The poems in A Sinking Ship Is Still a Ship are poetry as ode to the future of hidden, buried things, be they land, soon to be overcome by rising tides and disappeared, or memories of the
“It’s impossible . . . to read Mama’s Last Hug and not see a door opening to a wider view of humans, our primate relatives, and so many other creatures.”
“[the author’s] perceptions remain young and fresh and are as vibrant as any poet’s working today.”
There was a time, and it was not so very long ago, when because we had read the texts of modern philosophy that had suddenly appeared in print, we contemplated Buddhism while we tuned the engines o
“Neil Shubin is the kind of guy you’d like to meet at a cocktail party: smart, funny, a good storyteller . . . It’s unfortunate that Dr. Shubin . . .