Still Life gathers people, creatures, and landscapes in poetic still-life vignettes reminiscent of traditional still-life paintings, which capture the landscape as a memento mori, “a memento of mortality.” Through free verse, form, narrative, and prose poems, Megan Huwa recounts her body’s decline in 2012 at age twenty-seven due to a rare condition that has ushered her into a life of suffering, uprooting her and her husband from her family’s fifth-generation Colorado farm, and stilling them in a condo in Southern California. The four-part collection paints life’s mercurial seasons, with underlying redemptive threads. The poetic vignettes serve as a keen act of observance and remembrance, beholding Life, the life to come, and the life all around through the miracle of a broken step, a new cross-section of mercy, the life in another’s dance, the overlooked beheld, the wondrous done in secret, the life amid loss, the land resown, and the promised home glorified.
This reads like a poetic memoir, I LOVED it! I highly recommend this to anyone who enjoys poetry or even if you're new to poetry. There were so many moments when I had to stop and reread lines.
Megan Huwa’s Still Life is not just a book of poetry—it’s an invitation into a soul-stirring journey. As someone who is deaf, I know what it is to suffer in silence, to live in a world where words often feel out of reach. Yet Megan’s poetry reached me. Through vivid imagery and heartfelt honesty, she doesn’t just describe suffering—she creates space for deep reflection. Rather than appealing only to the intellect, her poems invite us to see, feel, and pray our way through pain, allowing truth to settle gently into the heart.
Each morning, I carried Still Life with me on prayer walks, savoring a few poems at a time. The images and themes lingered with me throughout the day, offering quiet strength and fresh perspective. The recurring metaphor of farming—what Megan so masterfully calls “the art of sustaining life amid the elements”—deeply resonated with me. I can’t forget her line about her father never despising the hail, even when it destroyed the fruit of his labor. It stirred in me a longing to live with that same kind of surrendered faith.
I’ve been discipling women for over 40 years and have shared these poems with many who are struggling. What followed were holy moments—silent nods, soft prayers, and a profound sense of being seen. Every single one has wanted their own copy to keep—and to give. Still Life is a treasure, a feast for the soul. I cannot recommend it highly enough.
Many of the images and words of Still Life spoke to me as one acquainted with loss and pain. Don’t be misled, however. Huwa’s poems are brimming with life and delight as well, because that is how the kingdom of heaven works.
One of my favorites is about snails. Yep, that’s right—snails. Huwa notices small things, and this time it’s the “luminescent halos” left by other snails “encircling the shattered shell” of one that’s been crushed. She interprets the scene as a remnant of their liturgy of grief. It reminds me of a time when I came out of church, and seeing an intricate weaving of snail trails on the concrete path, bent down to smile and trace their nighttime dance. Empathy and connection are themes that run throughout these poems. Being “still” enables Huwa to observe life more clearly.