Cave Dweller
poems by Robert Cooperman

Cave Dweller   Robert Cooperman

Cave Dweller is available from your local bookstore or from on-line vendors such as Amazon or Barnes and Noble.


Wind Publications
600 Overbrook Drive
Nicholasville KY 40356


Cave Dweller is a poignant, delightful saga told with tainted, ghostly introspection; it is a tale of regret and redemption, neither fully deserved nor fully realized.
          — Ken Hada, author of Spare Parts and The Way of the Wind

This is the story of Edgar Cantrell, a fugitive from "justice" in post-Civil War Colorado, a tale told in narrative poems. Here is poetry in its most elemental form, reminiscent of the epics recited around the campfires of the ancients.

Robert Cooperman’s vivid scenes and his narrator’s vernacular ruminations are as seductive as one of his dance-hall “belles” in Cave Dweller. They lure you into the poetic saga of tragedy and triumph on the western frontier, take you for a wild ride through his stunning narrative, and then spit you out . . . a better person for it.
          — Dorothy Alexander, Poet and Editor/Publisher, Village Books Press

Robert Cooperman’s reach extends very high into the Rocky Mountains and far back into the century before last to render Edgar Cantrell, a character as thoroughly convincing in his 19th century sensibilities as any literary creation. Cooperman’s narrative of greed, lust and violence, of love and redemption, is clean and precise. Set solidly along an historical frontier, Cave Dweller also suggests a long, mythic history of fearful humans hunched around lonely fires in makeshift shelters. Those of us navigating the treacherously uncharted 21st century will be reminded of the inevitability of courage and hope. 
          — JV Brummels, author of City at War and Publisher, Logan House


From the book ---

Edgar Cantrell and the Terrors by Night 

In a devil-blossoming snowstorm 
I was trudging back to my cave, 
when a freight train of a bear 
exploded from its depths. 
I got off a shot, squirreled up a pine 
and held on like the trunk was Lydia 
come back from the dead to forgive me. 

In the gusting gloom the bear squealed 
like I might’ve wounded him enough 
to make him want to rip me head to foot, 
the pine shivering in a frozen fever-wind. 

The grizzly vanished, replaced by the Haint, 
singing, “Come down and save your soul.” 
I almost did, but her fangs were sharp 
as wind-stropped rocks; I cried for my life 
in the snow, storm-thrashed pine needles 
sharp against my face as smashed rotgut bottles. 

Finally, the blizzard blew itself out, 
I clutched my rifle like I should’ve Lydia 
when I still had a chance to make things right, 
and stiffly climbed down, left that cave behind 
to whatever wanted it more than me, 
and trudged up the slope: farther 
from Sprockett, Lydia, and the Haint. 

Just below tree line, 
I spied a hill rat’s abandoned shack, 
built a fire and waited for whoever 
was coming for me next.