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. 

“When Giving is All We Have” by Alberto Ríos (and finally settled on my Word of the Year)

A beautiful poem from Alberto Ríos, who says:

This is a poem of thanks to those who live lives of service, which, I think, includes all of us—from the large measure to the smallest gesture, from care-giving to volunteerism to being an audience member or a reader. 

When Giving Is All We Have
by Alberto Ríos

                One river gives
                Its journey to the next.


We give because someone gave to us.
We give because nobody gave to us.

We give because giving has changed us.
We give because giving could have changed us.

We have been better for it,
We have been wounded by it—

Giving has many faces: It is loud and quiet,

….

(Read the rest here, at Poets.org.) 

~~~~~~~~~~

Which brings me to finally settling on a word for 2026. 

“Word of the Year” … “One Little Word” … whatever we want to call it. I like to do this, but I’m not always consistent. In 2024, I chose the word “Hope,” because hope was much-needed that year. Last year (after waaaaaay overthinking it) I chose the word “Create” (also much-needed, immensely-overthought, and ultimately overstuffed with goals I didn’t live up to as I'd hoped or envisioned. Maybe I should have chosen a phrase instead of word: “Hope to create and stop overthinking.”) 

Anyway. This year, I dithered for a while but eventually landed on: 

“Giving” (as Alberto Ríos presents it) and “engagement" aren’t exactly the same thing, but they're affectionate sisters. 

I am striving to engage with intentionality in the areas of life that are most important to me, and to let go of the things that sap my energy. I want to engage (begin to, continue to, or expand on previous engagement) in a variety of ways: 

Socially and politically (read: “Advocacy for human dignity and basic human decency, and the same human rights for all people everywhere.” It should be so simple. Why is it not?) 

Professionally (read: I want more accountability and formal community for my writing … Poetry! Picture Book Aspirations! All the Things!) 

Family: (read: We’re already a close family, but a busy one. I want more regularly scheduled get-togethers and dinners. Hear that, grown-up kids? I’m comin' for ya.) 

I know this doesn’t cover all the bases, and my thoughts on Engagement in 2026 will keep developing, but it's a start. 

~~~~~~~~~~

Tabatha at The Opposite of Indifference is hosting this week’s Poetry Friday round-up. 

Poetry Friday: "The Before Picture" by Maggie Smith

I'm with Maggie Smith — my relationship with progress is complicated. But what's the alternative? It is always, as she says in the final line, "now again." 

(Do you ever want to say, "Stop the world, I want to get off"? Me too.) 

Let's keep trying to turn our Before Pictures, the ones that embody the best of us, into now, into the future. And into poetry, compassion, love for our fellow human beings, and justice. 

The time is now. 

The Before Picture

by Maggie Smith 

It’s complicated, my relationship status
with progress. I often prefer

the “before” picture. The future
is where I’m going only because

I have no choice, because time

....

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

~~~~~~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round-up is being hosted this week by Jan at Bookseed Studio. 

Photo courtesy of Pixabay.

Poetry Friday: “What Can I Say?” by Mary Oliver

It’s hard to know what to say about our country and the world in 2026. I’m repeatedly struck dumb, horrified, paralyzed by the worst of situations, events, governance. What can we say that we haven’t said before? Why are so many not listening? And why are those who have the power and responsibility to do something doing nothing? 

What can I say? I’m figuring that out on a daily basis, and in the meantime, I often turn to poets and peacemakers like Mary Oliver. (Thanks to my youngest daughter for bringing this one to my attention.) 

What Can I Say 

by Mary Oliver 

What can I say that I have not said before?
So I’ll say it again.
The leaf has a song in it.
Stone is the face of patience.
Inside the river there is an unfinishable story
and you are somewhere in it
and it will never end until all ends.

Take your busy heart to the art museum and the
chamber of commerce
but take it also to the forest.

….

(Read the rest here.) 

~~~~~~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round-up this week is being hosted by Ruth at There is No Such Thing as a God-forsaken Town. 

Photo courtesy of Pixabay and Nordseher. 

Poetry Friday: New Year's Morning by Helen Hunt Jackson

Here's a marvelous poem from Helen Hunt Jackson who was born in 1830 in my home state* of Massachusetts. She was a poet, writer, and activist for Indigenous Americans. She often published anonymously under the names H.H., Rip van Winkle, or Saxe Holm. In 1985, a hundred years after her death, she was inducted into the Colorado Women's Hall of Fame. (Well, it takes us a while to catch up with women and their accomplishments, doesn't it?) 

