Poetry. "A bittersweet, poetic memoir by a senescent man glancing back along tracks erasing, scents dissipating, who imparts to us from memory's ravels and rags the sad and happy silhouettes of his encounter with the kiss and cuff of seasons. From this collection's first poem, 'Some Old Tale,' where 'life fumbles with death's bodice like a lover,' to the last, 'Ancient Fires,' when the author says his pilgrimage was 'fat with witchings, delicious with ghouls, soul's gate hung on mystic hinges,' there's an unflinching measure of loss and a covenant with grace, and, always, a fierce romance with brooks and ghosts and braes, a metrical come-hither into flown and fleeting days." —Lawrence Cottrell
Doubtless his biography appeared (to him) as a tale in progress, like some right whale breaching a sea, neither of which was there a moment earlier. I guess there was a world antedating his keeping of pieces of it. The extant photographs of neonate and toddler seem to confirm that theory, so there are a few earliest years of his life about which he knows nothing. And, truthfully, this mind's like a net made to catch cetaceans only, entire schools of, say, krill would have left scant impression. So, here's to that first recollection, some jot of time which didn't get away wholly. He the sum of it and others, save for the singular way he beat along the wind. Like canvas to a blow, one pouts uniquely, like his fellows but not quite so, things known and felt according to the topographical camberings and concavities of "I." Of this irreducible arrangement of neurons what's to be said, save that a kind of flesh thinks and imagines, has, oddly enough, an incipient emotive perspective, into which experience must or ought fit. One is godlet and helot, sings of paradises lost off-key. But . . . all you need to know of him is that he make poems nowadays. Recollect that if you please, since in an hour or an age he shan't.