Books like Moon Crossing Bridge — picked by fans

This is a beautifully written book that immediately brought me into Helen’s world of grief and uncertainty.

Her decision to take on a stubborn goshawk named Mabel seems at first to unnecessarily complicate her struggle to cope with her father’s death.

As the author trains Mabel, the scenes become so compelling that I found myself flipping pages as if I were reading a thriller. Mabel’s stubbornness, beauty, and wild independence fly off the page.

I first met this book on the last visit Gary and I made to a beloved bookstore in Seattle. After he died, I remembered it and tracked it down. It is an accordion book, its folded pages nested in a sturdy box. It was made, Carson writes, as an epitaph for her brother.

Among the folds, we find ephemera evoking his memory, and hers: fragments of notes, torn photos, drawings, paintings, scribbles. Running through the pages—a portion appears on the left side of each spread—is Carson’s translation of a poem by the Latin poet Catullus, written after the death of his own brother. The result is an assemblage that testifies to the chaos of grief and the curious beauty it can hold.

Kevin Young traces the inextricable bonds of death and love in this poetry collection that encompasses the accidental death of his father and, in the thick of that loss, the birth of his son and the beginning of his own fatherhood.

I am drawn to how he writes about the repetitions and informal rituals of grief—the necessary ones involved in the immediate aftermath of loss, and the ongoing ones that ask for our attention again and again, becoming a doorway into what still waits for us. Young is wonderfully stubborn in keeping his eyes open to the searing awfulness of losing as well as to the breathtaking, complicated wonder of life that persists.

Long familiar to me, John O’Donohue’s books became a particular solace when grief arrived. I would recommend any of his books.

O’Donohue lived on the western coast of Ireland, and he had a distinctive wisdom about threshold spaces—those places between the life we have known and the one we cannot yet see—and a compassionate way of inviting us to receive the grace that comes as we stumble our way across those thresholds.

Eternal Echoes is one of my favorites among O’Donohue’s books. I am especially taken by his chapter about absence, where he acknowledges the deep ache of loss while also emphasizing that our losses are not utterly empty; they hold a hidden eternity that does not abandon us. I am both consoled and challenged by his assurance that grief is a mystery that knows its way.

Ah, Carver…where do I begin? This collection is packed with gems that, as Dylan sang, glow like burning coal. Carver’s poems make me want to drink too much, lament, get sober, and love so hard that my heart cracks open. These poems make me want to live a damn full life. Most of all, Carver makes me want to blow the shavings off my pencil and write.

This collection is a conversation with poetry and art itself; Carver invokes the pantheon from Balzac to Hemingway to Renoir. I want to join that conversation and write for dear life.

I love kisses, and this is a book full of them. I was reminded of Neruda’s first book, Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair.

This is a book about love and loss, good kisses, bad kisses, and even “Generic Kisses.” This is a small book, literally, a portable book I can take with me in my coat pocket or a purse and bring out to read whenever I need the kiss of a poem.

This novel evokes an extraordinary range of emotions. Skibell works wonders with folklore and history, turning out a tale of tales that is by turns shocking and horrifying, tender, and outrageously funny. The language is deceptively simple and beautiful. Consider this description from the murdered narrator, on returning to his plundered neighborhood after climbing out of a mass grave: “In front of every house were piles of vows and promises, all in broken pieces. How I could see such things, I cannot tell you.” The balance here—of imagination, grief, and lightness—is exquisite.

The magical tale, Music for Mister Moon, is about a little girl named Harriet, who likes to be called Hank. She loves nothing more than to play her cello, alone. When her parents suggest how wonderful it would be to play in a big orchestra someday, she retreats into her room playing her cello. When the owl hoots outside her window she loses her temper and throws a teacup. And so begins her imaginative journey that tickles the reader's imagination. On Hank’s adventure with Mr. Moon, they encounter kind and thoughtful animals with a profound understanding of acceptance and giving. Each time I read this book, I can almost hear the music of the cello float out the window, the crash of the teacup, the smell of the smoke that fills the little house. Harriet’s emotional journey comes full circle with a most satisfying ending. A must-read, over and… show more.

The title pretty much speaks for itself—I mean, who wouldn’t want to have their birthday party on the Moon? And what would it be like? This book makes the perfect birthday gift (or anytime gift!) for any child questioning what it’s like on the Moon. The reader discovers what it’s like to swing at a pinata in low gravity, make moon-angels, and discover what happens to candles and balloons in Moon’s atmosphere. There are tons of facts about space woven throughout the book, as well as a glossary of terms at the end.

Nothing will create an impact on my life's work as the original transformation scene from Sailor Moon. This scene inspired me to pursue my fashion schooling, and the pages of this art book are pure inspiration. Watching traditionally drawn dresses and beautiful characters always motivated me to push my creative boundaries and strive for perfection. Revisiting the ways of creating magical light effects and textures by using only watercolors and ink is crucial for any artist, especially one wanting to connect with manga.