It may surprise people who know the author that it wasn’t until his seventh published book that he dared to reveal some of his poetry - his favourite literary format and his greatest literary love. It may be the subject matter that caused the delay, being melancholy at best. It may be the worry that his work may be compared with that of far better poets (and found wanting). It may be that, to paraphrase Keats, frequent recent hospital visits mean that mortality weighs heavy upon him. Or it may simply be the disquiet of exposure - that what he is revealing is a pain so very deep that so many of his acquaintance have very little or even no idea about - and the accompanying vulnerability. Whatever the reason, the time has come. “Does the ether have windows?”, a question his youngest daughter once asked him when she was a toddler and which has always stayed with him. Along with the same daughter’s statement that she loved him “more than a hundred” because that was the biggest number she could think of. Love, and loss. Our children are only lent to us. Be prepared to be moved.
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