I especially love these lines: 

The Old Year's heart all weary grew,
But said: "The New Year rest has brought."
The Old Year's hopes its heart laid down,
As in a grave; but, trusting, said:
"The blossoms of the New Year's crown
Bloom from the ashes of the dead."

May we go into 2026 trusting in the new year's crown, that it will bloom from the ashes of 2025. 

New Year's Morning
by Helen Hunt Jackson

Only a night from old to new!
Only a night, and so much wrought!
The Old Year's heart all weary grew,
But said: "The New Year rest has brought."
The Old Year's hopes its heart laid down,
As in a grave; but, trusting, said:
"The blossoms of the New Year's crown
Bloom from the ashes of the dead."
The Old Year's heart was full of greed;
With selfishness it longed and ached,
And cried: "I have not half I need.
My thirst is bitter and unslaked.
But to the New Year's generous hand
All gifts in plenty shall return;
True love it shall understand;
By all my failures it shall learn.
I have been reckless; it shall be
Quiet and calm and pure of life.
I was a slave; it shall go free,
And find sweet peace where I leave strife."
Only a night from old to new!
Never a night such changes brought.
The Old Year had its work to do;
No New Year miracles are wrought.

Always a night from old to new!
Night and the healing balm of sleep!
Each morn is New Year's morn come true,
Morn of a festival to keep.
All nights are sacred nights to make
Confession and resolve and prayer;
All days are sacred days to wake
New gladness in the sunny air.
Only a night from old to new;
Only a sleep from night to morn.
The new is but the old come true;
Each sunrise sees a new year born.

(This poem is in the public domain.)

~~~~~

Catherine Flynn has the round-up at Reading to the Core.

* Sort of. We moved when I was three years old. I've lived everywhere from Alaska to Florida to the midwest but I still love that I was born on Cape Cod. When I close my eyes and think of them, I can still hear my grandparents' New England accents. 

Photo courtesy of Pixabay. 

Poetry Friday: "Advent" by Thomas Merton

I've shared this one several times before, but it's so lovely, so peaceful, and brings me such December joy that I decided to share it again as we near the end of a year that has been full of much that is not-lovely, not-peaceful, not-full-of-joy. 

Enjoy this bit of respite, friends. 

Advent
by Thomas Merton

Charm with your stainlessness these winter nights,
Skies, and be perfect! Fly, vivider in the fiery dark, you quiet meteors,
And disappear.
You moon, be slow to go down,
This is your full!

The four white roads make off in silence
Towards the four parts of the starry universe.
Time falls like manna at the corners of the wintry earth.
We have become more humble than the rocks,
More wakeful than the patient hills.

....

(Read the rest here.) 

~~~~~~~~~~

Lovely, peaceful, and full-of-joy host Michelle Kogan has the Poetry Friday round-up this week. 

Photo courtesy of Pixabay.

Poetry Friday: "Putting in a Window" by John Brantingham

This poem reads like an instruction for life. It also makes a terrific prompt, doesn't it? What's another craft or skill that, mindfully executed, becomes a master class in living? 

On another note, how is it already mid-December? 

Putting in a Window
by John Brantingham


Carpentry has a rhythm that should never
be violated. You need to move slowly,
methodically, never trying to finish early,
never even hoping that you'd be done sooner.
It's best if you work without thought of the
end. If hurried, you end up with crooked
door joints and drafty rooms. Do not work
after you are annoyed just so the job
will be done more quickly. Stop when you
begin to curse at the wood. Putting in

....

(Read the rest here.)

~~~~~~~~~~

Wise and wonderful Linda Mitchell has the round-up this week at A Word Edgewise. 

Photo courtesy of StockSnap at Pixabay. 

Poetry Friday: “November Night”

There are so many crisp, perfect, and wistful poems about November. It’s hard to choose just one, isn’t it? But here’s a short one I return to every year. (And it’s in the public domain, yay!) 

November Night
by Adelaide Crapsey

Listen …
With faint dry sound,
Like steps of passing ghosts,
The leaves, frost-crisp’d, break from the trees
And fall.

~~~~~~~~~~

The ever-lovely Janice Scully is hosting the 

Poetry Friday round-up this week at Salt City Verse.

Photo courtesy of Pixabay. 

Poetry Friday: A Meme Poem

Susan, at Chicken Spaghetti, invited us to join her in a meme poem, ala Donika Kelly. Kelly’s inspiration was a meme from 2017, so I went back to see what else made the rounds that year. Remember this grand entrance? As Professor Robert Kelly conducted an interview with the BBC, his daughter marched into the room, her baby brother rollered in behind her, and then his wife rocketed in to retrieve the uninvited interview guests. 

