Fluent in Rivers

by Kathleen Brewin Lewis

In this lyrical chapbook of poetry, Kathleen Brewin Lewis writes of a hunger to know and connect with the natural environment, to “crack the botanic bones of this evergreen world, pry ripe marrow.” Her subject matter includes moths, hawks, herons, sumac, daylilies, brown trout and brown pelicans, blue crabs, coyotes, camellias, sunrises and sunsets. Whether writing about growing up in coastal Georgia or fly-fishing in Utah, shucking corn or pruning trees, Lewis is mindful of the beauty around her and feels the pull and tug of the tide of memory. Fluent in Rivers is rich in language and longing.

Genres: Poetry

42 pages, Paperback

First published July 26, 2014

Reviews

[Jason · Rating 5 out of 5]

Lewis has an eye for spotting beauty in nature and then putting those sights into words that help the reader see that beauty too. Sometimes all it takes is one line and you can almost see the Heron leaping out of the pages into flight. There are poems about her life, learning to fly-fish, getting a bite and having a moment with the fish before releasing it back into the river.

Most of these poems have some connection to a river or it’s surrounding area, my favourite in the collection is probably the only where you don’t get a sense of the river, it is the most heart-breaking in the collection, Landscape with River Birch, anybody who has seen a tree being brutally cut at the wrong time of the year or just cut badly will feel where Lewis is with this one, the last line is stunning and the tree still feeling magnificent even though it is hurting.

Any fans of nature writing should check this book out, a fine collection leaving you wanting more.

Blog review: https://felcherman.wordpress.com/2021...

[FutureCycle Press · Rating 5 out of 5]

We are the publisher, so all of our authors get five stars from us. Excerpts:


AUBADE IN A TIME OF RAIN

All night it fell,
falls still, and so

there will be no blushing
by the sky this morning,

no wisps of young light
to slip through the shutters,

coax our eyes open, and yet
you wake,

as if it were any other day,
stir, turn toward me

amid the gray thrumming
to tender the embrace

that comes, I now know,
in rain or shine.


LANDSCAPE WITH RIVER BIRCH

There is no river here,
just a gunite swimming pool.
You were planted for your bark,
crispy curls of taupe, cinnamon, cream.
But you grew too tall, forked over the roof,
cast the climbing roses into shade.

He resolved to remove your offending limb,
stanch the shower of leaves
that threatened to clog the gutter,
allow more sun to fall
on his odorless buds.

I bought him a book about pruning,
told him it mattered how and when
a tree was cut. He didn’t need a book,
was mad to use his ladder and saw,
wouldn’t wait for summer
when your sap would slow.
He pulled the saw teeth back and forth
until he severed one of your arms.

The pruning book warned
that river birches are bleeders,
shouldn’t be cut in spring
when their juices freely flow. For days

you’ve been weeping without ceasing,
sap pooling on the driveway, a little lake.
The drops spatter when they land.

I stand in the drip,
look up at your wound,
let the tears fall on my face.