Damnation and Cotton Candy by Alan S. Kessler Blog Tour! #damnationcottoncandy

 

Please join us for our Winter 2022 blog tour for Damnation and Cotton Candy by Alan S. Kessler, published by Leviathan Books in June 2022.

The poetry in it is about war, climate, family, childhood, reality, illusion and ghosts — many ghosts; Includes statement poems in free verse and prose that are personal, political, sometimes painful; sometimes a surrealistic convergence of opposites: “…the gray rainbow trails of stone-eyed butterflies.”

Alan S. Kessler lives in Vermont with his wife, children, dog, and two cats. He’s authored six novels. Damnation and Cotton Candy is his first book of poetry.

Add to GoodReads:

Available on Amazon.

Blog Tour Schedule:

Nov. 2: The Book Connection (guest post)

Nov. 8: Review Tales by Jeyran Main (interview)

Nov. 10: The Booklover’s Boudoir (review)

Nov. 14: Author Anthony Avina’s Blog (review)

TBD: CelticLady’s Reviews (guest post)

Nov. 16: Wall-to-Wall Books (spotlight)

Nov. 18: True Book Addict (review)

Poems Grown in Sunlight or Poisoned Ground 

Recently, a friend asked me to read the poetry of his 16-year-old daughter and tell him, not her, what I thought about it. He wanted to filter my comments, remove any possible toxins. I agreed. I never say no to almost any request. Have a cat to bury? Sure, no problem. I’ll grab my shovel. But reading the poetry of a teenager and then giving my opinion to her dad as to its quality, well, that’s a scarier proposition than digging a grave at night in Stephen King’s Pet Sematary.

Who am I to judge someone’s poetry? I’m insecure about my own. I write what I feel, try to shape thoughts into dark or colorful imagery conveying perceptions that hopefully are authentic and spoken with a true voice, but in reality, maybe all I’m creating is just a hollowness reverberating nowhere but in my own mind. I am not a trained poet, just someone who arrogantly believes his few words, sprinkled like magical dust on a page, can conjure truth. 

Am I a long-bearded castaway mumbling the words I hacked into a coconut tree, cackling and knowing I’m a genius as the tropical sun further melts my brain? Am I someone living in internal landscapes haunted by the past, poems a way to drive a stake into the heart of demons? How can I tell a bright, talented teenage poet with perceptive insights and wise philosophical thoughts that her words haven’t bled enough? 

I won’t. 

For the fortunate, art doesn’t require suffering, but emotion transformed by imagination into the meaningful.    

I have been entrusted with the artistry of a young soul.  I will report to her father that I found his daughter’s poetry remarkable for her age then bolster this generality with a specific: I read her poems at a family gathering. Everyone there loved what she had written. They didn’t ask for pain. They didn’t ask for blood. They found the innocence and beauty in words relatable to their own lives. 

She was the poet. 

They smiled knowingly at me, a wanderer in a labyrinth of my own truths, in a cemetery where nothing stays buried because I am (gratefully) compelled to resurrect all the decomposing corpses in my life, give each a story, and walk with them alone toward retribution or understanding before the final bell tolls midnight.