Six months ago I began a new publishing company, based on my brand, Finding Authentic You. As the submissions rolled in, one book of poetry stood out, because of its beautifully crafted skill, articulate phrasing, and profound depth of character: Deathwatch: The Dark Poems.
Author, Dr. Robin Sinclair takes questions of Death, Religion, Love, and Writing, and mixes them up in a rather heady cocktail—shaken, not stirred! Full of unexpected twists and turns, these poems lead both to darkness, light, poignant questions about love, and to unexpected humor. You will not be disappointed with this pertinent look at death, dying, questioning, loving, and a writer’s perspective on emerging from life’s crises.
Robin Sinclair holds a Doctorate in English and American Literature from Duke University. Dr. Sinclair spreads her poetic wings with her musings and metaphors about Death. Born and raised in the South, Robin has lived a multi-cultural life, traveling often to her favorite Scottish Highlands, London, and Germany, where she travelled and studied European Culture for three years. She loves ballroom dancing, guns, motorcycles, antique silver, and comic books. She also iswidely acclaimed as a professional appraiser both on- and off-screen.
- Join Me for the Book Launch This Friday
- Cocktails: Wine and hors d’oeuvres at 6:00 p.m.
- Place: 5001 Maywood Drive, Nashville 37211
- Time: Friday, July 18 from 6:00 – 7:30 p.m.
- Reading and signing: 6:30 p.m.
Two Examples of Poems from the Book:
The Lover’s Prayer
I stretch out along the ground, elbows sharply down-
And pray, oh pray, to one who cannot hear, but who can
And who can say which is better? Can hear, but not aid?
Or, even, can hear, but will not aid?
Love is my lord; oh, King of Hearts! Hear me though You
Love me, though You may not. Endure such pleading,
Even bored. Give me this day my food, some warmth, some
hope for that, truly, is in Your keeping.
I rise and dust away the dust. To it, I shall come soon
Phone held tight like a rosary at my side.
Beloved, beloved, beloved, a heartbeat count,
Do screens bear the imprint of fingertips, fumbling at
No, no one will find faint marks, scrabbled like a prisoner’s
on the stone doorjamb—beside Your electronic name!
Return Trip, Years Later
Where we really want to go is not a place, but a time.
We want to go—tourists of time—to return
To what was not appreciated enough,
Or valued enough,
Or lingered in long enough,
Though that would have been impossible,
For the joy, then, was not lingering, but doing.
The return is not doing, but remembering,\
And hoping—deceived—to do again.
A return to place equaling,
To a mind uninformed, yet, that time goes only one
Doing and being again!
Frustrated, somber, on return
To say of there,
Wherever there is,
“It’s not the same.”
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