[I had the honor of introducing this author after studying her work.]
In Loon Cry, one of my favorite books written by poet and memoirist Fleda Brown, there is an epigraph by Carl Sandburg that reads: “Unless here is a loon cry in a book, the poetry has gone out of it.” And of course, there are loon cries in that poem and in other poems. There are loon cries here on these lakes, and within the lovely bookends of our days together at Writers Retreat.
But what I want to say about Fleda’s work is that it feels as essential as the loon’s cry. Certainly, when I visit Interlochen four times a year, I cannot glimpse these canvas skies, the summer dragonflies, the fits of fall, or the winter shanties without a bit of Fleda’s loon-cry-lust peppering my view. It’s a lovely gift for a writer to give to her readers—not only a new way of seeing, but a heightened world in which to engage and appreciate the fine and troubling aspects of our human experience.
Like her smile, so delightfully smart and sly—this opportunity to see anew is always at the edge of experience here. This place wedded to words, those words wedded to the page, the pages wedded to our hands as we read, read again, read some more. How lucky to have Fleda here with us this week, and in particular now—in anticipation of the publication of her New & Selected Poems from University of Nebraska Press next year.
Today we get to hear her loon cry from the source. Please join me in welcoming, Fleda Brown.