Sean Ward’s poems are dense with closely observed details, whether they occur in nature or the guts of an engine, in the human psyche or the intricacies of cat behavior. From a very male perspective, Ward delights in precise terminologies, in the physicality of labor, in the fantasy life that so often underpins the mundane, as when tearing down a shed becomes the act of a Viking berserker, or the assembly of a lawnmower becomes a Zen meditation. Ward’s appreciation of craftsmanship reminds one of Eric Gill, his lanky rhythms of Whitman.
Sean Ward
Because he has to do something in his free time
