Synopsis "Poems from Terra (in English)"
"It may be profligate, but is it not life?" asks Lord Byron. This is poetry with an edge. Combining grit and grandeur while mingling religion and sex, science and spirituality, this intense examination of life reveals the author's struggles with the nature of reality and existence, in language both simple and complex, erudite and approachable. Showing influences of Bukowski, Poe, Cohen, and a tinge of Greek mythology, the author examines wonder, pain, love, and fantasy. "The Lizard and the Tamarind" is a stirring tribute about the death of a fellow poet. "Explanation of the Universe" does a good job of fulfilling its goal. "Square-Breasted Poem" is a quirky romp through anatomy and modernist painting. A strong and diverse volume that addresses themes with which we all grapple. [These poems]are highly personal, experiential. Some of the experience seems to be supremely private. But what struck me most about them was the free association of the images, the kind of free flowing exuberance of the visual. The intensity of feeling is superior.... Their complexity is almost painful.... I was moved, confused, astounded, curious, excited. -- Ann Beals, University of Central Oklahoma As you would imagine in a collection called Terra, these poems will take you places. They compel you across varied planes of the mind: love, dreams, wonder, mourning. But how diverse your journey encompassing the night-beat of a flaneur, the death of a light bulb, a bricklayer's manifesto, a film noir dream, the spirals of a lover's earring--and an explanation of the universe. With wry metaphor yet steady vision, Fletcher spotlights the quirks of human longing and the enigmas of memory. Open it anywhere and you will find a memento to take with you. -- Eva Bednar, Humber College, Canada Explore these samples for a glimpse into Terra. A TOURIST SEEKS ROME Above the cobblestonesin a lost parkamong the ruined statuesa headless couple lock in eternal embrace they are without namestheir passions carved in rocktheir gowns have become leaves and vinesgrowing, dying, blowing away the mouths of their soulsseek lost lips of flesh and marblerivulets of sinterfill crevices like shadowsleaves blow beneath her thighsand under his shoulderstheir dead bone opens on the stone divanas I fall between themour limbs combine tourists record the details how we flickered for an instantlike a match in the rain HALLEY'S COMET When the moon is red as satinand larger than the myth of Halley's cometwhen silhouettes of elms meld into the night at the edge of its circumferenceand our earth becomes blackand empties itself into me I smile in the crimson darkand search my pocketfor a penny to rub, a wishand throw I AM A BRICKLAYER My hands are callousedfrom the barkof brick, the furrows of the palmstained with mortar dyethe powder from everysack of cement clogs my pores I crawl behind the wheelmy boots caked with morning mudand imagine the comfort and quiet of homethe embrace and taste of her fleshpulse of the showerthe sigh of warm socks on wet toesand awaken to the distant tinklingof pans and moist aromaslike the back of a Cairo cafe No longer am I tied to the daytomorrow the achein my back will have dulledtonight I do not commit suicideby hangover, tonightmy mind is freeto glow like the orange haloof the kilnwhere bricks are born
