Poetry Friday: "Dharma" by Billy Collins

 

Photo courtesy of Tati Hilabi, Pixabay. 

Monday morning, while walking and listening to Sad Boy Noah Kahan, I met the handsomest boy, who wasn't sad at all. I asked his person what his name was. Jake! It was Jake. A perfect name for a lumbering, retriever-y, labradorian-kinda guy with a thick, coppery coat and sprays of gray on his aging, distinguished cheeks. Jake and I immediately became best friends. I'd invite Jake over to spend some time together, but I didn't catch his last name, and it would be awkward to invite him and ignore his person (which I would totally do.) 

Who was walking Jake anyway? A man, a woman? A robot? Who knows, who cares? My relationship is solely with Jake, who made me think of "Dharma" by Billy Collins. I think Jake would like this poem, good, handsome, not-sad boy that he is. 

{Postscript: Do I need to get another dog?} 

{{Post-postscript: Maisy would say no, no. Most definitely, decidedly not. Do not mess around with her current lifestyle.}} 

Dharma 

by Billy Collins 

The way the dog trots out the front door

every morning

without a hat or an umbrella,

without any money

or the keys to her dog house

never fails to fill the saucer of my heart

with milky admiration.

Who provides a finer example

of a life without encumbrance—

Thoreau in his curtainless hut

with a single plate, a single spoon?

Ghandi with his staff and his holy diapers?

Off she goes into the material world

with nothing but her brown coat

and her modest blue collar,

....

(Read the rest here, at the Poetry Foundation.) 

~~~~~~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round-up this week is being hosted by Mona Voelkel. 

Poetry Friday: “As You Wish.”

Okay, so this isn’t exactly a Poetry Friday post. 

It’s a, “Guess what my daughters and I did last Friday?” post. 

And it’s a, “Let’s talk about the magic and poetry of a perfect movie” post.

I know you’ve heard of The Princess Bride. 

And you’ve heard of Cary Elwes, who dashingly played the dashing and devoted Westley in that Rob Reiner* masterpiece. 

Perhaps you’ve even heard that ten years ago, Elwes wrote a book (As You Wish) and that he sometimes tours to promote it. The show is called “An Inconceivable Evening” and it opens with a showing of the movie. The audience is then treated to an hour-+-ish of storytelling from Elwes (in conversation with a moderator.) 

So, once upon a time (last Friday) three beautiful maidens (my daughters) and a queen (me) agreed that four women who’ve had crushes** on Cary/Westley for as long as any of them can remember should indubitably journey to the land of giants, pirates, princesses, and Mandy Patinkin. (Oh, if only he’d been there in person too, my joy would have been complete!) 

It was an evening of charming stories, laughter, delight, and — ohmygosh, I didn’t know I would tear up and cry so much! — affection and emotion. I’ve loved A Princess Bride for decades. I’ve loved sharing it with my daughters. I’ve loved saying, "Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.” I’ve loved incessantly talking, thinking about, and rewatching a film that, at its heart, embodies true love in all its forms. 

So, when I first asked my girls if they wanted to accompany me to a belated birthday celebration involving all of the above, imagine my joy when their response was: 

“As you wish.”

~~~~~~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round-up this week is being hosted by Carol Labuzzetta 

at The Apples in My Orchard. 

~~~~~~~~~~

*May that dear man, that compassionate soul, rest in peace. 

**Speaking of crushes, my main crush, the one I have on the man I married, endures. 

The other day, I was being (at least I thought) difficult. I later texted Atticus to say, 

“I’m sorry I’m so hard to live with.”

 

“You’re not hard to live with,” he returned, “and you’d be impossible to live without.” 

What a storybook story response. (Cary/Westley who?!) 

We’ve not been without our fireswamps over the years, 

but we’ve had fun storming the castle. 

Poetry Friday: “Spring is like a perhaps hand” by e.e. cummings

It’s been a busy week and although I did write a handful of new poems (thanks, April Halprin Wayland, for a delightfully productive class on Wednesday!), they aren’t ready to see the light of day. So, instead, I give you … 

… Another spring poem! 

This one is from the incomparably weird and sometimes wonderful e.e. cummings: 

Spring is like a perhaps hand

by e.e. cummings 

Spring is like a perhaps hand
(which comes carefully
out of Nowhere)arranging
a window,into which people look(while
people stare arranging and changing placing

carefully there a strange
thing and a known thing here)and

changing everything carefully

…. (Read the rest here, at Poets.org.)

