He was not a literary artist in the sense that his work doesn’t seem to wrestle with questions of form; he’s not attempting to reinvent the surrealist modes at his disposal but rather making use of them as vehicles for his insurgent imagination and apocalyptic vision, the fury of which elevates his writing above and beyond the mere assemblage of irrational word combinations.

When I looked up Barrax’s collections, I found that his work spans not only relatively traditional-looking lyrics, but formally experimental poems that disarrange syntax and disperse words across the page.

Jack’s poetry asks you, the reader, to abandon yourself, to engage with what you don’t know, and can’t understand, and enter a path of transformative gnosis.

Helen Adam is a singular luminary whose ballads, if you read them out loud and late at night, will sneak into your mind and create phantasmagorias of exquisite, sensual, brooding, and melancholy fairy-tales.

Brian Lucas writes about the life and career of Laurence Weisberg.

Grey Space poems are like placards, billboards, vertiginous verbal icons; they are often verse vendettas, self-mythologizing though not self-aggrandizing documents, punk percussion protests, dirty ditties, saucy stanzas, and crazy collages that are collisions of sound, sense, and structure.

Hilda Morley’s life and career read like a course in 20th century modernism.

What dynamically distinguishes Dumas is the visionary element, where the everyday is upended by mythic moments and alternative possibilities of living and dreaming are represented.