I would define poetry . . . as the rhythmical creation of Beauty. (Edgar Allen Poe)
My mother’s well-worn and age-spotted copy of One Hundred and One Famous Poems (publication date 1929) lies open on the nearby hearth as I write. My mother loved poetry and spent so many hours with these poems that I imagine this little book has vestiges of many emotions lingering within its pages. It also is marked with what are most likely dirt and food stains from pudgy little hands that labored over these poems, maybe because they seemed to mean so much to my mother, and I wanted to know why. I do know that a lot of unintentional memorization was one of the results, for which now I am so very grateful.
The Preface to this book, written by editor Roy J. Cook in 1929 or thereabouts, reads as follows:
This is the age of science, of steel — of speed and the cement road. The age of hard faces and hard highways. Science and steel demand the medium of prose. Speed requires only the look — the gesture. What need then, for poetry?
Great need!
There are souls, in these noise-tired times, that turn aside into unfrequented lanes, where the deep woods have harbored the fragrances of many a blossoming season. Here the light, filtering through perfect forms, arranges itself in lovely patterns for those who perceive beauty.
It is the purpose of this little volume to enrich, ennoble, encourage. And for man, who has learned to love convenience, it is hardly larger than his concealing pocket.