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Enchanting The Shadowlands, by Lorna Smithers

Reviewed by Rhyd Wildermuth

I don’t know how to compel a person, a stranger, regardless of their disposition towards my words, to read a book. But it’s not for that this review of Lorna Smither’s collection, Enchanting the Shadowlands, is so overdue, nor from any of the usual excuses of pre-occupation or inundation. That is, the world hasn’t gotten in the way, nor have I been too afeared I wouldn’t have quite the right words.

Rather–the book’s a trap.

Don’t carry the slim volume with you, thinking you might find time to read a few poems on the bus to work, or occupy with her words some unguarded moments at a coffeeshop or bar, waiting for a friend, perhaps, or sitting merely idle. You cannot merely fill space of distraction with her poetry any more than you might hope a quick stroll through a park will ‘clear your head’ before preparing to do more serious work.

Like the unlooked-for lover, the sudden gasp of sunlight which makes you forget what you were on about, the unscheduled adventure or the almost rude rising of a massive moon looming over your mundane thoughts, Lorna’s writing always catches you off-guard, unprotected, disarmed, flailing, tripping into candle light where you’d thought you’d find florescence.

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