In Ikeler's poetry we watch the footprints of dancing maidens disappear at the edge of shore. We watch the beasts of the woods watching a wild thing cutting wood. We trace the DNA of Jove back to the scenes of his crimes. These poems combine the observation of a Robert Frost walking a bleak New England landscape the pessimism of a Matthew Arnold listening to the sea above Dover Beach and the wit of an Alexander Pope as Ikeler encounters the paradox of living a life consistently shadowed by death. Spare in expression but unsparing in their vision the poems manifest a rare fusion of intelligence and imagination.
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