Moss is oceanic: his poems rise, crest, crash, and rise again like
waves. His voice echoes the boom of the Old Testament, the fluty
trill of Greek mythology, and the gongs of Chinese rituals as he
writes about love, nature, war, oppression, and the miracle of
language. He addresses the God of the Jews, of the Christians, and
of the Muslims with awe and familiarity, and chants to lesser gods
of his own invention. In every surprising poem, every song to life,
beautiful life, Moss, by turns giddy and sorrowful, expresses a
sacred sensuality and an earthy holiness. Or putting it another
way: here is a mind operating in open air, unimpeded by fashion or
forced thematic focus, profoundly catholic in perspective, at once
accessible and erudite, inevitably compelling. All of which is to
recommend Mosss ability to participate in and control thoroughly
these poems while resisting the impulse to center himself in them.
This differentiates his beautiful work from much contemporary
breast-beating. Moss is an artist who embraces the possibilities of
exultation, appreciation, reconciliation, of extreme tenderness. As
such he lays down a commitment to a common, worldly morality toward
which all beings gravitate.
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