The Real Mystery Is This

As Popa Penetrates Deeper Into His Life, With Book After Book, It Begins To Look Like A Universe Passing Through A Universe. It Is One Of The Most Exciting Things In Modern Poetry, To Watch This Journey Being Made.

Prose, Narratives, Etcetera, Can Carry Healing. Poetry Does It More Intensely.

The World's Decay Where The Wind's Hands Have Passed, And My Head, Worn Out With Love, At Rest In My Hands, And My Hands Full Of Dust.

This House Has Been Far Out At Sea All Night, The Woods Crashing Through Darkness, The Booming Hills, Winds Stampeding The Fields Under The Window Floundering Black Astride And Blinding Wet Till Day Rose; Then Under An Orange Sky The Hills Had New Places, And Wind Wielded Blade-light, Luminous Black And Emerald, Flexing Like The Lens Of A Mad Eye.

What Happens In The Heart Simply Happens.