~~~~~~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round-up this week is being hosted by the lovely and talented Cathy Stenquist. 

Photo courtesy of Pixabay. 

Poetry Friday: “A Light Exists in Spring” by Emily Dickinson

Nothing new to report here, other than this: I love springtime. 

So, I think, did dear Emily, in her beautiful, melancholy way: 

A Light exists in Spring

by Emily Dickinson

A Light exists in Spring
Not present on the Year
At any other period-
When March is scarcely here

A Color stands abroad
On Solitary Fields
That Science cannot overtake
But Human Nature feels.

It waits upon the Lawn,
It shows the furthest Tree
Upon the furthest Slope you know
It almost speaks to you.

Then as Horizons step
Or Noons report away
Without the Formula of sound
It passes and we stay-

A quality of loss
Affecting our Content
As Trade had suddenly encroached
Upon a Sacrament.

~~~~~~~~~~

Rose Cappelli is hosting the Poetry Friday round-up today. Thank you, Rose! 

Photo courtesy of Pixabay.

Poetry Friday: “Impressions” — An Ekphrastic

Last month, Tanita Davis shared the latest challenge from the Poetry Pals: 

Here’s the scoop: we’re writing ekphrastic poems, which might pair beautifully with your plans for National Poetry Month (I’m attempting poetry comics). Ekphrasis is a Greek word which means “description,” and you’re invited to choose your own image from anywhere – personal pictures or otherwise. Are you in? Good! You’ll have the month to craft your creation and share it April 24th in a blog post and/or on social media with the tag #PoetryPals. We hope you’ll play along!

Oooh, I love an ekphrastic. Even so, I put this assignment off until this week because … well, because that’s how I roll. Image choice was WIDE open, so I had trouble narrowing it down. Then yesterday, out of the blue, this one — A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte by Georges Seurat — came to mind. 

I realized I’ve never thought much about the people depicted in this painting. I’ve assumed they're an ordinary assortment of urbanites enjoying a day by the water. It turns out there's other speculation about them too. I found several commentaries that remarked on this idea: 

There has been scholarly debate as to why Seurat included certain motifs in the painting, possibly alluding to prostitution that took place on the island, where clients would meet. Two notable motifs include the woman to the left with the fishing rod and the woman to the right with the monkey.

The fishing rod could be suggestive of the idea of “fishing” for a possible desirable woman or that the prostitutes fished for prospective clients. The female monkey’s name in French was singesse, which was also a term utilized for prostitutes. The woman on the right could be with a client.

                                                     — from Art in Context

Who knew? 

On the other hand, given that women are routinely misjudged, unfairly labeled, frequently stereotyped, presumed upon, lied about, and otherwise wronged and maligned, the idea/poem/twist that came to me was this:   

Impressions  

(after A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grand Jatte) 

People always have their opinions. 

Some of you eye us and think,
“Ah, another Sunday in the park 

with George.” 

But also? 

Many look askance. 

They assign a seedy motive

to my sister’s fishing expedition. 

Presume my pet monkey 

means I am a woman 

of questionable character. 

But perhaps I just love animals? 

Why has no one asserted 

or assumed that 

my predominant thoughts are these: 
"This fabric does not breathe. 

I’m ready to go. 

I hate this stupid bustle. 

It's hitting the floor the minute 

my monkey and I get home.” 

    — Karen Edmisten 

~~~~~~~~~~

The Queen of Ekphrastics — visit her entire “ArtSpeak” series here —

 Irene Latham, has the Poetry Friday round up this week. 

Progressive Poem is here! (Day 22)

"The Land of Poetry" — created by Tabatha Yeatts (place names added by Donna and Heidi)

It's my first year participating in the Progressive Poem, and I'm happy to add Line 22 to this delightful work in progress. 

