|
Praise for Perch
The gorgeously organic poems of place, nature, animals, and memory in Courtney Huse Wika’s Perch are infused with light, sky, and birdsong, and pierced by haunting moments of loss and loneliness. These elegiac lyrics of weathered and weathering seasons reveal a poet who sees with a keen eye and feels with a tender heart all of the splendor and cruelty of South Dakota’s Black Hills; one who acutely discerns the languages of trees and birds; one who will—“like the common nighthawk / winging through the darkness”—snatch “fireflies from the night sky / to lay a hundred stars at your feet.”
—Lee Ann Roripaugh, author of Dandarians
In the poems contained in Perch, Courtney Huse-Wika finds seams between the human and natural worlds and explores them with such unerring ease and clarity that the worlds are revealed as co-creations. These poems emanate from a core of longing but explore it in a such a way that we’re not quite sure whether it comes out of the human heart or into us from the world. It may be expressed in the broken bodies of birds, or the empty trees from which a bullet has chased them, or by the repressed and powerful action of a woman so stingy and hard-bitten she will expend nothing on her husband’s funeral other than a single orange, but which, in Courtney Huse Wika’s adept handling, becomes an outrageous lavishing of grief and loss.
—Kent Meyers, Author of Twisted Tree and The Work of Wolves
—Lee Ann Roripaugh, author of Dandarians
In the poems contained in Perch, Courtney Huse-Wika finds seams between the human and natural worlds and explores them with such unerring ease and clarity that the worlds are revealed as co-creations. These poems emanate from a core of longing but explore it in a such a way that we’re not quite sure whether it comes out of the human heart or into us from the world. It may be expressed in the broken bodies of birds, or the empty trees from which a bullet has chased them, or by the repressed and powerful action of a woman so stingy and hard-bitten she will expend nothing on her husband’s funeral other than a single orange, but which, in Courtney Huse Wika’s adept handling, becomes an outrageous lavishing of grief and loss.
—Kent Meyers, Author of Twisted Tree and The Work of Wolves