by Iris Litt
30 pages 25 poems
Publisher: Finishing Line Press
To Order: https://finishinglinepress.com/product_info.php?products_id=2699
Iris Litt writes poems filled with the big and busy heart of life.
She's a skilled observer, confidently narrating the most ordinary
moments into beautifully layered, musical occasions. In Snowbird,
she's turned her capable lens on the annual rite of wintering in
Florida: poems dip a toe into a sea of love, loss, grief, joy.
Fronded with a shimmering sense of place, deftly peppered with
the daily conundrums and stuff of daily life, these feel like the
culmination of a great intelligence who took herself for a gorgeous,
fruitful swim. This is a collection to be picked up and read and
read again, like a good friend you can always count on to surprise
you in the best ways, which makes perfect sense. Smart, heartfelt,
musical, witty, Litt is a pleasure to read.
‐Jana Martin, fiction and non-fiction author
The simple beauty of persistence flows through Iris Litt's poetry.
Nature becomes for her both in the sun of the South and the snow
of the North a nourishing phenomenon. Bayous, river streams, the
cold mountain facing her home, and even the splintering wood floor
and unpicked-up garbage provide a gratitude for life. Her book is
a lyric testament to the salvation of little things.
‐Martin Tucker, poet and literary critic
These poems carry us, easily, eloquently, wisely, to and from the
high mountains to the sandy shores. Ms. Litt has written a beautiful
book of poems filled with the spirit of place and the ways it affects
‐Phillip X Levine, president of the Woodstock Poetry Society
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Iris Litt is the author of two previous books of poems, What I wanted to Say
and Word Love. Her North is the Catskill Mountains and her
South is Anna Maria Island, Florida, in the Gulf of Mexico.
FROM THE BOOK:
The River Remembers
(After Hurricane Sandy) by Iris Litt
I remember my girth
my enormous freedom
the bare feet
along my shore
and when that trail
became Greenwich Street
and the settlement Greenwich Village
and the feet wore boots
and the ones who wore boots
dumped everything into me
and named it landfill
though it should have been riverfill
and on it, on me, they built
their red brick rowhouses
I scrunched my broad shoulders
shrugged it off you might say
and stayed within my banks.
Now they're saying that I flooded
wherever there was landfill.
Yes, I did.
When the hurricane came
I made my move, moved instantly back
into my domain,
took back what was mine.
Let them think that the river forgets.
I'll do it again
but I mean no harm.
I am only reclaiming my own.