Creatures Who Smell the Wind: Poems

By Linda Levitz

These poems are full of danger (of knives, of boiling water) and attraction (to honey, to the insides of flowers). Food is important: oysters, mushrooms, roots. Family is important, with dreamlike childhood recollections and collected lore, the presence of the past (parents, grandparents), and the recurring appearance of the poet's lively granddaughter, Ella. The poet draws on culture, too: myths (selkies), Americana (Fiesta ware), Native American lore, not to mention painters (Hopper, Cross, Hiroshige, Hokusai) and a number of poets and writers. Especially effective are the narrative poems, including stories inspired by paintings, by the Garden of Eden, by the assassination of Julius Caesar.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Daniel & Daniel Publishers
• Release date: Mar 4, 2015
• ISBN: 9781564747600

Book preview

Belief

Inside

Alone in the Fields

Every day I come to visit

lilies and marsh grass near the stream.

I lie at the edge, slow down my heartbeat,

still as a hunted animal—the only sound,

my slow hiss of breath

Mallards paddle close to me, uncertain.

I signal them to approach and they reward

me with their indifference.

As they pass, drops fall from slick feathers

on my hand

Deer browse on low-hanging

leaves. I’m upwind, so silent

they see me without alarm

I need to reach my animal self,

hair, heartbeat, hide,

become what I once was,

a creature who smells the wind,

the spring clouds

Danger

Knives, he chants, "I sharpen knives,

scissors, saws and cutting blades"—

We hide behind Ma’s apron

The wheel turns, whetstone whines,

steel sparks dazzle

His strong arm brushes Ma’s with our knives

Cleavers, dicers,

sewing shears transformed

We hide behind Ma’s apron

Our new knives slice tomatoes thin

as red leaves, chicken skin from meat

One turn of the wrist

His blue eyes sharp as swords

gleaming danger everywhere

We hide behind Ma’s apron

I’ve Been Cold a Long Time

I descend into my winter, look back

at raw clouds pressing down

Rickety cellar stairs—root vegetables

in musty bins—onions, parsnips,

white potatoes for stew

To collect them

I rub my chapped hands

on the willow basket,

pick only blind potatoes,

sniff Valdosta onions, strip

their paper skins, heave off

the cover of mushroom flats

Yesterday, dank earth, tonight

a hundred, white, spotted caps

sprouted from mulch for our supper

I snap twenty off their stems,

odor of soil, of dank winter