My Piece of Sky by James Collins

BRUSSELS - Jan. 25, 2017 - PRLog -- For James Collins nature, spirituality and everyday experiences intersect to illuminate the soul of the reader as much as that of the poet.

From the ruins of an old church to casualties of urban landscapes, Collins writes through the darkness to a terrestrial, cosmic refuge of light and hope.

This collection examines one's ever-changing station in life and is as much a spirit map for the reader as a compilation.

~Chance Chambers, Nashville poet

Cover image:

Brian T. Cox – Antelope Canyon, www.briantcox.synthasite.com

Foreword

In James Collins' latest book, My Piece of Sky, the poems are a blend of observations and explorations, control and leaps, that pull us into uncharted territory. The language Collins uses is both informal and highly textured, compelling and almost unclassifiable, something not often found in contemporary poetry. From Old, Abandoned Church: "… I see / blotches of sun and shadows resting / on an old, abandoned church. / Crusted with a black pox, weary stones / still kneel in doing / their crumbling penance…" Unblinking, truthful and suffused with wonder, My Piece of Sky is a journey into the deep vault of the spirit. In Why Poetry, James Collins tells us: "It takes a unique person with a special skill / to be good at something that makes no money. / But the unspoken truth is, poetry chooses you. / A poet pays attention, generously offers us / fears, fierceness and faith, while others fly / coast to coast, racing clouds and time." My Piece of Sky, read it and you will be drawn back to read it again, again, and again...

The House I Grew up in

From the neighbor's window across the street,
it was a simple, one story home on Eden Lane.
As a lanky, crew-cut kid I'd step out to play
baseball, ride bikes, climb trees, always dodging
the dust devils of my older brother's rowdy crowd.
Returning held more hesitation than hope.
Inside our house the ambiance was desert dry.
No hand was held, no love expressed and
my heart grew thirsty.
When I turned eight another brother arrived
at our arid address, and again when I was twelve.
We grew up a family of strangers.
Each brother wore an isolating bubble as a
life jacket, but we all sank in a sea of sandy grit.
This 'every man for himself' wounding
couldn't be seen from a neighbor's window.
My Depression-era parents stumbled
through the shifting dunes of daily life
with withering resignation.
Once I asked, 'Why don't I ever see
you and Mom kiss?'
The awkward, robotic peck of sandpapery
whiskers against dull red, metal lips
damaged me even more deeply.
After eighteen years, my soul wearied of feeling
alone in this mirage of a family, and I left.
Despite all the miles I trekked, and the years
searching for a shore or an oasis, a hunger
still howls in my heart.
A hunger that comes from living in a
round house with love in every corner.

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