Although Time may be that Heraclitean river no one can step into twice, it’s not really linear. Rapids churn in some places and it scarcely flows at others, almost stagnant. And the current often sideslips into eddies that circle indefinitely. At least Time seems to function like that as it flows through the memories of a long life. The Eightieth Year, although in the form of a journal comprising numbered entries for fifty-two weeks, follows the river through all of those variations, allowing memory to float downstream like a stick, accepting both whitewater and quiet pools, diverted into eddies as they come. No need any more to hurry.
Over de auteur
Don Thompson was born in Bakersfield, California, and has spent most of his life not far from there. He has been publishing poetry since the early sixties, including over a dozen books and chapbooks. He and his wife, Chris, live on her family’s farm near Buttonwillow in a house that has been home to four generations. In 2016 he was selected as the first poet laureate of Kern County.
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