Judith Ann Levison

Fallen Petals Judith Ann Levison

To my mother I was a blade of grass / a string bean, someone always / pushing a broom, begins Judith Levison in her new collection, Fallen Petals. Here, in poems of rare intensity and beauty, Levison weaves together a harrowing portrait of violence, poverty, abuse within a family of loggers in mid-coast Maine. But the speaker in these deeply felt poems is not stifled by the brutal isolation or loneliness; rather, she finds solace by turning inward to the realm of imagination fueled by books, a Sears catalog, the natural beauty of "a quiet forest after rainfall. "With imagery that is dreamlike, at times surreal, Levison embraces with intelligence and a sense of possibility "two worlds, half the stench of fish / half my hair bleaching on a rock.

Cheryl Baldi, Author of The Shapelessness of Water

Judith Ann Levison's new collection of poems, telling of a childhood of radical neglect and its impact on her life as an adult, is something to behold. It is a page-turning tale of physical and emotional survival-for this reader, one reminiscent of the struggles of James Baldwin-told by one gifted with the poet's sensibility. In the end, we discover a principal source of its strength: a then fifteen-year-old Judith Ann's poem "Mary Shellmic" was published in The New Yorker. In that singular early success, the author's literary life took root and bloomed, for the inestimable benefit of us all.

John T. Winthrop, Author of The Principle of True Representation

Judith Levison's Fallen Petals describes growing up in an abusive family in rural Maine. Miraculously she finds moments of poetic freedom in the midst of brutal, repressive circumstances: searing images of physical and emotional cruelty that may somehow be conquered through the power of language: nature, jewels, birds, and angels: inhabitants of an imagined reality, sustaining in times of pain and stress. Resonating with the classic tradition of frightening fairy tales, her childhood is controlled by a cruel, violent mother. Her father, the woodsman, fails to protect her. Magical objects, high heel shoes, and pretty dresses are like Cinderella's glass slippers and ball gown, part of the ritual transformation, and escape into an imaginary world where a savior prince will love and care for her.

The strength of her often surrealistic imagery carries us into and beyond the scourge of being deprived of the spontaneity, joy, and freedom that should be intrinsic to childhood. I am so glad that she survived. She is an honest poet, presenting us with insights into the dark side of family.

Nura Petrov, Conceptual Artist / Sculptor