If there’s one thing that doesn’t resonate with me, it’s safe writing. It’s often sterile, boring, and shallow. When writers distance themselves from their words, they end up filling pages with an excuse to write, often without saying anything of much substance. I’ve only just started…

It’s not easy for me to begin reading a book of poetry. Poetry wastes no time drilling into the depths of the cavities I desperately pretend are just stains. It has a way of crippling my defenses and ripping open my heart to the meanings between the letters.

The book is in part a celebration of the 150th anniversary of Rabindranath Tagore’s birth into this world – a world of which he attempted to make sense despite the many illogical catalysts that veer life’s travelers off their paths. It isn’t even with reverence that I approach such a painter of words, for that would minimize the expanse of Tagore’s contributions. It is more with timidness…