a child who could only know her life through the occasional mention of her name, the sorrow in my mother's eyes. Becoming a poet let me understand her secret thoughts even more, as by then I had more than a few of my own burrowed beneath my flesh.
The poem "Butchers and Tombs", reminiscent of an ancient soldier and his beloved, was a poem worth reading with intentions of memorizing its cadence, its promise, its eternal devotion and its depth. It says far more than the actual words reveal, if one knows where to look and how to listen to silence, how to measure a stone by recognizing its memories of the mountain to which it was once attached.
I am especially angry and bereft because the same shadows reached out unexpectedly and stole my favorite sister from me ... Diana, the huntress, who laid down her bow with resignation, with regret, with sorrow too deep to measure. Diana, she who was given my Aunt Nora's middle name to carry throughout her life.
"but nothing can stop the implacable heartache
The entirety of the poem "Blue November" made me ache with empathy and weep with understanding, especially with its final line, "when November rain returned with its idle words."
Within the piece "Serenade", the poet declares that he is not an alchemist. However, I would have to disagree, for I observed the shimmering of precious metals within those inked letters.
In "The Outlaw's Song", there are unwritten volumes between each pause, every stanza. I quietly listened to their murmurs and was enchanted by their quietude.
In Part II, the first poem "Towards the Visible and Indivisible" is a quiet and subtle volcano. It is a dirge one would not expect, yet still would not be completely taken by surprise, either. It contains hollows and dungeons, caverns and glaciers, gardens and barren soil.