Jan
3
On a Cold Night, We Dream of Darkness
I have known, without knowing, Jon Cone for years. I believe he has lived in Iowa for each of those decades. I know he is Canadian. I know the sound of his voice, upon the page.
Yet I have rarely communicated with him directly. Only a single folder of correspondence between him and me exists in my papers,* we've had only six instances of email communications (all between 2006 and 2012), and we occasionally have communicated (sometimes as briefly as a word) over social media. So I don't know him as a person, but I know him as a writer.
I know him without knowing him.
And the poems in this slender and beautiful chapbook are designed to allow new readers to know him in just this way. These sad and quiet poems veer (so far as I can tell) between his real life and the life he makes of words.
Yet I have rarely communicated with him directly. Only a single folder of correspondence between him and me exists in my papers,* we've had only six instances of email communications (all between 2006 and 2012), and we occasionally have communicated (sometimes as briefly as a word) over social media. So I don't know him as a person, but I know him as a writer.
I know him without knowing him.
And the poems in this slender and beautiful chapbook are designed to allow new readers to know him in just this way. These sad and quiet poems veer (so far as I can tell) between his real life and the life he makes of words.
