Steve Luttrell, Paper Boats (1st Edition) (Buy this book)
Review by debora Ewing
We read poetry in search of answers, or maybe even questions. We seek meaning in poetry, but we love how poetry lets meaning be slippery. We like it when poetry eludes, coquettishly, then suddenly turns and looks us dead in the eye. Steve Luttrell’s poetry does that.
Paper Boats is a collection of sad observations
We have lost
ourselves to history.
and quiet marvels
No song-bird this
but a sky-glider
a fish-finder
a slow-stride wader.
balanced like a cycle of seasons. Like a box of saved things left behind. Like country directions to your distant cousin’s house. The face of a river you’ve seen time and time again, but still it shows you a different face. Moments that are fleeting, moving, always changing, but hold still just long enough look back at you.
Within this collection, you can gain the perspective of a man who grew up in a certain America, who spent decades in publishing, who was once a boy and realizes he’ll most likely be a boy again. You can taste Maine like the locals do, knowing you’ll never be a local but relishing the gift. You’ll look through this lens at your own origin story, tasting things you’d forgotten. You may recognize your own paper boats as they drift through your periphery and slowly sink into the eddies of time.
Steve Luttrell is the founding editor of The Café Review, an award-winning art and poetry journal, published in Portland, Maine since 1989. He is a past Poet Laureate for the city of Portland, Maine and is the author of five published collections of poetry:
The Green Man 1990, Moonstar Press
Conditions 1993, Midnight Press
This’ n That 1995, Muse Press
Home Movies 1998, Big Bridge Press
Plumb Line 2015, North Atlantic Books
This long-awaited sixth book pairs well with a dusky Sangiovese on the back patio overlooking the lake while autumn leaves drift toward the water, or a midnight bath with salt & essential oils. It may be even better read by the sodium lamps of a nearly-empty parking lot, French fry remnants in a crumpled box on the dashboard.
