Canadian

Stained With the Colors of Sunday Morning

Rayanna Haines' verse novel takes the reader from Italy in 1944 to the present day Canadian Prairies in the story of one woman's life.

Rayanna Haines

Isabella Caro, born in Florence during the de-occupation of Italy in the Second World War, is a woman shaped by the resilience of her country and a thirst for knowledge.

In this fictional novel-in-verse we take a journey through one woman's life, told from the perspective of three characters: Isabella, her daughter Alina and her granddaughter Georgia. Three voices weave through a lifetime in and out of harmony as they tell us a story of innocence, feminism, intellect, motherhood, immigration, understanding and loss. Ancient mythology is weaved through the poems and the character's voices ring with the echoes of the maiden, the mother and the crone.

This is the story of a feminist and scholar and the story of mothers and daughters that takes us from 1944 Italy to the the Canada's Prairies in 2014. We meet Isabella as a child and follow her story as she marries, suffers from postpartum depression, immigrates to Canada, struggles to connect with her teen daughter, takes on the care of her grandchild and finds peace in old love. In poems both blunt and confessional a woman's story is revealed, page by page. (From Inanna Publications)

Stained With the Colors of Sunday Morning is available in May 2018.

From the book

How to Tell Heart Stories — Georgia

Mia Nonna taught me how to fall in love. 
She taught me to tell heart stories.

My Grandmother's life was a song. 
Her music made men weep as she passed. 
Her story written in 10,000 steps 
on the streets of Firenze, floating naked 
in the Black Sea, painting her skin 
with the spices of Bombai, drinking 
red wine from the bottle in Paris.

Vero Amore, she would say, 
dances in the street in the evening air, 
forgives with the rise and fall of the moon.

Vero Amore, she would say,
are fingers covered in flour, a tattered apron, 
the kiss of cherries on your child's chin.

My Grandmother's hair hung to her waist. 
Grandfather would pause to inhale whenever 
she was close. Stand bewitched.

Even then, when their love had aged, 
his fingers would curl with the memory 
of getting lost in the scent. Her hair 
smelled like cinnamon and the coffee cake 
she baked every Sunday morning.

Adorare Vita Bambina she would say, 
as she kneaded the dough. 
This is love.


From Stained With the Colors of Sunday Morning by Rayanne Haines ©2018. Published by Inanna Publications.