Wall and Neutrino the Poet in New York

All of Constantin Severin’s work which I’ve seen proceeds from a single steady universal pulse - his poetry and fiction, his editing, his artwork and his organizing. It’s as if he’d simply alighted and settled somewhere slightly above and askew from this world, colonized that spot, and begun processing reality and producing art in this sublime frame ever since - like an own industry; like a small steady sun. In its steady universality, grounded in a strong particular European lineage, Constantin has managed to produce a body of work - and chiefly I am speaking

of his poetry here, although it may also be true of his painting - which is somehow also unmarked, by which I mean both that it is unsullied, and also without jagged edges on which to snag. It is often the jagged edges by which one becomes acquainted with work of sometimes lesser or flashier poets. Thus, it becomes somehow easy to overlook Constantin’s body of work, in our crush of days - to miss its significant achievement. I believe history will be kind to Constantin Severin in this regard. His work is like a beautiful species of animal or plant which exists

regardless of our noticing. It is a natural fount of clear coherent poetic output simply flowing, unselfishly and whole. His is a tree of ripened aesthetic fruit, ready to nourish us unstintingly in delight and recognition - if only we happen upon it. Here it is.