| The Unequivocality of a Rose by Joel Netsky |
80 pages, Price $15.00
ISBN-13 978-09789597-1-5
ISBN-10 0-9789597-1-X
ISBN-13 978-09789597-1-5
ISBN-10 0-9789597-1-X
Cover Art by Patrick Fisher
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from The Preface
The Unequivocality of a Rose by Joel Netsky is a story. All good poetry
tells a story; some poems are stories told in grand poetic language like the
great epics of our shared cultural history; some poems are individual
pieces set together to create a story. The Unequivocality of a Rose is a
story told both in individual verse strung together and as a long tale told
with a unique poetic language.
The Unequivocality of a Rose by Joel Netsky is a story. All good poetry
tells a story; some poems are stories told in grand poetic language like the
great epics of our shared cultural history; some poems are individual
pieces set together to create a story. The Unequivocality of a Rose is a
story told both in individual verse strung together and as a long tale told
with a unique poetic language.
...this work confounds and teaches all in the same moment. Joel Netsky’s
poetic is firmly grounded in a classic poetic language and yet with a
language reaching out into a visionary future. At first it will perplex you
and then it will draw you in with a sure recognition from another time and
another future.
poetic is firmly grounded in a classic poetic language and yet with a
language reaching out into a visionary future. At first it will perplex you
and then it will draw you in with a sure recognition from another time and
another future.
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About the author Joel Netsky
Joel was born in Philadelphia. While at college he studied literature and
writing, and in the years following developed a personal poetry writing
style based upon a naturalistic rendering of poetic structures.
“I then became ‘religious’: life metamorphosed to a spiritual journey. This
is not to say that I attained any insights beyond the mundane, but life to
me from then on became aspiration toward a supernal. I did very little
writing during that time, worked more on myself internally, and only
gradually did I return to writing.” Joel currently resides in Philadelphia.
Joel was born in Philadelphia. While at college he studied literature and
writing, and in the years following developed a personal poetry writing
style based upon a naturalistic rendering of poetic structures.
“I then became ‘religious’: life metamorphosed to a spiritual journey. This
is not to say that I attained any insights beyond the mundane, but life to
me from then on became aspiration toward a supernal. I did very little
writing during that time, worked more on myself internally, and only
gradually did I return to writing.” Joel currently resides in Philadelphia.
How Quietly the Waters
How quietly the waters of the creek flow!
They are like a thought through the consciousness.
The dialectic of field and forest is of such splendor,
the dichotomy between spoken and written, space and
time, dissolves.
To the sky, that intellect of perfect erudition,
the text beneath is by a pen indesecrate.
The innumerous cosmoses drift one into the next,
nonrememberable, faceless, yet precious.
In the arms of the communion of all,
intellect and will, stasis and flux: love.
How quietly the waters of the creek flow!
They are like a thought through the consciousness.
The dialectic of field and forest is of such splendor,
the dichotomy between spoken and written, space and
time, dissolves.
To the sky, that intellect of perfect erudition,
the text beneath is by a pen indesecrate.
The innumerous cosmoses drift one into the next,
nonrememberable, faceless, yet precious.
In the arms of the communion of all,
intellect and will, stasis and flux: love.
It Wasn’t too Late
It wasn’t too late to salvage his life,
to make of his years,
If not a palace, then an ordinary house,
to have each day be,
if not a feast, then a simple meal.
How could he have been so benighted?
What affliction had circumscribed his being?
In heinous league upon the fair shore
had jackal bewilderment and vulture despair disgorged
and with stroke so deliquescent as to contradistinct all
fealty
render his noble soul egrege even to a twain.
If simple and in proportion,
the proper thing in the proper place at the proper time,
like a farmer with a field,
plowing at the proper time,
or a tailor with a garment,
mending in the proper way-
no, it wasn’t too late at all.
It wasn’t too late to salvage his life,
to make of his years,
If not a palace, then an ordinary house,
to have each day be,
if not a feast, then a simple meal.
How could he have been so benighted?
What affliction had circumscribed his being?
In heinous league upon the fair shore
had jackal bewilderment and vulture despair disgorged
and with stroke so deliquescent as to contradistinct all
fealty
render his noble soul egrege even to a twain.
If simple and in proportion,
the proper thing in the proper place at the proper time,
like a farmer with a field,
plowing at the proper time,
or a tailor with a garment,
mending in the proper way-
no, it wasn’t too late at all.
Read reviews by Francis Lemfield and Emily B. Ross on Amazon.com
Author, Reader & Producer's Book Club
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