What's the Progressive Poem? Thanks to Linda Baie at TeacherDance, we have this succinct summary:

It began with Irene Latham, who hosted it from 2012-2019. Those archives of the poem can be found HERE! Margaret Simon took over in 2020, and those archives are HERE!

Here are the rules:

The poem passes from blog to blog.

Each poet/blogger adds a line.

The poem is for children.

Each blogger copies the previous line exactly as written, unless permission from that poet has been given. They then add their own line, offering an introduction if they wish.

So today I’m following Irene’s lead. She said, "It seems time to bring it back around to the speaker of our poem...how is she feeling now, after listening to the birds? What will she DO?” 

Let’s find out! Here's the poem so far, with my line added in bold: 

The Land of Poetry

On my first trip to the Land of Poetry,
I saw anthologies of every color, tall as buildings.
A world of words, wonder on wings, waiting just for me!
Birding for words shimmering, flecked in golden gilding.

Binoculars ready, I toured boulevards and side streets,
exploring vibrant verses, verses so honest and tender.
feathery lyrics, bright flitting avian athletes
soaring ‘cross pages in rhythmic splendor.

In the Land of Poetry, I am the conductor,
seeking oodles of poems that tug at my heart,
a musical medley of sound and structure,
An open mic in Frost Forest! Wonder who’ll take part?

There’s a pause in the program; no one takes the stage
the trees quiver, the audience looks up. Raven lands,
singing Earth’s message of the sage.
“Poetry in motion will be forevermore, from forests to sands.”

“Scatter,” she croaked. “Beyond Wilde Pond, to each and every beach.”
Meek Dove mustered courage and sang, “Instill humanity with compassion and peace.
Let Thackeray’s middle name, from this thicket, hearts reach!”
Her gentle coo-ooo-ooos reverberate, soft as fleece.

Words dart, dimple—Do I dare warble what's in my soul?

I’ve inhaled inspiration…yes, I’ll risk my refrain. 

~~~~~

The fabulous Heidi Mordhorst is up next with Day 23! 

And here’s a full list of this year’s contributors. Tabatha launched us into the Land of Poetry with Line 1, and she’ll bring us full circle on April 28:

April 1 Tabatha Yeatts at The Opposite of Indifference
April 2 Cathy Stenquist at A Little Bit of This and That
April 3 Patricia Franz at Reverie
April 4 Donna Smith at Mainely Write
April 5 Janice Scully at Salt City Verse
April 6 Denise Krebs at Dare to Care
April 7 Ruth Hersey at There is no such thing as a God-forsaken town
April 8 Rose Cappelli at Imagine the Possibilities 
April 9 Margaret Simon at Reflections on the Teche
April 10 Janet Clare Fagel at Reflections on the Teche
April 11 Diane Davis at Starting Again in Poetry 
April 12 Linda Baie at Teacher Dance
April 13 Linda Mitchell at Another Word Edgewise
April 14 Jone MacCulloch at 
April 15 Joyce Uglow at Storied Ink
April 16 Carol Varsalona at Beyond Literacy Link
April 17 Robyn Hood Black at Life on the Deckle Edge
April 18 Michele Kogan at More Art for All
April 19 Kim Johnson at Common Threads
April 20 Buffy Silverman
April 21 Irene Latham at Live Your Poem
April 22 Karen Edmisten
April 23 Heidi Mordhorst at my juicy little universe 
April 24 Mary Lee Hahn at A(nother) Year of Reading
April 25 Tanita Davis at Fiction, instead of Lies
April 26 Sharon Roy at Pedaling Poet
April 27 Tracey Kiff-Judson at Tangles and Tails
April 28 Tabatha Yeatts at The Opposite of Indifference 

Poetry Friday: "For the Bird Singing Before Dawn" by Kim Stafford

We're halfway through National Poetry Month, and all I've managed to do so far is rant about the news. 

I know, I know — I'm allowed, given the state of things, but let's take a break from all that, shall we? 

First of all, be sure to visit the inimitable Jama Rattigan for a comprehensive round-up of the Kidlitosphere's NPM poetry projects. So many luscious plans! Thank you, Jama, for all the work that went into that post! It's brimming with places to go, people to visit, and poems to read. 

Secondly, birds. I wrote about birds last month and this morning, just after a walk during which I heard meadowlarks, killdeer, mourning doves, robins, and red-winged blackbirds, I was telling my sister about how much she'll love the Merlin app. 

Birdsong. Is there anything better? When you hear birds — a symphony of birds — tweeting their joyful, ridiculous, miraculous little heads off, it's as if you're part of something both immense and beyond your grasp, but also innate, somehow within you. 

I love them so much. 

Birds = Hope. 

Therefore, I bring you "For the Bird Singing Before Dawn." Of his poem, Kim Stafford said: 

“Many times in my life I’ve been told by serious people that I must be very naïve to be happy, to have hope, to celebrate this little life I’ve been given when, actually, they say, everything is pretty dire. There’s war, poverty, crushing injustice all over—what right do I have to talk back to all that with flimsy little poems about the good? What can I say? The birds are my teachers, my elders, my guides. Every day before dawn, in silence and darkness, I’m at my desk making poems on the page. And then, before light, I hear the first bird outside begin to sing.”

Oh, little plover, I want to hug you. 

 For the Bird Singing Before Dawn

by Kim Stafford

Some people presume to be hopeful
when there is no evidence for hope,
to be happy when there is no cause.
Let me say now, I’m with them.

In deep darkness on a cold twig
in a dangerous world, one first
little fluff lets out a peep, a warble,

a song—and in a little while, behold:

....

(Read the last two stanzas here, at Poets.org.) 

