|Remnants of May 12, 2014 storm|
|Matt Lambert with 4-day old Carly Rose|
Paradise—not a place but a process—the intricate regeneration of hope and desire. How carefully Carly’s mother grew her, each morsel eaten nourishing the soil in which Carly’s life took root, one eyelash at a time. Nature makes this growing seem effortless. Green grass sprouts beneath a blanket of snow and we hurry past, rarely awed. We read a poem so fine it takes our breath away, yet we rarely contemplate the effort expended for each word to find its way onto the page.
What an anachronism, in this digital age, to find a hand-bound
book of poems like Ann Filemyr's GROWING PARADISE (LaNana Creek Press, Texas) —each stitch pulled taut by human hand, each illustration painted in
vibrant color, each word a seed, each seed a poem, each poem the pulsing poet,
|Growing Paradise by Ann Filemyr|
|LaNana Creek Press director Charles D. Jones|
Books such as these become literal works of art yet how easy it is to forget that the process itself is an art form. Easy to forget, also, that no matter how lonely and frightening the process of creating is, we never ever create alone. There is sunshine and rain and the grand turning of the seasons, all in cahoots, all dipping their sticky fingers into the great cauldron of creation.
|Big Horn Mountains, Wyoming|
|Fine press tradition of LaNana Creek Press|
Each of the 19 poems in Ann Filemyr's collection Growing Paradise begins with the image of a fruit and then ventures out into the larger world. “Peach" begins with these lines...
Near the cliff dwellings in Frijoles Canyon
where the Cochiti lived before Spaniards brought peaches
in the time before she knew what she wanted
water to blood to milk
for the fertile moon has already touched her
What is this incredible sweet flesh
This tenderness? This delight?
We make it ours
in the verb and tongue
of that doing, for she is now
bent to birth
breathing every shade of light
|Daughter-in-law Anna Lambert with Carly|
|Poet Ann Filemyr|