Amy Newman

The forest of Pinewood is a silent, safe place to be. At least it is until the ground itself rises up and begins to take victims. All former thief Lute wants is to be left alone. His last adventure haunting him, he has taken up residence in a dilapidated log, focusing on carving to drown out the noise of the ghosts in his memory. But when a mysterious customer comes calling about a mirror and Lute’s path crosses that of the young, neglected and highly eccentric fox squirrel Kinder, he finds himself grudgingly sucked into the mystery of the new horror terrorizing Arborand. But neither Kinder nor Lute can prepare themselves for the truth behind the tragedy. Far away in Maplewood, Mariyen, a young seer-in-training, is experiencing terrible nightmares featuring her estranged mother who seems to be harboring a dark secret. All around her is talk of a seasons-old prophecy, a dangerous exile and a squirrel with fur as white as snow, but Mariyen is warned to stay out of it. All she can be certain of is what she feels when she looks out the window to the seemingly innocuous ground. Death comes from below. And it may be coming for all of them if they do not find the means to stop it.

“No matter how intricate, uncomfortable, or orphic her subject, Newman’s camera never flinches from her duty; her eye never shudders, except in rapture and that is to be forgiven, or rather, rewarded. In a time where bland, prosaic poetry has become the norm, and self-centered confessionalism the standard fare, how refreshing it is to read and experience these crafted, abundant, lyrical poems, these panoramic snapshots of enduring historical and social commentary.” —American Oral “Newman’s genius is of a particular and urgent understanding: i.e. that we are summoned, by Nature and by Language, not merely to continue but to begin worlds. Thus, beautifully, she avows the extraordinariness of everything seen, avowing equally the tender newborn flesh of everything said. The Eden of her alphabet is new, is open.” —Donald Revell “Camera Lyrica confirms Amy Newman’s status as one of the most important and exciting poets to have emerged during the last decade. Haunting, prophetic, wise, these poems offer enormous satisfactions: an exquisite, Stevensian music, an anthology of uncanny structures (especially in ‘A Note on the Type’ & the ‘Interior’ sequence), and an uncompromising intelligence. ‘Not history’s likeness but the very thing,’ the poet writes. Reading this book, one agrees emphatically: it is the very rare, real thing.” —Tom Andrews “Amy Newman is a writer’s writer with a love of history and its incongruities. If one of her poems were a bird, a specimen Darwin or Audubon might study, it would reveal the complex bone structure of her syntax, the prehensile reach for elusive meaning, the layers of awareness—all the things that give it flight, the moving parts in accord. Like the naturalists who interest her, Newman explores affinities, but between categories and across time. In Camera Lyrica, surface and depth stand juxtaposed. Newman’s scrupulous eye captures the fleeting and the enduring in language that is both sumptuous and rigorous. This is an intelligent and rewarding second collection.” —Barbara Jordan