~~~~~~~~~~

Wishing you morsels — nay, a feast! — of joy as well as the company of birds, who are their own kind of poetry, during this National Poetry Month. 

Heidi Mordhorst has this week's Poetry Friday round-up at My Juicy Little Universe. 

Photo of killdeer courtesy of roamingowlsdotcom at Pixabay. 

Poetry Friday: "Of History and Hope" by Miller Williams

"How do we fashion the future?" 

Oh, what a week. 

My week has shone with the joy and hope of Easter, but it has also held despair and anger over a madman at the helm of what, at least for now, we still call our country. This poem by Miller Williams seemed fitting today. We hold so much responsibility in our hands. I vented on FB a couple of days ago: 

Nothing says “America in 2026” like calling my reps today, being put on hold, and hearing “Yankee Doodle Dandy” blare in my ear while waiting to register my objections to war crimes.  

Call your reps. Even when you want to scream.

It seems useless, futile, maddening. Especially when I later hear my rep double down and defend threats to wipe out an entire civilization. How do you address that? I don't know. I guess we keep turning to both history and hope? 

Of History and Hope
by Miller Williams 

We have memorized America,
how it was born and who we have been and where.
In ceremonies and silence we say the words,
telling the stories, singing the old songs.
We like the places they take us. Mostly we do.
The great and all the anonymous dead are there.
We know the sound of all the sounds we brought.
The rich taste of it is on our tongues.
But where are we going to be, and why, and who?
The disenfranchised dead want to know.
We mean to be the people we meant to be,

to keep on going where we meant to go.

But how do we fashion the future? Who can say how

....

(Read the rest here, at The Poetry Foundation.) 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

 Jone Rush MacCulloch has the Poetry Friday round-up this week. 

And be sure to check out the 2026 Progressive Poem. Nine poets have contributed thus far. Margaret Simon has today's line, as well as the rest of the work-in-progess. I'll be contributing a line on April 22, and Margaret has the whole schedule at this link. 

Photo courtesy of Eliens at Pixabay. 

Poetry Friday: Unraveling the Ovillejo

Poetry maven and Writer Extraordinaire Tanita Davis shared the Poetry Peeps’ March challenge here. The mission? Knit together an Ovillejo: 

Here’s the scoop: we’re writing tight little bundles of poetry called Ovillejos! That’s exactly what the word means – a bundle of yarn. This Spanish form bundles together ten lines, made up of 3 rhyming couplets interspersed with three verrrry short lines, and a quatrain. The last line is a “redondilla,” a “little round” that collects all three of the short lines and casts off the poem, as it were. 

