“Ultimately though, Poetry is no more than U N I in conVERSEsensation” – Celia A Sorhaindo

“She is a black statue in a whitewashed wooden chair, a dilapidated board house, sitting still till dusk spreads her silk petticoat across the sagging sky and bats swarm into the evening’s canvas.”

A poem is not its words, but the ringing it leaves behind.