Review:
This long poem written in Roman numbered sections, constituting a series of poems held together by one title is an ambitiously written work with a lofty philosophical air and an historical motif. "One day on examination of the 20th century's contribution to philosophical thought we will finally recognize our self-proclaimed brilliance of 'modernist ideas' were merely exercises in form," writes Sanfilip. "But in the absurdity of such reductionism we may find ourselves faced with the real challenge of discerning the intelligible laws of the universe, the logos, and its true medium, the poetic word, profoundly changing the very fabric of modern civilization, returning us to faith in being and our true place in the matrix of Nature." The idea that we must return ourselves to our true place in the matrix of nature is an indisputable one for our times as we experience the threat of global warming and destruction of the ecosystems which sustain us. Thomas Sanfilip seems to have a profound feeling for the power and beauty of "Nature" which he always capitalizes in the Germanic mode, as if to deify it with supreme importance-a magnitude which it indeed holds for all. From the poet's black Sicilian hair to his homage to Whitman, his harkening to city life, in New York, in Chicago, his invitations to the simple pleasures of coffee and sweet rolls, his adoration of sunlight and sea, to time and space, we feel his intense desire to communicate his philosophical meandering and his longing for profound love. We travel through his pages full of his effort to poeticize his own being. Sanfilip is replete with himself and his own thoughts and memories, in love with "bowls of fruit brought at morning./When plums spirits raced, sun fell blue, soft. /Butterflies mounted frangipani, fat-leafy flowers./ Blossoming orange wings.// I loved memory/The hands of my mother's doing work, pinning/billowy white sheets to dry in springtime,/kneaded dough, seasoned meat, pepper, garlic, salt./Father his acrid pipe. Summers under an appletree, every branch white flowers./His accordion, guitar, song, sporadic and lost...." This poet is at his best when he forgoes philosophy and lives fully in the descriptive moment with all its sensual and most natural joys. -- From Independent Publisher
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