I wrote my ovillejo about a concert we — Atticus, me, Ramona, her boyfriend — went to last weekend. My Christmas gift to Atticus was tickets for Bob Dylan’s Rough and Rowdy Ways tour. We'd never seen him live before, but know this: the man is determined not to be photographed or recorded. (A few years ago he blew up at an audience over their phone use and asked if they wanted him to play or to pose. The subject of phones in public spaces is a big one and I have so many thoughts but that’s a post for another time.) Phones were locked up in Yondr pouches as soon as we entered the venue. Low lighting, a permanent perch behind his keyboard, and a hoodie pulled far down over his head (practically over his face) helped Bob keep his distance from us. 

The night before the concert I had the funniest dream: we arrived at the theater and almost no one was there. Bob looked over all the empty seats, sighed, sat down a couple of rows ahead of us, and pouted. I woke up wondering what had prompted that, but maybe it was a premonition? Because, while in real life the theater was full, Bob did seem a tad pouty. Microphone malfunctions didn’t help. Dylan kept picking the mic up and plopping it down in different positions, prompting reverberative booms every time. (Is the mic person still employed? I have my doubts.) Despite Bob’s aloof performance, we had a good time, and I think Ramona and her boyfriend did too. As we talked about him the next day, I said, “Dylan’s such a … character? Distinct ... personality?” and Ramona said, “Weirdo?” He is, indeed, all the things, daughter. 

Yes, it’s all true. I have a love/hate relationship with that weirdo-genius-pouty-bratty-talented-rebellious-creative-Nobel-prize-winner who likes his hoodies more than he likes us. 

But hey, now that I ponder it, I think the best Dylan concert I’ve ever been to was a couple of years ago in our living room. Ramona taught herself three songs (“It Ain’t Me, Babe,” “The Times They Are a-Changing,” and “Don’t Think Twice”) on the guitar she inherited from my father, then she played and sang them for Atticus on his birthday. And she didn’t even wear a hoodie or turn off the lights! What an un-aloof performer! 

And that, ladies and gentlemen, leads us to my Ovillejo, which actually came to me surprisingly quickly. 

Ovillejo for a Temperamental Legend 

Karen Edmisten 

Who is a legend named Dylan?
Bob. Thrillin’!
Who saw him sing on Saturday?
Us. Yay!
He is known for a stunning show?
(Well, um, no.)

He doesn’t like his face to show.
Sloppy hoodie hides his features.
(Fans are such annoying creatures.)
Bob! Thrillin’ us? (Well, um, both “yea" and no.)

