Love in a Time of Technology

By Sasenarine Persaud

Love in a Time of Technology
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Whether in the heart of downtown Toronto, a bookstore in Boston, the courtyard of the Taj Mahal--through the portals of cyberspace--on the banks of a Tampa river, or a journey through time to Georgetown, an old Caribbean colonial capital, love circumscribes everything. From ... Read more


Overview

Whether in the heart of downtown Toronto, a bookstore in Boston, the courtyard of the Taj Mahal--through the portals of cyberspace--on the banks of a Tampa river, or a journey through time to Georgetown, an old Caribbean colonial capital, love circumscribes everything. From Indo-Caribbean author, Sasenarine Persaud,Love in a Time of Technology is no wide-eyed outpouring; the poems probe and question concepts and beliefs, poke fun at age, companions taken for granted, and the realization that, like a mannequin in a Manhattan storefront, love is "faceless and, almost, raceless. " If love circumscribes everything, these poems show that everything--economics, politics, ambitions and exiles--also circumscribes love.  

Sasenarine Persaud

Sasenarine Persaud is an essayist, novelist, short-story writer, and poet. He is the author of ten books: seven poetry collections, two novels, and a book of short stories. His latest book, In a Boston Night, was published by TSAR in 2008. He was born in Guyana and has lived for several years in Canada. He has served as a vice-president and chair of the membership committee of the League of Canadian Poets, on the Board of Directors of the Scarborough Arts Council (Toronto), and on juries for the Toronto Arts Council and the Ontario Arts Council. He presently resides in Tampa, Florida.

Reviews

"[T]he poet's mastery of the English language is underwritten by ancestral histories and myths. Love is age-old and universal . . . Persaud is a poet of precise language, of the finely-honed meaning . . . "--Wasafiri"Persaud's poems are spiced with the imagery of his ancestral India--Hindu gods, rituals, lavish epics, and seductive flowers . . . Persaud seems both haunted and inspired by the notion that America shelters so few who have any true ancestral claim to the place . . . Reading Persaud's verse, it's hard not to feel, and in any way be heartened by, the sense that each one of us is, in one way or another, an exile. " --Bostonia

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