Romen Basu's verse cannot be rushed into the reader's heart.He only persuades and hints at life truths, with a graciousindirection, nothing frontal. Like the finesse that is palpable in the prose andsubstance of his novels, his poems too gleam with an expressive beauty. His workis not the offering of a slick journalist, nor that of the timidintellectual, nor yet is it modelled like the intricate jewellery of theaesthete. What it attempts is a crystalline vein despite struggling through thetorpid substance of modern day existence. Not being writing for writing's sake,it invariably circles round our prime human concerns. In sum, these verses areechoes of the author's own running pulse even as it progresses through life'svaried passage.