Final take: Don’t think twice, Bob, it’s all right (not that you’re worried.) We rolled with what was blowin’ in the wind, and now we can say we’ve seen Dylan. Also, brunch the next day was excellent and I really like Ramona’s boyfriend. All in all, a great weekend and I got a new poem out of it. 

~~~~~~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round-up this week is being hosted by Marcie Flinchum Atkins, who is celebrating the beauty of twilight and her newest, soon-to-be-released book, When Twilight Comes. 

Photo courtesy of Pixabay.

Poetry Friday: "Why I Need the Birds" by Lisel Mueller

When I was young, I didn't think much about birds, know much about birds, or care much about birds. They were part of the landscape, obviously. They were around, I was around, live and let live, blah-blah-blah. I suppose we co-existed blithely, in that way creatures who don't have an urgent need for one another can do. We each — robins, wrens, and I — went about our business, conducting it admirably without caring that the other was nearby. 

I remember once, sometime in my twenties, I think, when I was out for a walk with my friend Jack. We heard a bird with an intriguing call, and I said, "I wonder what kind of bird that is?" A beat, and he said, "Holly would know," at the precise time I was saying, "Atticus would know." Our respective spouses, you see, were the bird people. They were the ones with a knowledge of and a love for nature. They were the Dickon Sowerbys who would know what was growing in a secret garden and what a robin was trying to say. They knew the magic. 

I can't say I consciously sought to increase my knowledge of birds over the years of our marriage, but somehow birds have become a part of it. (I wrote about the laudable stubbornness of our swallows here, and mentioned the return of the swallows to Edmistrano here. And, ummm, somewhere along the way I started calling them "our" swallows?) When I was very young and very stupid, I thought an interest in birds was a thing for old people. But last year, when Atticus got excited about the Merlin Bird ID app, I got kind of excited about it too. (I mean, honestly, it's really, really cool. Open the app, it records every sound it hears, and then it tells you what birds you're eavesdropping on. Cool.) 

"But Karen," you might say, "you have proven your theory about birds and old people, because you are old now." Ummm, just go check out the Merlin app! You'll thank your elders! 

Oh, and read this poem too! It's by Lisel Mueller, a Pulitzer-winning poet whom I've only just discovered. 

Lisel understood. And while it's likely that Mueller wrote "Why I Need the Birds" when she was not-young (and unlike some of us, she was never stupid), I have a feeling that she — like Holly, like Atticus —  simply knew her whole life that birds were a miracle of creation worth every moment of attention we pay them. 

Why I Need the Birds
by Lisel Mueller

(1924-2020) 

When I hear them call
in the morning, before
I am quite awake,
my bed is already traveling
the daily rainbow,
the arc toward evening;
and the birds, leading
their own discreet lives
of hunger and watchfulness,
are with me all the way,
always a little ahead of me
in the long-practiced manner
of unobtrusive guides.

(Read the rest here.) 

~~~~~~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round-up this week is being hosted by the ever-wonderful Linda Baie of TeacherDance.

Photo thanks to Pixabay.

Poetry Friday: I’m hosting! (and a new poem)

Welcome to the Poetry Friday round-up! 

Last week, the Poetry Peeps shared pieces inspired by the work of U.S. Poet Laureate Arthur Sze. The challenge was flexible. (Read: “Pick a poem, any poem! Write in his style, or don’t! Focus on a line, a stanza, a theme, the ghost of an idea. Whatever you want!”) I love a wide-open challenge … until I don’t. But the fault, dear reader, was with me, not with the peeps posing the challenge. As I’m wont to do, I allowed procrastination and choice-paralysis to defeat me. I wrote nothing for last weeks’s round-up, so I decided to tackle it this week. Here’s how it unfolded:

I tinkered with one of my favorite Sze poems, "The Shapes of Leaves.” I played around with the shapes of houses, I experimented with the shapes of hands (as the objects that "our emotions resemble”) but I wasn’t satisfied with what was flowing. (Because it wasn’t flowing.) I still liked those ideas, but set them aside.

Then I bumped up against another of Sze’s poems, one that, serendipitously and in that lovely, winding way of poetry, happens to reference “The Shapes of Leaves.” Eureka! 

In “Residence on Earth,” Sze recounts a gathering of poets and a reading of his work. I did a little digging and it seems he’s referring to the Festival Internacional de Poesía de Medellín. (Here's a video of his reading.) 

“Residence on Earth” ends with:  

I understood how poets from all over the world

had come for peace, solidarity, justice—
and when my host, and reader of my poems

in Spanish, invited me into his home, I saw
one way to live during our residencia en la tierra.

I took the words “one way to live” and ran with them. Here’s my draft: 

One Way to Live
(after “Residence on Earth” by Arthur Sue)

One way to live on this earth

is in stunned observation. 

You see chaos before you,
but are paralyzed, inert,
a terrified deer.

One way to live on this earth

is in constant bellicosity. 

You howl at the lunacy 
until your throat 

is raw and torn.  

One way to live on this earth

is in quiet service. 

You see gaping needs; 

you fill one, meet another, 

walk toward the next. 

One way to live on this earth 

is in the 

shimmering 

rainfall 

of 

words. 

You shine light,

reflect truths:

chaos, lunacy, 

desperate need, yes,

but also beauty, tenderness, 

the shape of a leaf.  

 

A band of poets become 

one voice, create one home, 

fashion a refuge.  

Together, 

while in residence on earth, 

they have found 

one way to live. 

