Weather is all about juxtaposition, and sometimes Ulku's book storms, sometimes it's bathed in a melancholy rain, sometimes it's desert dry, and sometimes cold to the point of cracking. Ulku is an exciting poet for me to read, but not because the book portrays mini-climates. I'm not as happy when his poems sound like those of James Wright or Li Po, whom he imitates in open homage, not by indirection or with apology. If I have one criticism of the book, it is that the poet should trust himself and stick to himself. To paraphrase James Wright, I want to hear him, he has clear sounds to make.
Latches click softly in the trees.
Your hair is gray. But Ulku sometimes relies too much on the power of juxtaposition. It is the end of a frayed rope. These are not bad lines, but I like Ulku much better for his better qualities, his keen eye, his lyricism, his relaxed pacing, and most of all, his passivity. He is willing to let the world happen to his poem, to let the world happen to him, to let the world happen.