Here’s the video that went viral: 

And here’s my poem: 

Life Interrupted 

Oh, sweetheart, 

March! 

Burst on the scene, 

exultant. 

Jubilant. 

Lead the parade. 

Insert yourself. 

Settle in, take up space. 

Suck the marrow of life. 

Act like you own it, baby.  

Because you do. 

~~~~~~~~~~

Carol at The Apples in My Orchard has the Poetry Friday round-up this week. 

Poetry Friday: Burning Haibun

Wow, this was a challenge. 

The Poetry Peeps are tackling burning haibuns, which I’ve never attempted. Tanita Davis explains: 

Poetry Peeps! You’re invited to our challenge for the month of October! Here’s the scoop: As invited by Poetry Magazine, we’re composing burning haibun. Not regular old haibun, folks. These highlight the internal landscape of memory, and within them, something somewhere must BURN. Perhaps it’s your candle at both ends. The stub of wax in your jack-o-lantern. Perhaps it’s just your heartburn, or your indignation. We cannot wait to find out. As always, these poems will continue our theme of writing in conversation. Are you still in? You’ll have a month to craft your creation(s), then share your offering on OCTOBER 31st in a post and/or on social media with the tag #PoetryPals. THIS is gonna be LIT (see what I did there?), so we hope you’ll join the fun!

The process is further explained/illustrated at this link, from Torrin A. Greathouse. 

My subject matter is on the darker side (I'm sorry, Tanita, mine is not fun!) But I couldn’t stop thinking about it: I’m focused here on the lives that were burned down by Covid. Specifically, in this poem, my parents’ lives. Two people who were mentally sharp and doing as well as folks in their late eighties can do — until Covid hit them. New and horrible health problems, dementia. Steady, heartbreaking declines. Yes, living as long as they did is still considered “a good, long life,” as they say, but the last few years of their lives became hell for them in ways they’d never experienced and couldn’t have anticipated before the pandemic, a wildfire that is still smoldering. 

Here's my attempt at a burning haibun: 

Fragments 

My father, this proud man, is no longer at the top of the mountain he was climbing. He once thought he’d hold everything in his hands but now he is reluctantly, painstakingly readying himself for the continuing fall, for the end of life as he knew it. He is still doing his best, still taking care of my mother, his beloved, who has already handed her life over to the horrific fire, to the aftermath of the burning corona (just another virus, some said, a fragment of a moment in time, soon to pass.) But the fire required all her strength and his resolve as they battled the constant lick of the flames, sought to douse the blaze and find, in the ashes, their former selves, the self, after all, being all we really have left in the end. Unless we don’t. Unless everything has been touched by flame, unless everything else has burned. 

This man, no longer at the top of the mountain, readying himself for the continuing fall, for the end of life as he knew it. Still taking care of my mother, his beloved, who has already handed her life over to the aftermath of the burning corona (just another virus, some said, a fragment of a moment in time, soon to pass.) But the fire required all her strength and his resolve as they battled the constant lick of the flames, sought to douse the blaze and find, in the ashes, their former selves, the self, after all, being all we really have left in the end. Everything else has burned. 

This man at the end

of life. A fragment. Ashes. 

Everything has burned. 

~ Karen Edmisten 

~~~~~

Here's what my process looked like: 

My father, this proud man, is no longer at the top of the mountain he was climbing. He once thought he’d hold everything in his hands but now he is reluctantly, slowly, painstakingly readying himself for his continuing fall, for the end of life as he knew it. He is still doing his best, still taking care of my mother, his beloved, who has already handed her life over to the horrific fire, to the aftermath of the burning corona (just another virus, some said, a fragment of a moment in time, soon to pass.) But the fire required all her strength and his resolve as they battled the constant lick of the flames, sought to douse the blaze and find, in the ashes, their former selves, the self, after all, being all we really have left in the end. Unless we don’t. Unless everything has been touched by flame, everything else has burned. 

~~~~~

My father, this man, is no longer at the top of the mountain he was climbing. He once thought he’d hold everything in his hands but now he is reluctantly, slowly, painstakingly readying himself for his continuing fall, for the end of life as he knew it. He is still doing his best, still taking care of my mother, his beloved, who has already handed her life over to the horrific fire, to the aftermath of the burning corona (just another virus, some said, a fragment of a moment in time, soon to pass.) But the fire required all her strength and his resolve as they battled the constant lick of the flames, sought to douse the blaze and find, in the ashes, their former selves, the self, after all, being all we really have left in the end. Unless we don’t. Unless everything has been touched by flame, everything else has burned. 

