With these powerful and naked verses that appear behind the veils of an ordinary morning, the poet defines himself and thus, not only chooses a path, but also makes it clear to us how he has chosen to walk. The route is definite but the destination not so. As we read, we ask ourselves, perplexed, where is the journey to? If the whole journey is inward, the goal is for the poet to discover himself and to show us a little of how to discover ourselves. The sarcasm is maybe sometime too harsh, leaving the reader disturbed, but often it is reality that wears the mask, reality is hidden. Then, the poet becomes a knife. We may be dismayed by the stamp that marks his poetry, an incisive social criticism, because reality, rather than speaking to us, cautiously defends itself. Here the "I", which is never silent, does not have the slightest hesitation in telling us about the interstices of being, the universal. Although this, as Roque Dalton said, is necessary "a minimum gesture, something similar to melancholy".
Colm Kiernan's poetry is tender and powerful, hard and beautiful. It has at times the simplicity of a teenager facing the world and also, therefore, the bone-picking of the one who lays it all bare, rips out the guts and exposes it, as it is, to the reader. However, it is the poetry of one who has lived and we know that there has been a natural process. Colm began writing at a very young age and his poems have matured with the author himself. This is the first book of his poetry to be published, suggesting the will of the poet not to be captured, but to keep reworking his lines. He writes them on his phone, often while walking, and so he stores them, editing them, building a body. A poetic corpus that sometimes bleeds and decomposes, but also blooms and sprouts and, like all living bodies, regenerates itself.
The poet does not expect the reader to agree with him, but he makes it clear that his reality will not be compromised, disguised or embellished with empty words. Neither love nor heartbreak are innocent, nor is death. Although necessary and beautiful, everything hurts, everything hurts, everything hurts, everything is urgent... In the very bowels of the poem the verse twists seeking its channel, like the river, its way to the sea. As does love, without compassion. Like death, like the loss of that place where we were born and to which we will not return. Like the loneliness of the one who is still alive and writes here.
- Aleisa Ribalta
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