~ Karen Edmisten 

~~~~~~~~~~

Mr. Linky awaits your contributions. Drop them here! 

Poetry Friday: "I Stop Somewhere Waiting For You" (A Walt Whitman/Susan Thomsen/Chicken Spaghetti-inspired poem)

A few weeks ago, Susan Thomsen, at Chicken Spaghetti, posted a prompt: begin a poem with the last line (I stop somewhere waiting for you) of Walt Whitman's "Song of Myself." 

Susan's take on the prompt is here, and her "Flurries of Winter" is an enchanting take, full of joy and verve and love and snow. 

I went a different route, being the INFJ/Melancholic Eeyore that I am. 😏

I might've composed my response sooner if I hadn't tripped myself up by turning the prompt upside down. I'd gotten it fixed in my head that I should end the poem with the suggested line. I tried a number of different openings and approaches but none of them were working. Page after page of garbage. I decided to go reread Susan's post/prompt, thinking maybe I'd pick up some new inspiration. 

"Oh!" I said to my upside-downed self. "I'm going to START the poem with that line." Well. Okay then. Let's try that. 

I imagined being caught in a wretched kind of limbo with a friend or significant other or spouse — really anyone you're trying to have an authentic relationship with when you aren't getting anything in return. (I mean, truly ... we've all been there.) And then the poem wrote itself in twenty minutes.

The lesson here is to listen to Susan more closely the first time. But I think, in general, it's just good advice to listen to Susan. 

Okay, here we go: 

"I Stop Somewhere Waiting For You" 

         ~ Walt Whitman, "Song of Myself" 

I stop somewhere waiting for you. 

Somewhere.
Waiting.
For you.

It’s exhausting, being mired 

in this bog, slogging through
a swamp of unearned, unreturned 

hope and promise. 

I don’t really even know where I am.

“Somewhere”?
Who chooses to live there?

It feels like Wonderland,
and every bit as absurd.
You make me believe
six impossible things before breakfast
but by dinner time, I’m famished.

So I've decided.
I’m moving to a new anywhere.
I will learn its borders and boundaries as I go.
The plan is still fuzzy.

 
But I stop, somehow, waiting for you.

~~~~~~~~~~

Susan has the entire Poetry Friday round-up this week.

Visit her at Chicken Spaghetti and enjoy lots of poetic goodness. 

Poetry Friday: “God” by Brian Doyle

Brian Doyle was a luminous writer who died from a brain tumor in 2017 at the age of 60, an inexplicable injustice in this world if ever there was one. 

According to this obituary in The Beacon, after he received his diagnosis, he said, “I’ll hear all laughter. Be tender to each other. Be more tender than you were yesterday, that’s what I would like. You want to help me? Be tender and laugh.”

I delight in every ounce of his work (novels, essays, poems, and prose poems he called proems) and I’m on a mission to be a Brian Doyle completist. I corresponded with him only once, when I was seeking permission from Portland magazine (which he edited for many years) to reprint a story excerpt in one of my books. His emails were as charming as everything else of his I’ve ever read. 

This week, because the magic of children has been on my mind, because children are pure and holy and dinosaur-loving vessels who deserve to be protected and flooded with love, I’m sharing this one, which I'd never read before today and just now seredipitously stumbled upon. I’d like to think Brian had something to do with that. 

God is in the Kindergartener, is the Kindergartener. What a luminous and spot-on thought. 

God
by Brian Doyle 

By purest chance I was out in our street when the kindergarten
Bus mumbled past going slow and I looked up just as all seven
Kids on my side of the bus looked at me and I grinned and they
Lit up and all this crap about God being dead and where is God
And who owns God and who hears God better than whom is the
Most egregiously stupid crap imaginable because if you want to
See God and have God see you and have this mutual perception
Be completely untrammeled by blather and greed and comment,
Go stand in the street as the kindergarten bus murmurs past. I’m

Not kidding and this is not a metaphor. I am completely serious.

….