~~~~~

My father This man, is no longer at the top of the mountain he was climbing. He once thought he’d hold everything in his hands but now he is reluctantly, slowly, painstakingly readying himself for his continuing fall, for the end of life as he knew it. He is still doing his best, still taking care of my mother, his beloved, who has already handed her life over to the horrific fire, to the aftermath of the burning coronavirus (just another virus, some said, a fragment of a moment in time, soon to pass.) But the fire required all her strength and his resolve as they battled the constant lick of the flames, sought to douse the blaze and find, in the ashes, their former selves, the self, after all, being all we really have left in the end. Unless we don’t. Unless everything has been touched by flame, everything else has burned. 

~~~~~

This man, at the end

of life. A fragment. Ashes. 

Everything has burned. 

 

I worked my way backward, from thoughts for the haiku to building, in reverse, the first paragraph (although the haiku ended up changing.) I don't know that I hit the marks for a burning haibun. The second paragraph doesn't offer enough in the way of reorientation. (In further drafts of this, that's what I'll aim for.) And I'm not sure this hits the "Conversation" theme either, but this is what came out over the course of a couple of sessions. It was, at least, a challenging and cathartic bit of writing. 

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

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

Poetry Friday: "Servants" by Faith Shearin

This poem has layers. I'm curious about what reactions it inspires in you — thoughts? I have so many! Let's chat. 

Servants
by Faith Shearin

In college I read about Virginia Woolf and Edith Wharton
and I thought of their great minds and their long dresses
and their gilded friendships which involved tea

in the library or on the lawn. I thought of the places
they traveled and the weight of their trunks
and all the ways their marriages did or did not
please them. I thought of the dogs that followed
at their heels and the rooms and gardens they
decorated and the beaches where they

carried umbrellas. But I never once thought of
their servants. I didn’t think of the cook who

....

(Read the rest here.)

~~~~~~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round-up is being hosted this week by the lovely Sarah Grace Tuttle. 

Photo thanks to Pixabay. 

Poetry Friday: October 10 by Wendell Berry

Here's a short, perfect (and perfectly-timed) autumn poem by Wendell Berry. Serendipitous. 

(Did you know Berry has a new novel out? My copy is winging its way to my house as I type. Thanks, Bookshop.org!) 

October 10

by Wendell Berry

Now constantly there is the sound,

quieter than rain,

of the leaves falling.

Under their loosening bright

gold, the sycamore limbs

....

(read the rest here.) 

~~~~~~~~~~

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

the marvelous Mrs. B. — Linda at TeacherDance. 

(Photo thanks to Pixabay.)

Poetry Friday: Writing tritinas

Tanita Davis* shared the latest Poetry Peeps challenge: 

Poetry Peeps! You’re invited to our challenge for the month of September! Here’s the scoop: We’re going to take up the challenge of tritina. Invented by poet Marie Ponsot, this less restrictive younger sibling of the sestina uses three repeated words to end three tercets. The order of word-endings for the tercets are 123, 312, 231, with a final line acting as the envoi, featuring all three words in the 1-2-3 order used in the first stanza. Additionally, we’re continuing with our theme of poetry in conversation, in whatever way that is individually defined. Sound a little tricky? Maybe? Are you still in? 

I'm in! 

I'd never written a tritina, and had no idea what I wanted to focus on. I sat down with my notes (123, 312, 231...) and thought, "But what kind of conversation?" 

An image of a young student and teacher came to mind, so I rolled with the idea of a literal conversation about poetry. Here's the draft I came up with this week: 

Making Room 

“I do not like this stuff — poetry!” said
the boy in the back of the room.
“It’s stupid, so I don’t read it.”

The teacher nodded. “But if you never read it,
how do you… know?” she said. 
Reticence in the room.

Then shifting. Glancing. A crackling room.
“I read a poem once, okay? And I hated it.
But, I could, I guess…try again?” he said.

“I mean, maybe,” he said softly, “there’s room for it.”

I played around with a variety of line-ending words and tinkered for a while with room/nodded/know, but I couldn't stick the landing on that draft. (Why am I using a gymnastics metaphor? I was never even good at somersaults.) I liked where that draft was going, but there's still something too wispy about it. I'll get back to you if I stick the landing on it, or nail the dismount, or figure out where these metaphors are coming from. 

In the meantime, the Poetry Friday round-up is being hosted this week by the marvelous and inspiring Amy Ludwig VanDerwater at The Poem Farm. 

