The Philosopher Savant

North of Oxford

ps

.

Review by Stephen Page

.

In the first poem of the book the narrator, as a young boy, skips church and wanders the countryside, discovering new truths, learning he is able to think for himself, coming to his own conclusions about himself and the world, and finding out he is not bound by non-secular dogma. This is where the Philosopher Savant comes into being.

The book follows the remembrances, dreams, fears, evaluation, assessments, and vision of the Philosopher Savant. He is an average person, a father, a householder with a job—but he has a vagrant soul and the fugue vision of a shaman.

Larson writes in the veins of Whitman and Shakespeare. Some of his poems read as contemporized sonnets, and they have as much genius entwined as Shakespeare’s.  While reading the poems, I had a feeling of transcending my self, a oneness with the “all”. The thesis of…

View original post 357 more words

Lateral Meniscus of the Archangel (Paperback, 382 Pages)

Lateral cover

http://www.lulu.com/shop/rustin-larson/lateral-meniscus-of-the-archangel/paperback/product-23259250.html

Rustin Larson’s poetry mixes the ordinary, real world with surreal, fantastical visions. “I arrive at a mansion / Surrounded by fallen branches/ And ice. / Inside are chairs / That resemble lions / Or laws / Or the boredom of kings.” He reminds us of the magical realism of Gabriel García Márquez and Jorge Luis Borges: “A piano, / With its keys locked under its cover, / Is some giant creature / At the bottom of the sea, /Waiting.” –Hélène Cardona

Faulkner

Faulkner

I wish I could show you the source of my amusement but I

can’t it was delivered in an ice box three hundred million years

ago and it has been there since anticipating time or the mind

that will discover time on the shores of some mossy

simultaneously existing/non-existing primordial earth It sits

there silent and square totally emotionless to the tiny grubs and

centipedes that crawl over its smooth porcelain skin Totally

inert but inside it is something that will outlast the shores and

water even the sun and myriad furry life forms that will bump

and crawl their way to the edge of their individual eternities It

is there denting the sand silent unmoved not feeling hunger

because hunger isn’t yet thought of nothing there to think it not

happy because happiness is still unboiled stagnant and cold as

unreal as the possessions and human bodies that will

someday give it birth

 

from The Dryland Fish, 2003