About my book, The Low Pouring Stars….
When I cannot talk I write, talking again. I don’t know.
The image of a heart under a glacier—the ancient frozen person, undetected eons
—still there—how did they talk, write—warm themselves.
Did they imagine their children in the future buried in ice as they would be….
trying to talk, to write . . . trying to not die on the ice –
Is this the space—where they, we, live—in the talking in the writing—
in the wondering and fearing, in the spaces between us untaught
—when loving hands touch us all space is born?
He is always somewhere. This is a poetry grounded in circumstance, but his language soars over the landscape, trying to escape. That’s my reading of Farrah’s moving, strangely personal poems. “My hearts are stacked like chairs,” he says, the mundane metaphor making us do a double-take on that shocking plural. In a time when poetry is pale with irony, these poems startle with profound seriousness. —Robert Kelly
Courtly respect for and deep engagement with the sensory and mind worlds–the world of “otter ground and the moon trees”–as for a lover, unfinishable in that engagement (no closure=no coming, no going), a contemplative attention to all things felt, thought and sensed inform this series of praise-songs for living in the here/now realm in all its complexity and difficulty. The “attachment travels by air and memory,” across a field of language built of slant rhymes and natural rhythms that constantly acknowledges its primary generous axiom: “Beauty needs a distance to survive…” —Maria Damon
