I suppose I could be called a lapsed romantic for my poems are elegies to the world as it should be lived. Not as it is lived. It comes down to my anxieties really and an inability to accept my lot in life.
I share what Theodore Roethke once called “a longing not for escape, but for a greater reality”; however, such longing is also tempered by a knowledge that any connection, any feeling of transcendence, if it does come in one’s poetry at all, is always fleeting.
Praise and mourning. These are the twin subjects of my poems. I want my experiences, my perceptions, my memories; in fact, my whole life to be changed, made meaningful, by shaping such inner observations in a way that they are made permanent fixtures. In death, Ansel Adams become those mountains he loved so dearly for we still gaze upon his photographs today. To me, he is a colossus of the imagination. I want nothing less than that for my poems but, at the same time, my poems mourn the naivety of such an idea.