One Day I'll Dare to Raise my Middle Finger at the Stork and the Reaper
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One Day I'll Dare to Raise my Middle Finger at the Stork and the Reaper
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One day, I’ll dare to raise my middle finger at the stork and the reaper deftly runs a fine thread of existential consciousness through occasions of birth and death and, of course, through that intervening pathway that we all crave and revere as much as we dread: age and aging. The result is finely distilled poetry: a poetic truth and a poetic language and a poetic beauty that are as fascinating and compelling as they are irresistible.
Hyginus Ekwuazi ranks among the poets who dip their pen deep into that part of the human soul where even anguish is sublimated. He is a poet for whom the pen is, indeed, the tongue of the soul.
One day, I’ll dare to raise my middle finger at the stork and the reaper deftly runs a fine thread of existential consciousness through occasions of birth and death and, of course, through that intervening pathway that we all crave and revere as much as we dread: age and aging. The result is finely distilled poetry: a poetic truth and a poetic language and a poetic beauty that are as fascinating and compelling as they are irresistible.
Hyginus Ekwuazi ranks among the poets who dip their pen deep into that part of the human soul where even anguish is sublimated. He is a poet for whom the pen is, indeed, the tongue of the soul.
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