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A Note from the Editor:
I decided to pick four poets for the New Mexico Poetry Broadside
whose work I've known, admired, and been affected by for years, since I
first began to read the work of my peers. None of them, I think, in the
least resembles the other, but they are all alike in that the artistic
growth of each is also marked by a kind of constancy of voice and
vision. Perhaps Andrew
McCord's empathetic intelligence allows for more complexity now, a
deeper mingling of place and psyche, a harsher more dissonant resonance.
But these were traits always in evidence, just as Jennifer Rose's poems,
since I have known them, have overflowed with an abundance of metaphor,
like scarves from a magician's pockets, and her postcards have always
been notes from the interior, even as they are attempts to escape the
self, the familiar. Jeffrey Gustavson's knotty snarling syntax, his
utterly free diction, may now sometimes fracture our mind with the
concentration it takes to ride these crests on the verges of
intelligibility, but from the beginning his work has had a corrosive
beauty. Don't just take my word for it. Search them out.
--
Carol Moldaw
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