Reviews of L.G. Corey’s, “The Kalidas Verses”

Reviews of THE KALIDAS VERSES  by L.G. Corey

By M

Like a sublime acid trip, tripping from one image to the next. I know that acid can be good or bad or neutral, but always interesting. Some of the poems really gripped me & moved me, others floated before me like dreams. L.G. Corey is a wonderful poet.

It often makes physical jolts and slams of my body, makes shimmering flushes of energy pour out from my spine sometimes variously filling alternate sides of my face, as I read and hear it read by the author. His poetry has literally been a shock to my system and I can’t thank him enough.


by Caite Bonham, Award-Winning Iowa Poet
Extremely pleased with THE KALIDAS VERSES received today. It is amazing to read the many verses that I swear tumble and turn into optical illusions with constant new images page after page. Poetry is always seeking original style, form and shift of order, and the time is right for THE KALIDAS VERSES– vs convention. Thank you, poet. It ‘s in my library nestled side by side w/ T.S. Eliot ..


By Matthew Greenlee

This is one poetry book that never ceases to amaze me! Just when I think it cant get

any better, it does.



                    “Trying to use words, and every attempt Is a wholy
new start, and a different kind of failure.” ~T.S. Eliot, East Corker

the rope ends.
the hour ends.
the song ends.


a trajectory
from one end
to another


like a rope,
an hour,
a song.

~ April 22, 2016


          “Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe.” ~Lewis Carroll
Children’s feet
wear children’s shoes,
children’s socks,
and the bruise of ages,
rock of ages,
song of songs.
Children’s footprints
in the sands of time,
the beach,
the glyphs of what will be,
but has not been
until this moment
in the mind of god
for whom a thousand years
is but a single day.


“Joseph dreamed a dream, and he told it to his brothers:
and they hated him yet the more.” (Gen. 37:5)

joseph in the cistern
remembers milk and cookies
in a future bedtime,

a more simple bedtime,

sitting at a kitchen table
in a future kitchen

(a more simple kitchen)

in the desert of Dothan,
where his brothers eat their dinner
on a shroud of many colors

(with desert of milk and cookies)

where the desert nomads
reach into the cistern
and pull him up
into the kitchen.

His mother’s kitchen.




Come out.

Out of the leaf.
Out of the twig.
Out of the rock

Wherever you are,
come out.

Whoever you are,
come out.

See and be seen
in the leaf,
in the twig,
in the rock.

Know and be known.

Whoever you are.
Wherever you are.

See and be seen.
Know and be known.

Come out.

~April 11, 2016


“. . . poets . . . create from the very depths of the collective unconscious, voicing aloud what others only dream.” ~ C.G. Jung ( CW  6: §323)

water drips from rusty pipes

into cracked tea cups,
onto cracked ground

and over the lip of the lunatic
baying at the moon
who answers him with a kiss.

I’ll give you sixpence,
says the moon,

to buy a reading from the gypsy
who knows all, tells all,
yet sees nothing –

nothing to know,
nothing to tell
from nothing to nothing

and back again.

April 9, 2016