I was sixteen the year Faulkner died and dressed in black for a month to mourn his passing. My mama said, "Girl, you got to be crazy, wearing black in this God-awful Georgia heat."
Now my mama had a way with words, short and to the point, Unlike Faulkner, who lingered and made his last; but Mama never had time to read, so I read for both of us and found in Faulkner a reason for being-- both hers and mine.
A further collection of poems, many from years in the Middle East, but also the California San Francisco and Central Coast areas (Santa Cruz, Carmel, Big Sur, Berkeley, etc.).
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"Mourning Faulkner"... Intriguing, exoteric... symbolistic, reverent and esoteric.
In admiration,
Andre Emmanuel Bendavi ben-YEHU
Cheers,
Dan