Page 6 - flying stones
P. 6


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


   1   2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9   10   11