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.
Born into a different cultural dispensation, Lawrence Cottrell has said that he feels like eroding tracks left by another age. Tricked up in wit's metrical silks, it's that very archaic exotica, his seductive beat of the tympanums of sense and sensibility, he would have you know, a ghostly extravagance of grace lest there be neither ghosts nor graces where drops horizon toward infinity; a once upon a time, some part of aggregate ado become a self, born in blood of woman, a Balthazar, a fool, a man merely, come to see blushing minsters of days, bequeathing to tomorrow's indifference, on the other side of the bastard title gate into a book, the better angel of his nature, or, if not that, a miscreant seraph who ties iambic knots in fate's tail.