From Anne Harding Woodworth's review of Terence Winch's latest book:
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Terence Winch is not a narrative poet all the time, though The Known Universe contains some lovely stories in verse. Nor might he be pegged a singularly lyrical poet, though his cadences and vocabulary flow as real as music. No, Winch defies to be tagged.
Terence Winch is not a narrative poet all the time, though The Known Universe contains some lovely stories in verse. Nor might he be pegged a singularly lyrical poet, though his cadences and vocabulary flow as real as music. No, Winch defies to be tagged.
One marvels at his known universe. It is an amalgam of humor, pathos, love, longing, self-effacement, observation, wisdom, reverence and irreverence, a place the reader can enter comfortably with eyes and ears wide open, warmly ready to believe and disbelieve. It is a place filled with sounds, memories, family, vignettes, Ireland, rites of passage; and the path within this universe, though not necessarily chronological, meanders through youth, middle age, and the years in which the end of life seems near.
And there’s Winch’s craft, filled with the spark of occasional rhyme, metaphor, message, and laughter. Winch can’t stop himself from having fun with words and then using them to pluck at the reader’s heartstrings. But he is never saccharine. He doesn’t know what a cliché is, and even in those times when he becomes irreverent, he never goes over the edge.
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