Lisa Steppe’s poems range from ‘back of beyond’ to the far edges of Europe. Mythical cultures inhabit the spaces, and all-too-human beings. The poems rise to the height of the tree of life and descend – below the fields of the wheat horses – to the netherworld. They do not flinch from confronting and they do not hesitate to effect wondrous transformation. We have need of ‘the milk of blackberries’, the wind’s tune, its ocarina of change’, small burning things’;
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