Backing into Mountains

by Dorothy Sutton

Backing into Mountains
is available from your local bookstore, on-line vendors such as Amazon or Barnes & Noble, or from the publisher.   Retail $15, softcover.  ISBN 978-1-893239-92-0

Wind Publications
600 Overbrook Drive
Nicholasville KY 40356

"Dorothy Sutton’s poems in Backing into Mountains, always aware of their historical moment, trace the arc of her generous consciousness as it ranges from Gorgeous George and Casey Jones to Pablo Picasso and Richard Dawkins, from present day Bybee Pottery in Kentucky to ancient Greece.  Like her own “Prometheus Among the Leaves,” this poet steals fire from her sharply attentive life and, with its primal heat and light, singes each of her poems.  With intelligence and depth of spirit, Sutton bravely confronts and engages the world, at once thrilling and bracing her readers."
     ---Jane Gentry

Earlier comments about Dorothy Sutton's work---

"These are superb poems."
     ---Harold Bloom

""Full of intelligent feeling, and feeling intelligence."
     ---Wendell Berry

"a radical honesty, wit, and wisdom that is rare indeed . . . Dorothy Sutton's work can stand with the best . . . quite wonderful."
     ---Guy Davenport


From the book ---

I wish I could tell you how I loved my uncle, 
how he drank too much, 
and how he stank of bourbon 
when he wrestled me to the floor, 

how our laughter filled the empty places 
until he pinned my arm behind me, 
made me cry uncle from the bone crunching pain, 
how in five minutes I was begging for more. 

I wish I could understand 
why he didn't behave like other uncles 
who ducked into college phone booths, flew out 
as superdoctors, superlawyers, managers at IBM, 

marrying beautiful women, producing doll babies 
that gurgled and wet their diapers and said ma ma 
for Grandmother to love on, why he drifted 
from school to work and back to school again 

and from woman to woman, never finding anything, 
why Granddaddy told him not to come home 
if all he could do was break Grandmother's heart, 
how he went away and never returned, 

leaving me only the toys 
he had brought back to me from the war, 
leaving us to cry son, brother,