Thanks for stopping by.
I wanted to share this fantastic review with you all, courtesy of the very talented writer, Benjamin Grossman. Thank you very much my friend. I am grateful for your amazing words!
Also, I’ve been having a few issues with WordPress lately, not able to comment or like certain things and people being unfollowed. So, I’m sorry for late comments and missing posts, and to those of you I will be trying to follow again.
Have a fantastic weekend you beautiful people.
The Kind Of Poetry That Can Make Poetry Relevant Again
Read these poems! Then read these poems again and again! They’re incredibly thoughtful, movingly sad, and wonderfully crafted—a collection of the personal, interpersonal, worldly, and otherworldly. In the poem “Blues” Weston writes, “Discover me when / You search for you today”, (28). He got it exactly right. Discover yourself by discovering his writing.
The first poem of the collection is entitled “5am”, and from the start we gather the sense that these poems are written in those hours when the darkness is fading into the light. Nothing But The Rain holds the kind of poetry that will leave you seeking the shelter and safety of the womb or even perhaps the tomb as the words in it seem to be shadowed by this darkness that comes with the storm. Yet even through these clouds we see the goodness of rain, the need for it, its ability to make things rise.
Very early on we see that these aren’t just poems…. No, these are poems that can make poetry relevant again. The sad-but-sweet story-driven “Willow Sheltered Shores” begins with these lines before telling of the emotional evolution of a man: “I was once a child / Playing at / The False man” (Weston 12). And the haunting philosophically-tinged “Aphrodisia” begins thus: “What is the measure of life / But the distance travelled / From womb to catacomb, / Does the ever after take account?” (Weston 15). Both show of the power of Weston’s words and his ability to ponder not just the self but also the “cryptic existence” that we all must live in.
This existence is no more deeply questioned than in “What Holds An Old Photograph?”; “Today Tumbled” and “Awaiting What Comes”. Yet that is not to say that Weston cannot write about more than the rain. Yes, a darkness hovers over much of his poetry but there is a rainbow after the rains, such as in the almost jaunty “The Wordsmith” or the majestically romantic “The Clouds Of North Holland”, which conjure up the “perfect magnificence” of the sky’s puffy white companions.
With as much sadness as hangs on the words here, there is also an equal amount of hopefulness, “[a]nd I am not afraid / any more” (76). A sense of Taoist philosophy runs through the pages, and, I think, we are left with the realization that there is a giving to sadness as much as there is a taking. The collection ends with “4am (The Prequel)”, and honestly I am already awaiting the sequel.