~~~~~~~~~~

* Tanita's newest book, Berry Parker Doesn't Catch Crushes, just landed in the world! (And it's sitting on my nightstand, right now, waiting for me to start reading it tonight. Huzzah!) It's the latest in a long line of middle grade and YA goodness from Tanita, and I can't wait to dive in. 

Photo thanks to Pixabay. 

Poetry Friday: "The Patience of Ordinary Things"

The world is an extraordinary dumpster fire right now and it leaves me longing for something ordinary. Ordinary time, ordinary things, ordinary annoyances, ordinary pleasures. Ordinary, calm, boring, moments. 

Pat Schneider understands. Take an ordinary moment to sink into the dose of sanity she offers. 

The Patience of Ordinary Things
by Pat Schneider

It is a kind of love, is it not?
How the cup holds the tea,
How the chair stands sturdy and foursquare,
How the floor receives the bottoms of shoes
Or toes. How soles of feet know
Where they're supposed to be.
I've been thinking about the patience

....

(Read the last few lines here.)   

The round-up this week is being hosted by the ever-wonderful Jama Rattigan at Jama's Alphabet Soup.

Photo courtesy of Pixabay. 

Poetry Friday: I’m Hosting, and we're having conversations with poems (or in my case, with a poet)

I was out of town last week and missed Poetry Friday but I wouldn't dare duck out today — I'm your host!

Last month, the inimitable Tanita Davis shared the August challenge:

Poetry Peeps! You’re invited to our challenge for the month of August! Here’s the scoop: If poetry is a love letter to readers, this month, we’re writing back. Using Nikki Giovanni’s “Talk to Me, Poem, I Think I Got The Blues” as a mentor verse, we’re writing poetry directly in conversation with a poem. Whether you talk back directly to Ms. Giovanni’s work, or choose another poems to pass notes to is up to you, as is length and form. Are you in? You’ll have a month to craft your creation(s), then share your offering on August 29th in a post and/or on social media with the tag #PoetryPals. We hope all of you will join the fun!

I cheated a little and broadened the rubric: I'm in conversation with a poet (and a smattering of her poems) rather than addressing my plea to a single selection. I couldn't wait to talk to Emily Dickinson and ask her to reveal her secrets. Even though I'm nobody, I knew she would indulge me. She hasn't written me back, but I'm a patient correspondent. 

(The lines in italics are either taken directly from Dickinson's poems, or are a rearrangement of her words.) 

Talk to Me, Emily D.  

(with thanks to Nikki Giovanni) 

"In this short life that only lasts an hour

How much—how little—is within our power."

            ~ Emily Dickinson 

I have a few questions, Miss Dickinson. 

(May I call you Emily? I’m nobody, but 

I feel like we’re friends.) 

I have questions, Emily. 

The first is the easiest 

and also impossible. 

How do you do it? 

How much—how little—do you do?

Do you dream a poem? 

Does it waft in, fully formed, 

gorgeous in its shape and complexity? Or, 

does it hover tantalizingly near you, 

a shape-shifting cloud 

informing image and imagination? 

 

Or is it baking that inspires 

the rising of precise words? 

While your hands are kneading, 

is your inscrutable mind churning? 

Cinnamon, nutmeg, allspice, cloves—

Is the secret, instead, 

in the scent of gingerbread? 

You dwell in possibility but in 

the impossibility of this world too, 

its planks of reason broken. 

Still. 

Still, you conjure 

that Stop-sensation on my Soul, 

and Thunder in the Room. 

Talk to me, Emily D.

How much—how little— do you do, 

do you know? 

Dazzle me gradually with your truth. 

~ Karen Edmisten 

References: 

• "How much—how little—" (from "In this short Life that only lasts an hour," 1292)
• "I’m Nobody" (from "I'm Nobody! Who are you?" 260) 
• "I dwell in Possibility" (466)
• "planks of reason broken" (adapted from “I Felt a Funeral in My Brain," 340: "And then a Plank in Reason, broke,")
• "that Stop-sensation on my soul and thunder in the room" (from “I got so I could take his name,” 293) 
• "Dazzle me, gradually, with your truth" (adapted from “Tell all the truth but tell it slant,” (1263): "The Truth must dazzle gradually/Or every man be blind—")

Mr. Linky awaits your dazzling contributions this week. Thanks for sharing in the conversation. 

Photo courtesy of Pexels.