Many poems do precious little for me, but a few are longtime and well-loved companions. Often, poems in the standard collections bore me, mystify me, and make me feel like the 10-year-old victim of attention-deficit disorder forced to attend a two-hour sermon on a sweltering summer afternoon in a stuffy and dark church filled with elderly dullards while his mates are playing in the sunshine. For me, the poetry at this site is not like that. This poetry strikes me as being good art; and like all good art, it is the product of skillful craftsmanship and virtuosity of composition.
The careful honing, word sculpting, and cleverness of these poems do not distract me from directly experiencing them. To me, these poems have a natural feel, a deceptive appearance of artlessness in much the same way that a Japanese rock garden suggests a happy contrivance of nature instead of being the remarkable feat of discipline that it really is.
All art that appeals to me has design, a compelling and interesting pattern of elements working together. For me, that design must be approachable and visible, or I will fail to notice its artistry. The technique must be there, but it must not be there too obviously.
This poetry is a design woven of the elements of rhythm. Tiny rightly colored threads of connotations, alliterations, word plays, double meanings, verbal play, and wit blend in to make a whole fabric. When I look at the detail closely, I can see all the little elements of the weaving, how the little colored threads form a design, but when I look at the whole, I see the whole and am taken by it, not noticing the work of the individual threads. Much of this poetry has great subtlety and profundity, but none of it overwhelms.
Lastly, to me poetry is meant to be read aloud. The rhythms and sounds of the words are a vital part of the tapestry.My mother, who died early in the last decade of the 20th century, collected many of these poems and introduced them to me. Her taste and mine were not always the same, but she had a sure ear and the gift of language. I would like to dedicate the poetry site of Window To My World to the memory of my mother, Frances Lucille Wetmore.