Poems are seeds planted in the mind’s mud, buried and forgotten, biding their time. Only to burst out unbeckoned, like wildflowers after a storm. When they do, they pause time and break it open. Like Cohen's crack in everything, through which the light pours. Those that flower are not just tiny autobiographies; they are born out of empathy and the intimacy of shared solitude, experiences and conversations.
Poetry books aren’t always coherent. This collection however unfolds like a map to the secrets of our world and its people, in three distinct sections held together by a fragile thread of beauty. The stasis and ennui of the first section melds into the stifling claustrophobia and endlessness of the second; only to be swept away by the churn and hope of the third.
Poems are seeds planted in the mind’s mud, buried and forgotten, biding their time. Only to burst out unbeckoned, like wildflowers after a storm. When they do, they pause time and break it open. Like Cohen's crack in everything, through which the light pours. Those that flower are not just tiny autobiographies; they are born out of empathy and the intimacy of shared solitude, experiences and conversations.
Poetry books aren’t always coherent. This collection however unfolds like a map to the secrets of our world and its people, in three distinct sections held together by a fragile thread of beauty. The stasis and ennui of the first section melds into the stifling claustrophobia and endlessness of the second; only to be swept away by the churn and hope of the third.