When Dobreer comes to the poetry party, she brings her gypsy wagon with her, her vardo, lovingly carved from a life of ???lan. Dobreer wraps her lyric scarves around the reader's psyche where one is drawn into the dance. And this dance is never stilted or predictable. It only asks the reader to meet its rhythms, the rock and sway, the tango-laced eroticism that threads Forbidden Plums. She works an almost cerebral mysticism into the lines as she tightropes our desires and reminds us that there is sustenance in longing. ...
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When Dobreer comes to the poetry party, she brings her gypsy wagon with her, her vardo, lovingly carved from a life of ???lan. Dobreer wraps her lyric scarves around the reader's psyche where one is drawn into the dance. And this dance is never stilted or predictable. It only asks the reader to meet its rhythms, the rock and sway, the tango-laced eroticism that threads Forbidden Plums. She works an almost cerebral mysticism into the lines as she tightropes our desires and reminds us that there is sustenance in longing. Like the "one bright flower in a crib of soft mud, like a solitary cloud wisping for miracles". -Lois P. Jones, author of Night Ladder
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