Phillip Martin

This tale is a love story. A very wise man, the paramount chief, meets one wise woman. She turns his life upside-down in the best kind of way, as you would expect in a love story. You'll have to decide which one of them is the wisest. I love a good folktale and my journey with them began in Liberia where I gathered this tale as a Peace Corps Volunteer. It was so long ago and feels like another lifetime. It is dedicated to my best friend Daniel and his wife Theresa. From then unto now, Daniel has given me a friendship that spans time and distance. During my Peace Corps days, I'm told I once met Theresa, but I don't remember it. I am just going to have to believe her. Two weeks after I left Liberia, the country fell into a civil war that lasted for fourteen years. One of the worst affected locations was my Peace Corps hometown, Zwedru. It was the region of the ousted president and therefore a target. Zwedru became a deserted ghost town for seven years. For part of the time during the war, Daniel and Theresa fled to the Ivory Coast. It wasn't safe there either. They eventually fled back into Liberia and settled into Daniel's home village of Tugbaken. It's my most favorite place in the whole country. I revisited Liberia when the United States Embassy brought me back to paint murals with Ebola survivors. On that trip, I finally located my friend again. I wasn't even sure if Daniel was alive. I'd not heard from him for a couple decades. But, we reconnected and I visited Daniel and Theresa in Tugbaken. Since then, we've been able to connect much more frequently. I can't wait for them to read this Liberian love story because their story is the best real-life love story I ever saw in Liberia.

One day I had a talk with a friend from my long ago college days. He asked me, "Why don't you write your own books? I know you can write well and I've seen your art." It was the final push I needed to finally write and illustrate my first book. Thanks for the advice, Tommy. The story takes place in two locations that mirror each other -- a classroom on earth and another in heaven. In both places, a student named Arilla strives to be the best that she can be. Like all of us, there have been times when you wanted to be selected and cried out, "Pick me " We all know how to do that. But, Arilla thought about the process every time she wasn't selected, and made the necessary changes. Eventually, she was selected for the most perfect of all jobs. This story about Arilla is inspired by my grandmother, the first artist in my family tree. Grandma couldn't draw like me, but she was very crafty. Her Christmas presents were always homemade. She made mittens, ornaments, slippers, and a whole lot more for each of her grandchildren. If you were very lucky, you might get a sweater, scarf, or cap. And, each grandchild received a quilt. It was entirely hand-sewn. Anything else was considered cheating. I know it's a grandmother's job to have a lasting impact on the lives of her grandchildren. My grandma certainly succeeded in that. She had a positive influence on each and every person she met. This one's for you, Grandma

Some of my earliest memories on Sunday mornings were in my grandmother's Children's Church Services. And, it wasn't just me She taught this class for decades. I have no idea how many lives she touched. Long before the Internet with resources at your fingertips, Grandma created a lot of her own materials. I most remember her ABCs Bible verses. Except, it was a long time ago. I didn't remember all the verses. To create this book, I relied on my memory, asked my cousins, reviewed a list my mother wrote, and made a few personal changes when other verses inspired some illustrations. Of course, Grandma only used the King James Version of the Bible. I mostly used the New King James Version. I hope that my grandma doesn't mind.

I enjoyed rewriting this tale and setting it to rhyme, but I was not sure if it would work as a children's book. I mean, the teacher dies on page one and so many characters in the book get beaten up by Goso's students. However, there is so much to talk about. What happens when people jump to conclusions without all the facts? The story expanded, and chaos continued, until the truth was finally revealed. There are lessons to be discussed and learned. Most people who read this tale first ask me, "What's a calabash?" I was introduced to this gourd when I was a Peace Corps Volunteer in Liberia. Since this tale is from Tanzania, it appears the gourd has spread across the continent. The calabash was one of the world's first cultivated plants that was not used as a food source. Dried calabash gourds were used as containers. In Liberia, they were also used as musical instruments and drinking glasses. And now, you know. Tanzania has long been my favorite tourist destination in Africa. It has the Serengeti Park and Ngorongoro Crater, Mt. Kilimanjaro, the Maasai people, as well as the island of Zanzibar. Who can compete with that? When I visited Stonetown, in Zanzibar, I splurged to stay at the Hotel International, well beyond my usual budget. It was once the home of a wealthy Arab merchant. The four-story building oozed with character, history, and well-worn age. The host at the desk was a delightful guy named Mudi. I asked Mudi where I could find a local dish with cassava leaves and coconut milk called "kisambo". Mudi didn't miss a beat and replied, "At my home." Of course, I accepted and the following day we climbed into a mini bus called a "matato" and headed home for a delicious experience on the Spice Island. I am continually surprised by the kindness of strangers along my path. Mudi's mother and her girlfriends prepared a feast with a good dose of cinnamon and cardamom. I gathered recipes, which thrilled the women. The book is dedicated to Mudi and his wonderful family who gave Zanzibar such a special place in my heart.

