If life is pilgrimage, "Walking Papers" are the pages - the notes on the journey, news of the world, letters of introduction and dismissal - found in one's breast-pocket amongst one's effects. And Thomas Lynch, the celebrated poet-undertaker is our guide through a world that's painfully aware of its own mortality; as he says in the powerfully moving title poem: 'Listen - something's going to get you in the end. The numbers are fairly convincing on this, hovering, as they do, around a hundred/percent. We die. And more's the pity'. In this, his fourth collection of poems - his first in the new century - Lynch attends to the flora and fauna and fellow pilgrims: dead poets and living masters, a former president and his factotums, a sin-eater and inseminator. Faux-bardic and mock-epic, deft at lament and lampoon, accusation and dispensation, fete and feint, Lynch's poems are powerful medicines, tonics for the long haul and home-going: I say clean your plate and say your prayers, go out for a long walk after supper and listen for the voice that sounds like you talking to yourself, you know the one: contrapuntal, measured to footfall, true to your own metabolism. Listen - inspiration, expiration, it's all the same, the sigh of creation and its ceasing - whatever's going to happen's going to happen.
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