She leads a vowelous insurgency
Against the consonantine hegemony
Of rhyme schemes in English poetry.
Her miniature poems are carefully built
Sound by minimal sound
Stripped down to skeletal frames,
For metered maps of meaning
Charted by drilled marching feet
Of throat, tongue, palate, teeth, and lips
Do not spark that spontaneous joy.
Her rhymes often turn inwards,
Following an internal locus of control.
If someone fails to appreciate them,
They don’t seek that person’s validation.
Nor do they blame the person for failure.
They simply emerge again and again
With every successive intentional reading,
Like meditating monks sitting statue-still
But arising anew with every silent breath.
Have you meditated on a meditator?
That is how you read Kay Ryan.