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