“Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference. Sacredness, strangeness. Revelation, reverence. Attentiveness, exigence. If we listen carefully, Ralph Angel reveals here how to undertake and interpret the singular journeys of his own unique, masterful poems. The mysteries within the quotidian; the slippery, oblique correspondences between solitary, seemingly unlike things; the fervent belief in poems as acts of irreducible consciousness and enactments of intimacy. As he lived, still lives, in the moment of his poems, so too does he lucidly inhabit these unassuming, often brilliant musings on his art. It is such a pleasure to hear his unmistakable voice again so clearly.”

“The most enduring poetry teaches us how to listen to a new and higher music, and that’s precisely what Ralph Angel’s posthumous work Even Blood does, along with his previous collections. Each poem becomes a kapparah, and within its atonement for our lives, perception shifts between the eternal and the dissolving present: ‘Even in a thousand years time / I sit for a while / in a garden / among tall buildings / and put my mind / beneath the sound of / water / falling / and eat a fabulous / tomato…’ By telescoping time he enlarges sensation. To read his poetry is to be cleansed, transformed into something higher. ‘We were holy places there. / And we would keep / repeating that.’ Thank you, Mister Angel, for the beautiful ride.’”

“In Ralph Angel’s poems, one senses that one is sitting before an almost finished painting of which he is the hapless, skeptical narrator, simultaneously distracted by and attuned to just one tiny red dot (blood?) of hopelessness drifting off somewhere there in the corner. How did we, too, find ourselves in this mirrored, Velásquez-angled infinitude, and with this somehow trusted yet unreliable narrator who has found access to our very souls, however tenuous, however steadfast? In almost every poem, you can hear Ralph Angel responding, ‘I don’t know, you tell me.’”