AT A LONDON POETRY FESTIVAL

Jacob’s Ladder: six-winged seraphim

scramble up the receding beam,

as cherubim tumble, po-faced, spent;

while underneath: angel ordinaries, content

to browse the falling feathers, gossip

over light motes — some looking up,

some never looking up,

until Tomas Tranströmer,

laureate, at the piano,

fingers the sarabande

written for his only good hand,

smiling mutely from his rolling chair

at the standing adoration tendered there.

<a href=”http://bertzpoet.com/?page_id=413″><span style=”color: #333333;”>“A strikingly eclectic collection, though one in which the poems and prose are never less than well-written and crafted, even if sometimes artistically unsatisfying. Hirschhorn is no dilettante though. A second reading confirmed my sense of his delight in his writing, his depth, power and culture. … My favourite poem in the collection is the exquisite and luxuriant ‘composition in indigo and ebony’, the last three lines of which have lodged in my memory:</span></a>

flash flash
their hide and seek
beetled lucifers
trysting in the bower
pierce the nocturne hour
I’m glad that still happens. Thank you, Norbert Hirschhorn.”
—Paul Lee, 2008, <a href=”http://happenstancepress.co.uk/joomla/index.php?option=com_content&amp;task=view&amp;id=192&amp;Itemid=44″>Sphinx Chapbook Reviews</a>.