"A poem is like a chunk of raw marble." Nan Socolow chips and chips away at that chunk, and it takes form and becomes smaller, and smaller still, and when nothing further can be chipped away--when only the finest essence of a marble scrap is left--that is her poem: less is more.

Alternatively, an entire poem will write itself around an object, like a sliver of dried up soap or a yellow-crowned night heron "stalking on the sand" outside her window. As a result, Socolow's poems are short and pert, sweet and sour as if laced with passion fruit. She pounces upon certain moments,...