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Damaged Little Creatures
The poems in DAMAGED LITTLE CREATURES remind us that we can never remake ourselves entirely; we are distilled through the experiences that shape our early selves In direct and spare language, Sevick’s heartrending poems achieve moments of grace and transcendence as they unravel delicate childhood memories, probe complex issues of identity, and wrestle with the impossible work of marriage and parenting.
38 pages, Paperback
First published January 29, 2015
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Displaying 1 - 6 of 6 reviews
March 7, 2015
Damaged Little Creatures is at once stirring and tranquil . Leona Sevick's poems journey to the quiet, dim corners that are reminiscent of places we have all been but were perhaps unable or unwilling to revisit. Somehow the invitation to spend time in such a tender and vividly authentic life renders a sense of personal accomplishment for the reader; having tackled great depths of emotion and endured, albeit by proxy.
October 10, 2025
Did not disappoint. I feel blessed to have had the privilege of being taught by Dr. Sevick for a semester in college, and I expected nothing less than a great read from her. This is an extremely powerful and emotionally charged book that compels you to reflect on life and its many nuanced moments and meanings.
March 14, 2018
We are the publisher, so all of our authors get five stars from us. Excerpts:
IN OTHER NEWS
Though Rothko has been dead
for as many years as I’ve been alive,
I guess I care how he’ll take
this latest blow.
In London, a thug with a spray can
defaced a painting in his Seagram series,
one dark gathering of lines
spoiled by another’s.
In other news, a mother of five glued
her small child to the wall and beat her senseless,
the grandmother weeping out her testimony
in open court.
Wanting consolation, I looked for my husband.
Water spitting into my face over the shower doors,
I shouted, can you believe someone would do that
to a Rothko?
GUN SAFE
You said it would make me feel better,
and I guess you’re right again. It does.
I am alone, and the house, ordinarily
as quiet as old bones, comes alive.
The dog barks at no one and nothing
in particular as he stares into his reflection
on the paneled windows along the sides
of the front door. And the shadows
that the hall tree makes on the floor
make me feel like there’s someone
standing there, even though I know
there isn’t. The code to the gun safe
is in my head, burned there by years
of knowing you and the digits of your
birthday: the year, month, and day
your mother pushed you into this
world of private fears and unspoken
desires. My father wore a gun on his
ankle wherever he went, even to church.
I told you it was because of his job,
because he never knew when he’d
have to save a life or take one.
He taught me how to disengage
the safety, how to steady the surprising
weight of any gun in my hands while
I breathe out slowly, pull the trigger,
listen for the explosion, and feel the kick
without blinking. The smell of gun
oil as familiar to me as coffee, I told
you I never wanted one in my home,
that we should live without one
because others said they couldn’t.
It’s a dangerous gift, knowing just what
others really want. Not the things they
say they want, but what is hidden in
their hearts, buried in the dark, deep
pulse of blood, tucked into the heavy
folds of muscle and complex valves
where no one thinks to look.
IN OTHER NEWS
Though Rothko has been dead
for as many years as I’ve been alive,
I guess I care how he’ll take
this latest blow.
In London, a thug with a spray can
defaced a painting in his Seagram series,
one dark gathering of lines
spoiled by another’s.
In other news, a mother of five glued
her small child to the wall and beat her senseless,
the grandmother weeping out her testimony
in open court.
Wanting consolation, I looked for my husband.
Water spitting into my face over the shower doors,
I shouted, can you believe someone would do that
to a Rothko?
GUN SAFE
You said it would make me feel better,
and I guess you’re right again. It does.
I am alone, and the house, ordinarily
as quiet as old bones, comes alive.
The dog barks at no one and nothing
in particular as he stares into his reflection
on the paneled windows along the sides
of the front door. And the shadows
that the hall tree makes on the floor
make me feel like there’s someone
standing there, even though I know
there isn’t. The code to the gun safe
is in my head, burned there by years
of knowing you and the digits of your
birthday: the year, month, and day
your mother pushed you into this
world of private fears and unspoken
desires. My father wore a gun on his
ankle wherever he went, even to church.
I told you it was because of his job,
because he never knew when he’d
have to save a life or take one.
He taught me how to disengage
the safety, how to steady the surprising
weight of any gun in my hands while
I breathe out slowly, pull the trigger,
listen for the explosion, and feel the kick
without blinking. The smell of gun
oil as familiar to me as coffee, I told
you I never wanted one in my home,
that we should live without one
because others said they couldn’t.
It’s a dangerous gift, knowing just what
others really want. Not the things they
say they want, but what is hidden in
their hearts, buried in the dark, deep
pulse of blood, tucked into the heavy
folds of muscle and complex valves
where no one thinks to look.
April 11, 2015
The opening poem of this complex chapbook, "White," sets a tone: a mixture of pain, ambivalence and careful, even delicate expression. It takes us to the experience of being a young child, an immigrant, and standing in two worlds, trying to make sense of things. In addition to this vein, mined in other poems as well, there are poems about parenting, about a driving lesson, about a 'rescue child' ("Fathers and Sons"), about the human propensity for destruction ("Zoonosis").
Each poem here engages, with clear language and imagery, and a wonderful breadth of topic. The book, although small, ranges widely, and keeps one engaged, even in the case of a couple which will need, for me, many readings to feel I've 'gotten' them.
Also striking are two memory poems, revisiting childhood events with adult eyes and feeling ("Complicity" and "Trespass"). But the most astonishing poem here, to this reader, is "Mother Killer," a small piece of distilled compassion salvaged from the nightmare of Newtown/Sandy Hook.
Each poem here engages, with clear language and imagery, and a wonderful breadth of topic. The book, although small, ranges widely, and keeps one engaged, even in the case of a couple which will need, for me, many readings to feel I've 'gotten' them.
Also striking are two memory poems, revisiting childhood events with adult eyes and feeling ("Complicity" and "Trespass"). But the most astonishing poem here, to this reader, is "Mother Killer," a small piece of distilled compassion salvaged from the nightmare of Newtown/Sandy Hook.
October 13, 2015
Damaged Little Creatures in many ways is my first poetry book outside of required poem readings back in high school so many years ago. I’ve always liked poetry, but like song lyrics, sometimes the message needs to be explained to me. However, with Sevick’s poems the messages are straightforward and direct. I can visualize the images the words create. I can feel the emotion, be it sadness, regret, happiness, or contentment. I would highly recommend this chapbook to anyone who enjoys poetry or is discovering poetry for the first time. (Also, I love the cover!)
March 19, 2015
Leona Sevick carefully weaves the dark and light edges of life, love, loss and hope in these poems. She invites us to the secret conversations that challenge our sense of family and self. We are all her damaged little creatures.
Displaying 1 - 6 of 6 reviews