. Cut glass, sharp edges. I found an old blanket, wrapped it up tight, and put it back in the box. Wrapped it to keep it safe.
            The next day I guarded that bowl with my life. I was ever so careful on the bus, sat alone, last one off, no one to bump into me. I stepped carefully all the way to my locker, holding the box close to my belly. I spun the combination to open the door, and placed the green bowl carefully on the floor of the locker, and quickly closed the door.
            My second class of the day was Home Ec, and I was full of anticipation and apprehension. I wanted the ‘A’. I made the raspberries and crème, and it was sensational, the best yet. The teacher was very proud of me. I rejoiced, unable to contain my personal satisfaction. The raspberry crème tasted as wonderful as it looked, beautiful, yellow and red against the dark green bowl.
I got the ‘A’.
            After everyone had sampled the tasty treat, I scraped the last of it out of the bowl and took it over to the sink to wash it. Even without the raspberry crème inside, it was beautiful. Sparkling under the classroom lights. The teacher suggested that I take it back to my locker, keep it safe there until it was time to go home. To go now, before the bell rang, while the halls were empty, no one to bump into me. Wrap it in the blanket, put it back in the box.
            I stepped out of the classroom with the green bowl in my hands. It was quiet in the big empty hallway. I stopped at the fountain to get a drink then began making my way to my locker. Pictures of the ‘A’ on my grade sheet danced through my thoughts… then my foot slipped on the shiny tile, and the bowl was sailing through the air. I watched it, all shiny and green, in the air, no sound, except for the sucking in of my breath. No sound. Then crash… green shards of glass flew everywhere, making tinkling sounds as they landed and skidded, a million pieces of green glass kaleidoscoped on the hallway floor.
            Pictures of a desert where there were no people quickly replaced the picture of the ‘A’ in my mind. Now I was thinking—how would I live there? Would it be too hot in the desert? Would I be able to find enough water to drink? I knew in my heart, after this, I couldn’t go back home. The punishment I had in mind was just too great, the pain in my mother’s eyes. Another place? A mountain? Maybe some farmer would take me in. Then the tears came as the truth of it hit me, seized my heart with its knuckle busting grip. I had broken my promise to keep the bowl safe. I and I alone, broke the bowl.
            The teacher stuck her head out of the classroom door, her face white, not as white as mine, but white enough. Color completely gone as she groped for words that would make sense. Her mouth was moving, but no words came. We seemed to be trapped in slow motion, though my heart was thundering in my chest. Tears were streaming from my eyes. My eyes mimicking my terrified heart.
            “Oh honey, what happened?” Mrs. Becker asked. “Did someone bump you?”
            I shook my head, still in slow motion. I pointed to the floor, half-heartedly, and then let my hands fall to my side. I hung my head, trying to hide the whiteness of my face, though I could feel the blood as it pumped into my cheeks, making them red. I must look like a clown I thought. But I did not feel happy like a clown. No, I did not feel happy at all.
            I took the green cut glass bowl home. In a brown paper bag. Making broken glass sounds whenever I moved it. There was no where else to go but home. Nowhere to hide. The dry, empty desert crept into the edge of my thinking, then quickly left.
            At home, I stood outside the door to our house. Like a stranger. Wondering if I should ring the door bell, to summon my mother so I could tell her that I had broken the green bowl. I reached out my hand, and suddenly the door opened. It was mother.
            “Hi honey, are you home already?” she said with her smile. “I worried about you all day, about your raspberries and crème. I thought you were going to take the old green bowl. I found it in the attic after you left. I almost called the school to tell you. I hope you got your ‘A’,” she paused for a second, looking at me.
            “Honey, are you okay?” she asked then. The glass in the bag tinkled as tears of happiness spilled from my eyes. I had taken the wrong bowl.
 
                                                               The End