While teaching at schools overseas for twenty years, Burma was one of my most favorite destinations. After arriving in Asia, Burma was my first destination. It's where I discovered lacquerware, giraffe women, Thanaka, got the very worst haircut of my life, and discovered a delightful "Cinderella" story. I first went to Burma in the early 90s just after it opened to the West. The Burmese people were very friendly and so hungry for anything from the outside world. I traded every stitch of clothing not on my back for lacquerware and other treasures. I have never had that kind of experience anywhere else. My best treasure was a huge vase, as wide as my outstretched arms in a circle. The shopkeeper said it was made by his father, who had recently died. I said he couldn't sell it; he had to save this heirloom But, the man wanted to sell it to me. I bought the vase for five dollars and a backpack. He knew I would treasure it. He also knew I would send him photographs of the vase. (Of course, I did.) My favorite place in Burma is Bagan, a UNESCO Heritage Site stuffed full of historic pagodas of enormous size. It is where you get your lacquerware while in Burma. There weren't many tourists in the area when I visited. So, while I climbed around the pagodas (taking limited photos in the days of film photography), I was easily discovered by a charming kid, about eight years old, who wanted to hone his English skills. Aung Aung was delightful. He had to meet many, many people in Bagan. I was just one among the crowds. But, for my travel experience, he was a highlight in Bagan. I even looked him up again four years later. When I left Bagan, Aung Aung and his mother met me at the hotel to send me off. They presented me a golden lacquerware vase that I have treasured ever since. I never heard from him after that. And, I always wondered what happened to this kid. Decades later, in a world the with Internet, I located my long-lost friend. I'm very pleased to dedicate this book to Aung Aung.

From NO POETRY LIKE WAR At dusk come hydras from the minaretsEach static-stitched and staggering from its lairEach ululating voice a voice begetsCrackling mournfully through the valley air...We'll go into your cage and feed your wars.We were sent by God and by God takenHis anointed and his godforsaken.A captivating, visceral and uncompromising description of America's longest war...Can any war that lasts this long end in defeat? Poet Phillip Martin gives us a beautiful, tragic, and precise depiction of the warfighters' experience; an inexplicable feeling of hitting the highest of highs almost simultaneously with the lowest of lows in an austere and unforgiving environment. Martin's words resonate and transport the reader not only to the other side of the world, taking the reader into the beauty and horror of war-torn Afghanistan, but also into the heart of our own American military subculture and caste. A modern-day warrior poet, Martin has captured something truly exceptional in this collection.NO POETRY LIKE WAR - Paperback Edition is text only. For the edition with photographs accompanying the text please see the Kindle/ebook version. An illustrated print edition is not currently available.

Spider is a crafty guy in stories across Africa. Sometimes, he plays tricks on people and gets away with it. Sometimes, the tricks backfire and there is a lesson to be learned. It this particular tale, Spider's goal is to get his new market pig across the creek and to his home. It's a task easier said than done. The first spider stories that I gathered were when I served as a Peace Corps Volunteer in Liberia. At the time, I never thought about the very same stories coming on to the New World with slaves from Africa. Of course, that happened. This tale was inspired by a trip to Jamaica that was meant to be. My mural project was delayed several times, but it just had to happen. Spider tales brought from Africa to the New World have a special place in my heart. And, I've learned that people of all ages enjoy a good story. When I painted two murals with the United States Embassy in Jamaica, I had the very good fortune of being teamed up with Greg Bailey, a Jamaican artist and professor from the Edna Manley College of the Visual and Performing Arts in Kingston. Greg taught a muraling class at the college. I came to share with his students how my murals have taken me around the world. During that session, I told this Jamaican tale with his class as well as a spider story from my days in Africa. It appears that my stories are as successful with college students as they are with elementary students. Perhaps it's how I tell them? Afterwards, the college art students joined Greg and me in painting two community murals in the Kingston area. It was a wonderful introduction to a tropical island that I had somehow missed in all of my world travels. And, when I think of Jamaica, I have the warmest feelings to accompany that tropical sunshine.

This tale begins when a disaster befalls a guinea fowl who wandered away from her nest, ever so briefly. That's enough information for you to guess what happened. But, the guinea fowl was heartbroken. That set into motion a "fowl chain of events". And, it's also set to rhyme. I love to do that, and I think it makes this story such a fun read. I was introduced to so many guinea fowls while I was in Africa. It was not like I really wanted to meet them. Those birds made their presence known very early in the morning. Every morning. It was my observation that not many people slept in while I was in Africa. People who don't have electricity (and I didn't while I was a Peace Corps Volunteer), frequently go to bed when it gets dark. That's what I did. I was very well rested for those two years in Liberia. However, if you go to bed early, some people are then ready to also get up early in the morning. Not me. I had no desire to get up at five or six o'clock when it was still dark outside. But, the guinea fowls cried out and the roosters crowed each morning. And then, my neighbors also got up and started their daily activities. Maybe I just didn't have good luck with my neighbors? It was my experience that nobody in my neighborhood thought it was important to be quiet so the Peace Corps Volunteer could sleep in a little later. Honestly, I must admit that I can be very stubborn. In spite of all the noise, I always stayed in bed. I still don't like to get up before the sun.