How about another poem. It’s very short – 28 words of text plus five in the title – arranged in three quatrains of not-really-rhymed lines one to three words long. Read it several times if you’re not rushed. If it doesn’t charm you instantly, skip this missive.

This Is Just to Say

William Carlos Williams wrote this almost a century ago. At first glance it hardly seems a poem it’s so slight. Many twentieth century poets (including Williams at times) made their poems so difficult we hesitate before hoisting one. This poem – at first glance – is light as a feather, its language simple, the scene vivid as a snapshot.

Yet, if you’re like me, the poem exerts an almost giddy fascination. I smile – and read it again. Why?

For starters it’s funny. A (slightly) remorseful husband is leaving a note to his wife, whom he loves, on the kitchen table, apologizing for eating fruit she may have been saving for later. How do we know this is a husband – who loves his wife – who’s leaving this note on the kitchen table? What else could it be? The scene is as actual as if we opened a door onto it. The slightly jokey title, the familiar tone and unfancy words, the unpoetic lines (“that were in,” “and which,” “you were probably” – is this poetry?), and the speaker’s confidence in his forgiveness evoke an easy intimacy only possible in a happy marriage. Our thrill is practically voyeuristic, as if peeping into a bedroom. We have “caught” this couple being so, well, human. Like us.

But why the fascination? This scene seems too ordinary to be memorable. How has the poet made it fix us with a basilisk’s gaze?

A few guesses – there are no answers here – beauty defies explication.

Modesty – of language and form – make this poem amazingly approachable. No pomposity here, elitism, condescension, we’re welcome into the speaker’s kitchen, have a seat. Such hospitality is a rare delight. Strangers mostly are wary, defending ourselves with pretenses, not to reveal ourselves. This kitchen quivers with trust. Trust feels fine.

So does the language trust us not to mock it for its simplicity. It hasn’t gotten dressed up – in the least! – to greet us. Though this poem looks like a poem with its three orderly quatrains, it doesn’t act like one. Its beat thuds, its not-quite rhymes (eaten/were in/saving, breakfast/delicious) feel accidental, clumsy. Some of its words (icebox, breakfast) are preposterously unpoetic – try roping either into an iambic pentameter! And yet – what dignity in this simplicity! As one person’s as good as the next, so is one word. Again, no pomposity, elitism, condescension, but the blessing of trust.

Then there’s the thick warm ambience of affection that makes the atmosphere of this poem viscous with goodness. That this husband can speak to his wife so cozily proclaims their devotion to each other. He doesn’t have to ask her forgiveness, yet he does, because he’s that sort of guy, who keeps his beloved always in mind. Kierkegaard’s words come to mind: “Romantic love can very well be represented in the moment, but conjugal love cannot, because an ideal husband is not one who is such once in his life but one who is every day such.” The poem brims with promise – for love believes in tomorrow. Whatever hellfires outside, we have each other – and a love that enlivens like those plums: “delicious/ so sweet/and so cold.”