Page 6 - flying stones
P. 6
preface
Offering a volume of poetry is like dropping a handful of
rose petals in the Grand Canyon and then waiting to
hear the echoes. That is how it is according to Donald
Marquis. After all, what is there to slip through a poet’s
fingers but feelings, thoughts, sensations, some good
and bad guesses, floating along with salty tears and the
powers of syntactical attraction? Nonetheless, there
derives in this cruel art some necessary and essential
confidence that what has resulted by strange and
arduous improbabilities is a poem, greater than all
doubts about the efforts being worthwhile. The act of
poetry is an elusive, murky impulse and always, as any
true poet knows, standing on the edge of everything,
ultimately out of control.
And thus we now have this multi-media volume of
poetry conjured by Peter Fulton. Stones are flying here,
among other mysteries and secrets. I detect many
dimensions larger than the poet himself as these
vortexes of energies swirl near and away, nearing and
awaying. Peter has a peculiar gift for casting spells of
abstractions that involute and come back with sudden
materiality and immediacy. In this work are
impressions to ponder, and catastrophes, space travels,
time travels, momentaries that turn out to be
momentous.