(Read the rest here.) 

~~~~~~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round-up this week is being hosted by Robyn at Life on the Deckle Edge. 

Photo courtesy of Pixabay. 

Poetry Friday: "Dear Reader" by Billy Collins

It is far, far, far past time for some Billy Collins. I need him, don't you? 

And this one targets my readerly heart as if its poetic arrow is aimed to pierce me, only me. Because, well, it is. That's how poetry works. That's how Billy Collins works. That's how reading works. ❤️

Oh, how I love to read. Some of the books and writers who have been my sisters, brothers, kindred spirits, or heralds of surprise and fascination thus far in 2026 include: 

Memorial Days, Geraldine Brooks 

The Vaster Wilds, Lauren Groff

The Separation of Church and Hate, John Fugelsang

The Berry Pickers, Amanda Peters 

The Road to Tender Hearts, Annie Hartnett

Flashlight, Susan Choi

Homeschooled, Stefan Merrill Block  

As Collins says in the final line of this poem, books and I are on "a road we will always be traveling together." 

Who are you traveling with right now? What have you read in the last month? 

Dear Reader 

by Billy Collins 

Baudelaire considers you his brother,
and Fielding calls out to you every few paragraphs
as if to make sure you have not closed the book,
and now I am summoning you up again,
attentive ghost, dark silent figure standing
in the doorway of these words.

Pope welcomes you into the glow of his study,
takes down a leather-bound Ovid to show you.
Tennyson lifts the latch to a moated garden,
and with Yeats you lean against a broken pear tree,
the day hooded by low clouds.

But now you are here with me,
composed in the open field of this page,

....

(Read the rest here, at The Poetry Foundation.) 

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Molly at Nix the Comfort Zone is hosting the Poetry Friday round-up today. 

Photo courtesy of Pexels. 

Poetry Friday: James Crews, via George Bilgere, via Poetry Town (with a word about Hamnet)

I usually get a Poetry Friday post put together on Thursday afternoon, but yesterday I was too busy weeping. I saw Hamnet for the second time in a week — Saturday with my daughter, yesterday with Atticus. It's possibly one of the most beautiful films I’ve ever seen. Reviewers who are calling it “emotionally manipulative” (and worse) are (in my not-so-subtle opinion) callous, jaded, and ridiculous. Have you ever lost a child? Have you ever felt deep, raw, uncaged grief? No? Then go write about something else. Review a different kind of movie. Or maybe, instead of cranking out reviews, go create something yourself. There’s a challenge for you.

(Do I sound salty? Yes, yes, I do. Perhaps my patience is wearing thin these days.) 

Hamnet is a mesmerizing, two-hour meditation on love and grief, love and forgiveness, love and the power of art. If it’s not your thing, that’s fine, but don’t call it “grief p*rn,” which is an idiotic expression and an idiotic way to characterize a sensitive, serious film about one of the most horrific losses a couple can endure. 

We now return to our regularly scheduled Poetry Friday post. 

I had nothing ready for Poetry Friday, but this morning George Bilgere came to my rescue again. I have enjoyed Bilgere’s work for a long time, but in the summer of 2024 I found him in his latest habitat: Poetry Town. If you haven’t checked it out yet, run, do not walk, over there. Now! 

Today’s Poetry Town pick is from the marvelous James Crews. In October, I participated in a four-week (four Zoom meetings over consecutive Fridays) workshop with Crews called “Turning Toward Grief.” Each week featured a conversation between James and another poet (Bilgere was one, along with Naomi Shihab Nye, January Gill O’Neil, and Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer), followed by writing prompts from James. It was sublime. 

Today, I invite you to enjoy the awe that James describes, inspires and encourages in this poem. Then, run, do not walk, over to his website to sign up for his beautiful newsletter, “The Weekly Pause.” Now! 

Awe

by James Crews

It’s a shiver that climbs the trellis
of the spine, each tingle a bright white
morning glory breaking into blossom
beneath the skin. It can happen anywhere,
anytime, even finding this sleeve of ice
worn by a branch all morning, now fallen

….

(Read the rest here, at George Bilgere’s Poetry Town.) 

~~~~~~~~~~

Amy Ludwig VanDerwater is hosting the Poetry Friday round-up today at The Poem Farm. 

Photo courtesy of Ilona Burschl at Pixabay.