Poetry. In this second collection of his verse, Lawrence Cottrell continues his personal journey along meridians of the ineffable. His songs are of hallelujah and loss, and remain an elegant and human remonstrance nailed to the door of this cathedral of becoming and forgetting.
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.