Romen Basu's verse cannot be rushed into the reader's heart. So, since he only persuades and hints at life truths, with a gracious indirection, nothing frontal. Those who are familiar with his earlier volumes of poems would readily agree with this. Certainly some of these readers would have derived much pleasure and profit from those. Like the finesse that is palpable in the prose and substance of his novels, his poems too gleam with an expressive beauty. There is rarely a page that lacks in vivid imagery and the memorable phrase. Basu''s work then is not the offering of a slick journalist, nor that of the timid intellectual, nor yet is it modeled like the intricate jewellry of the aesthete. What it attempts is a crystalline vein despite struggling through the torpid substance of modem day existence. Not being writing for writing's sake, it invariably circles round our prime human concerns. In sum, these verses are echoes of the author's own running pulse even as it progresses through life's varied passage.