Poetry: I Stop Writing the Poem

I Stop Writ­ing the Poem –Tess Gal­lagher From They Say This to fold the clothes. No mat­ter who lives or who dies, I’m still a woman. I’ll always have plen­ty to do. I bring the arms of his shirt togeth­er. Noth­ing can stop our ten­der­ness. I’ll get back…

Poetry: Girder

Gird­er –Nan Cohen From Rope Bridge The sim­plest of bridges, a promise that you will go for­ward, that you can come back. So you cross over. It says you can come back. So you go for­ward. But even if you come back then you must…

Poetry: The Worriers’ Guild

The Wor­ri­ers’ Guild –Philip F. Deaver From How Men Pray Today there is a meet­ing of the Wor­ri­ers’ Guild, and I’ll be there. The prob­lems of Earth are          to be dis­cussed          at length          end to end          for five days          end to end …

QOTD: Robert Hayden

We must not be fright­ened nor cajoled into accept­ing evil as deliv­er­ance from evil. We must go on strug­gling to be human, though mon­sters of abstrac­tions police and threat­en us. –Robert Hay­den, poet and edu­ca­tor (1913–1980)

Poetry: What We Need

What We Need –David Bud­bill From While We’ve Still Got Feet The Emper­or, his bul­lies and hench­men ter­ror­ize the world every day, which is why every day we need a lit­tle poem of kind­ness, a small song of peace a brief moment of joy.

Poetry: Fairy Tale

Fairy Tale –Ron Pad­gett From You Nev­er Know The lit­tle elf is dressed in a flop­py cap and he has a big rosy nose and flar­ing white eye­brows with short legs and a jaun­ty step, though some­times he glides across an invisible…

Poetry: At the Children’s Violin Concert

At the Chil­dren’s Vio­lin Con­cert –Susan Catal­do From drenched: Select­ed Poems of Susan Catal­do            Firm­ly bowed strands of horse hair            tight­ened or gath­ered up by            a small hand to play            a piece by J.S. Bach who drank 36 cups of coffee…

Poetry: Why Do Poets Write?

Why do poets write?  –Richard Jones From The Bless­ing My wife, a psy­chi­a­trist, sleeps through my read­ing and writ­ing in bed, the half-whis­pered lines, man­u­scripts piled between us, but in the deep part of night when her beep­er sounds she bolts awake to return…

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