September 5, 2002
Chris Locke is writing. Again. And ya’ gotta love him. At least I do, when he surfaces with the kind of slithering songs he’s finally singing to someone other them himself.*
He lives in his lines, slim threads that snake like silk through places too darkly narrow for most of us to find our way through. Buy he goes there, at home in the wet hollows. And we try to follow. Or at least I try. Only can try. Because it’s such a trip, like drifting in the little dinghy through Howe Caverns all those years ago. Long tunnels echoing on all sides, all shadows and surprising winds and watery mysteries they never gave me leave to explore. Locke shines his flashing light down those tunnels. Look. Look. All that magic. Go for it.
*O the songs we hide, singing only to ourselves.
Theordore Roethke, Meditations of an Old Woman, Fourth Meditation
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