Secret Book of God

secret book of god


Approaching a first review of Ric William's
first published book of poetry, The Secret
Book of God, one is immediately impressed by
the stark white linen-like texture of the cold
bound volume. Opening the book the raised lower
case letters of the title slide like braille
under the finger tips: luxurious, sensorial,
promising revelation of ancient cuneiform secrets.
Continuing the theme of ancient text inside the
cover is the palimpsest page, reminding us of a
time when writing materials were precious and often
used one or more times after earlier writing had
been erased. One is now glad, that one has learned
to read.

Certainly reading Williams's poems demands a fresh
eye. It is necessary to read "differently,"
suspending not only preconceived definitions and
expectations, but hanging suspended in negative
capability realizing that the titles of the poems
lie just as suspended at the ends of the lyric or
sometimes narrative verse.

Williams is not only a master of phrase, sentence,
and punctuation, but of the ampersand, creating
a non de plume of "and" by substitution. He writes
"every sadness every scar a flower with an open mouth"
(walking off), this vivid description of life's
difficult challenges, with the outcome beauty in
a flower, assures us that pain assuages itself.
Saving the title till last suspends expectation
or foreshadowing, the advantage, the aha moment
of realization.

Reading the lines "the architects of sleep design
the world / lacing moments like foam at the edge
of every now" (dreaming memory) dragging us back
to hard pan lots where ten-year-olds in days gone
by lie on their backs and see the face of God,
dreaming her.

These poems are rebellious in line length, yet
simultaneously and singularly void of traditional
structure. Williams has successfully created original
form in the fractured vessel of asbstract imagery,
fleshed out, in concrete vision. One sees an almost
digital composition, a staccato of wave lengths,
of particle and field leading to the pallatable
oral satisfaction of "the scent of oranges heavy;
in your hair."

Tenacious insight exposes us for "what is shameful /
is only what we refuse to love." He shocks our
traditional senses with gentle reticense, almost
whispering, "where in the void of god . . . " and
turning insightful sensitive moments of words hewn
from the clay of language into shape and form
"perhaps we are to dreams what landscapes are to us."

Rick Williams helps us ask the questions we dare not
utter, "what the meaning of existence had to do with
existence," as we search our lives for "lost Arthurs,"
and realize that some days "a description of pain ad
infinitum only crying will do / or a knife & a long
hill / to plunge the blade / of all that can't be said."

Finally, Ric Williams has done just that, said all
that can't be said.



Connie Lane Williams & Forrest Fest

Posted over on MythoPoetry