In stunningly lush and organic lines filled with milkweed, soybeans, and marigold, where heartcall is answered by birdsong, and both land and speaker are palimpsestically haunted by past and future seasons, Amie Whittemore fills her dream ark with vivid catalogues, memories, and visions. In poems that weave together “an entire imaginary alphabet from a single letter” with the intricate architectural skill of a bird’s nest braiding together hair and twigs, these poems ricochet between rivetingly fierce consciousness and pure animal joy in a journey that is as harrowing as it is lustrous.
—LEE ANN RORIPAUGH
If I had a checklist for what constituted a top-notch collection of poems, Amie Whittemore’s Glass Harvest would come close to hitting them all. A strong sense of language and a compelling voice? Check. Surprising phrasing, metaphors, and use of imagery? Check. A well-tuned ear? Check. Playfulness? Check. Pathos? Check. Check. Check. In her lines a “skirt / thrown across the floor looks like a lake // where a child drowned.” If poetry transforms the world and heightens our realizations of its joys and terrors, then Whittemore is the real deal, and this collection is her terrific and startling debut.