Book of the Week

 Feathers on Stone (Mainstreet Rag 2022)

 Poems by Joan Leotta 

  

 Review by Editor Sharon Waller Knutson

With poems about a red-winged bird, sycamores, pines, birch, wild jasmine and cold carrot curry, Joan Leotta’s Feather on Stone poetry collection is delightful, charming and uplifting. She divides her poems in three sections, “Encountering Nature,” “Food and Family” and “Moments of Wondering.”

There is plenty of praise for the book from fellow poets on the back cover.

“In Feathers on Stone,” Joan Leotta has packed a suitcase of ordinary moments…,” Storytellers own Betsy Mars writes. “A sense of wonder permeates Joan Leotta’s poetry….”

Jacinta V. White calls the book “a love letter to nature” and says, “Leotta’s lines and images dance like rain on the page.”

“Feathers on Stone begins alongside Anais Nin,” John L. Stanizzi writes. “Joan seemingly finishes an Anais’ mystical notion.” Stanizzi quotes Anais: “We write to taste life twice.” And Joan: “Even those moments that leave the salty taste of tears…”

Some of my favorite poems from the book are:


Feather to Stone

You see me as a feather,
as I ride the breeze
down to you, gently
swaying.
You say you
do not even feel me
when I land on your heart,
softly.
Your hardness
deflects my tiny
self.
When breeze calls again,
I float away, weeping for you.
You cannot move.
Your stone self is
stuck
in equally hard earth,
incapable
of understanding that  my
very softness,
my lightness, is my
strength.
You are forgiven.
 

My Father’s Late-Night Suppers

My father often worked long hours,
arriving home near midnight
to a late supper of poached eggs
in tomato sauce,
or fried eggs and peppers.
I sat by him at the yellow
Formica slice
that was our kitchen table
to spill out my day to him
while he ate. I sampled his
supper—liking it because he liked it.
On warm summer
nights, after his late supper,
he scooped small bowls of ice cream
for himself, my mom and me and
out on the back porch
we ate and talked
while watching stars.

 
How to Make the Perfect Southern Sandwich

At our weekly lunches,
my Georgia-born
neighbor, Faye, introduced
little Pennsylvania me
to her “perfect sandwich,”
bread spread with a
mix of cheddar, roasted red peppers
(pimento) and Southern charm.
I begged for the secret to the
orange-red spread I h’d never
tried before eating it with Faye.
She told me it was called,
“ pimento cheese.”
One afternoon, not much later,
she invited me into her kitchen,
to demonstrate how,
when blended with Duke’s mayo.
canned pimento punctuates
shredded white cheddar
with a vinegary spike
to form the hallowed spread

Faye whispered. “Duke’s is
the secret, the kiss of the South.”
We mashed the ingredients
together with a fork.
Then she smothered white bread
slices with a knife-full of spread,
deftly trimmed off crusts
and with one swift stroke,
divided the sandwich
into triangles, one each.

“So, Northern Girl, what do you
think?” she asked. I replied,
“I think I’m buying a jar of Duke’s.
These sandwiches are perfect.

Kaufmann’s Escalator

I loved taking the escalator in
Kaufmann’s Department store.
Wide gaps in groved wooden steps,
meant mom always called out
warnings to hold on and not
let anything on my person like
shoelaces or long dress hems
dangle where those moving steps
folded into one another, lest I
be drawn down and in and
“Die A Horrible Death.”
Escalators were just one risky
part of an entire world that
I was sure was
waiting to swallow me up
at the smallest misstep.

At age twelve I was allowed to
go downtown alone to shop.
I loved to take the escalator,
to watch the merchandise counters
disappear from that odd
triangular perspective
as I held tightly to the handrail,
exalting in the frisson of fear
present in all risky undertakings.
Once, just for fun,
I rode up all thirteen floors
from first floor perfumes
to last floor furniture,
gawking at ladies and men’s
apparel, toys, books, housewares,
and more in between.
However, those times
even as an adult,
when I felt tired,
or unsure of my shoelaces,
or my hands were full of packages,
and I could not grab the rail,
I took the elevator.
Even now I try living
that same balance, for what
worth is daily life without some risk?

Aging

I’d like to age like this year’s gift of birthday roses,
now past their expected prime
but still beautiful.
Bouquets from previous years have withered,
died after a week,
but these continue,
“walking” in beauty
as if they each day they
saluted sunrise with their own pollen.
A few have browned at the edges
of their orange-yellow splendorous petals.
Leaves have browned and crackle like paper,
but the roses themselves
are not only lovely
but are now exude an aroma
strong enough to pulse through
the dining room into the kitchen,
to wrap me in their heady
scent of love remembered,
each time I sit down for my morning coffee.
It seems to me that scent,
 so rare in purchased hothouse roses,
 is even stronger now than
when the roses first came home
with my husband’s grin.
Each time I stroke a still-soft petal,
I think again, how
I want to age like these roses,
velvet and strong, exuding
the aroma of love even in old age.

 
Stepping Through My Doorway

It has become my way into a world
of uncertainties, yet through its glass,
yellow sunshine fills the hall each day.
In early morning,
my west-facing door,
once a month,
opens to a silver stream
full, round, silver moon
plays with treetops
before daylight takes the stage.

On those early mornings
before sun rises, I step out
filling my lungs with
elixir of moonlight
so I can breathe
out dreams
all my waking day.

In brightness there is noise,
of birds, animals, people,
but in that last bit
of darkness moon and I commune.
Sunlight warms,
but also reveals worries, concerns.
Yes, yes, I love the sunshine,
but these days I do not step
out into it.
It’s that early morning time,
alone with moonlight,
when I can safely open
up to the outside. To myself.

To read Joan’s bio and other poems:

https://stortellerpoetryreview.blogspot.com/search?q=Joan+Leotta

Buy the book at  https://mainstreetragbookstore.com/product/feathers-on-stone-joan-leotta/
or at Joanleotta@gmail.com.