Kathedral Jones’s Comments

Poetry hears not its humourers’ tributes—“floaty,” “flakey”—and remains, quintessentially, the “pome.” At least insofar as it can be traced back to one mind, one wave in the sea with its own divestments and needs, notwithstanding the need to craft, which, from its rapturous emergence as a call from one’s leading affection, may expand over time to a scope approaching impersonality in nature, without much reducing its intrinsic preciousness.

This dissolution of agenda might conceivably align with its assimilation into an infrastructure of a mystery we today label “randomness,” where outcomes, in a seeking sense, may seem as if requested from some universal hot-source, whilst simultaneously bumbling along universally unwitnessed—contemporary poetry indeed.

To extract coherance from this jumble, letters assume a state of kinship to the eight primary colours, and the wellspring of this girded creation will trickle and filter through the knowledge base of the poet, much as religion works best with insightful metaphor, thus forming a poetry as model, where this model derives much as the ecology of a micro-terrain, which chances to enjoy physically, and with gridwork, a geographical survey, here on Earth.

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