I love museums almost as much as old books. I prefer twentieth century art over classical. When I lived in London I went to the Tate gallery most Tuesday nights — when it was free for students. Warhol's silk-screened scenes of an electric chair seemed to depict electricity coursing through the human body. I still have a photo-real memory of the color sequence, which makes me shudder. A seventies exhibit of Dadaist work introduced me to Man Ray's woman as cello and Merritt Oppenheim's sensual fur-covered cup, spoon and saucer. I was strongly influenced by their statements – a twist on the ordinary.

I came to poetry sideways. During my psychiatric residency, a colleague lent me a copy of Sylvia Plath's Ariel. I was left with a vivid image of galloping through wheat fields becoming the arrow that pierced the red eye of the morning. I am still in awe of Plath's exquisite sensitivity to word choice. In her work, eye is also I — morning can be read as mourning. Each specific word is vital to the structure and meaning of the poem. So much emotion is packed into those few lines. My reaction was to rush out and buy all of her poetry books. Since then, I have "boarded a train there's no getting off."

I like poetry that uses original and startling images – not for shock value but as an integral part of the work. There should be music, a subtle cadence that adds another layer of intensity. I want the writer to avoid "giving away" the story too early so that tension builds toward the end. Poems present us with an opportunity to see the world through another's eyes. Ultimately the writer and the reader are filtering work through private prejudices and life experiences. So even when universal themes appear the specifics become unique to the individual involved in the encounter.

Details can make a poem stand out from others. Millions of love poems may have been written but to my mind Shakespeare's sonnets are still some of the best. Take for example Sonnet 99:

     The forward violet thus did I chide:
     Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells,
     If not from my love's breath? The purple pride
     Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells
     In my love's veins…

So many sensual elements are described in only five lines. It would be difficult to substitute words without destroying the poem's lushness. Similar sentiments to the sonnet are described in this well known saying:

     Roses are red,
     Violets are blue.
     Sugar is sweet,
     And so are you.

The effect is quite different when the language is bland.

Great art should change the way we see the world. It contains the soul of its maker and her culture. When Frida Kahlo paints herself with monkeys, shells, birds, we experience her mood, her psychological constructs. She was described as a Surrealist by some, to which she responded that she had never painted dreams, only the reality of her life. And so she did. In Two Fridas the European Frida controls the blood loss with forceps while simultaneously transfusing the Mexican Frida. Both women expose their hearts – an exquisitely simple, yet perfect metaphor. These are the kinds of images that make us think and feel.

Literary Salt aims to provide a forum for original well crafted work. My preference is for art which is thought provoking but not obscure. I enjoy poems that end with a sigh – the collective "Hmmmmmmmm" heard at readings. I want to experience the author's involvement in the work – not just a confessional stance, but a connection with the universal. Wittgenstein commented that the limitations of our language restrict our experience of the world. Let's destroy limits with language that soars."