𝑰 𝒂𝒎 𝒇𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒘𝒉𝒐 𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒆𝒔 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒅𝒊𝒅 𝑰 𝒃𝒆𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒂 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒂𝒇𝒇𝒂𝒊𝒓 𝒃𝒆𝒕𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒄𝒆𝒂𝒏 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒐𝒐𝒏.⠀
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Grief won’t suffer fools. What and how we grieve is the truest thing we know about ourselves. What author cavities from his mind or experience is extraordinary for its sweep.⠀
His words depths come to bear on nature, love, contamination, and the things he may have been forced to know about himself. ⠀
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𝑰 𝒂𝒎 𝒂 𝒄𝒐𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒅 ⠀
𝑰 𝒅𝒐𝒏’𝒕 𝒍𝒆𝒕 𝒎𝒚 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒔 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒉⠀
𝒎𝒚 𝒕𝒐𝒏𝒈𝒖𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕’𝒔 𝒘𝒉𝒚 ⠀
𝑰 𝒂𝒎 𝒂 𝒑𝒐𝒆𝒕.⠀
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𝑰 𝒂𝒎 𝒂 𝒄𝒐𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒅𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒌 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒔
𝒈𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒃𝒚 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒉𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒚. ⠀
𝑻𝒐 𝒆𝒙𝒑𝒆𝒄𝒕 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒚𝒐𝒖 ⠀
𝒂𝒎 𝑰 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒉𝒚 𝒆𝒏𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉?⠀
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Storytelling is the purpose of writing. And the author has crafted affecting stories that are honed by his experience with time.⠀
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All of us, after a certain age – poets included – feel the need to take a backward glance, to rummage around in our own utterly unique collection of remembered people, sights and sounds, talismanic objects, watershed moments, and to savor again the richly blended emotions we attach to them. And there’s where the poet’s challenge lies. How do you make that personal curio cabinet of memories emotionally available to a reader?⠀
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Transcendentalism is certainly present there, but I also found commonplace innocence along with that profound sapience and susceptibility for Life, Love, and relations in his poetry. The author has filled those ordinary scenes around, with the fragrance of his craft and sensitivity.⠀
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𝒀𝒆𝒔, 𝑰 𝒂𝒎 𝒄𝒐𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒅 ⠀
𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒎𝒚 𝒑𝒐𝒆𝒕𝒓𝒚 𝒊𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕.⠀