Typical of so many friendships these days, I first “met” Seymour Jacklin as a virtual entity, a friend of a friend who prattled on shamelessly about his facility with story, character, nuance, subtle humour, and language. My friend was not wrong. I began the investigative process (the dignified way of what we call “cyber-stalking”) and found, to my delight, a treasure trove of narrative wonder.

Seymour isn’t merely a poet. He’s a mystic alive to his world, which becomes our world, and together, the world. The most satisfying collection I’ve read in quite some time. Utterly lacking in the presumptive self-importance of so much contemporary poetry, he brings a considered, nuanced vulnerability bred equally in tears and pictures; snapshots of eternity found in his existential connection to his own environment.

Treat yourself to these gems. I’m glad I did.