Young Ned O'Gorman is a Catholic poet whose first two collections set off litanies of praise and thanksgiving in a few little magazines a while back; Blake, Hopkins and Thomas were generally considered to be the godfathers at his christening. In his third volume they're still around, but so too are others. Here's O'Gorman echoing Eliot (""Then water broke the lucid bone/and made an island of desire/cornered by the tides and beasts/that hold the world from air and fire""), or Stevens (""No sound but in its/corresponding sound. Every/thing harmonious Matchless""). O'Gorman, whose themes are varyingly devotional or mystical, has talents that are other than derivative: a slightly mad, manly music, and a sort of dusk-to-dawn dramatic tone. Initially he is always impressive, but ultimately he is found to lack fullness of imagination, of spirit, and- it must be said- of true feeling. To foresee, to cut through to conscience and consciousness, to chronicle both the temporal and eternal, the day-to-day living with the life beyond, is a difficult calling for which not everyone is chosen. There are over 30 poems here; less than a half-a-dozen are first rate. O'Gorman should slow up, stand back a bit, wait for the ""chosen"" moment.