A few months ago I read Hill of Doors by Robin Robertson and his words are hammering from inside my teeth still.
He sets scenes at a measured pace, his narrative starts a frost feathering up bowel walls. The images he draws are melancholic and musical, autumn at dusk, bright and frightening. “A whicker of pigeons” and a collie’s “rib cage like a sprung trap”. Delicious.
Robert Robertson reads At Roane Head.
Sweet dreams…
poems, prose and pathways
Writer | Artist
Fatos e Curiosidades sobre a natureza e tecnologia
Meditations on Art and Life
"per l' allegria il pianeta nostro è poco attrezzato. Bisogna strappare la gioia ai giorni futuri "
a resource for moving poetry
Linking collage work to the meaning of personal and universal symbols.
This is my adventurous story about buying, designing, and renovating homes in ITALY
Powerful. Visceral. Shocking. Brilliant. A poetic masterpiece – thanks Kk.
Certainly is all that! The poem stays around, emitting moss and autumn and unquiet. I’ll put up a few more of his works in upcoming posts. Grazie mille