the right to be other
than I used to be

depends upon having
nothing that is mine

and some may think
a place is missing

when it is only put
in another place

a walk in the garden
becoming sea

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 8 June 1663.

This week: the prow of the house, swampy winged women, a parking space for dreams, rubbish dumps and petrol pumps, and much more. Enjoy.

One morning last week I woke abruptly from a dream about Horace’s ode to a wine-jar, Odes 3.21, which begins o nata mecum consule Manlio (“o female-thing born with me when Manlius was consul, i.e. in 65 BC”). In the dream, the first line was the actual first line but the following three were some kind of made-up dream-Latin, though in alcaics of course, like the original.

Horace’s odes are almost all addressed to people. There are very few to non-human entities: just this one, 1.32 (the poet addressing his own lyre) and 3.13 (to the Bandusian spring). Odes 3.21 is accordingly quite often treated as a kind of comedy-ode or even a send-up of one, and this isn’t wrong, exactly: it obviously is meant to be humourous and perhaps quite affectionate. But thinking of it as a joke is not a very good guide to the experience of the poem either, because as so often in Horatian lyric, the poem ends up somewhere very different from where it started. If it begins as a kind of send-up of a hymn and a joke about Horace’s tendency to write poems about boozy parties, it ends as an actual hymn, with one of the most mysteriously beautiful closing lines in all of Horace.

Victoria Moul, O gentle tile

It was bliss. The first time this year lying on a hammock in my backyard, under tall trees, the green-filtered flickering light and Medieval music in delicious fifths on decidedly 21^st century earbuds. Then I stopped the music and listened to the birds. Our yard is surrounded by trees and is near a ravine so we have many birds and many varieties. As I was listening, I was thinking about Bernie Krause’s concepts related to soundscapes and biophony and especially the acoustic adaptation hypothesis and the niche hypothesis, that is where creatures carve out their own acoustic space in a soundscape, usually through occupying a particular frequency niche. So, not only what are the sounds of birds, but how do different birds occupy a soundscape together.

I’ve always loved seemingly uncoordinated sounds from crowds. So, rather than the coordinated homophony of church choirs, the heterophonic and more anarchic traditional chanting (including muttering) of the synagogue congregation. The aggregate sound of a party or really any large human group just doing their thing. The many intertwined voices overlapping, cancelling each other out, winding around each other, changing depending on position and depending on the pitch and timbre of the voices, occupying different acoustic niches.

All of this inspired me to rise from the hammock and create a setting of a poem, and specifically something that I’ve wanted to experiment more with: multiple versions of the same voice but presented in various overlapping ways so the words wash over you. Do you absorb the words and their meaning by osmosis? What if one voice was slightly louder? Does time pass differently as the various word repeat, echo or anticipate each other? What does it do to the language part of the brain as opposed to the music or environmental listening part of the brain?

Gary Barwin, Everyone talking and singing at the same time

This week I’ve been flying solo, a poetry reading in Rome at Keats-Shelley House, an award ceremony and a launch for an underground poetry pamphlet series. I booked an apartment and spent most of my fee on a view across the Eternal City, the dome of St Peter’s a stone’s throw from the terrace. This is not a step up. I’ll still have nothing in my pockets when I come home. But this, this I tell myself, is poetry. You don’t get to take views home with you. They remain in the places where poetry goes.

My exuberance was perhaps due to my Instagram feed that is, like everyone else’s, notoriously populated with ‘my-life-is-better-than-yours’ views. In the last weeks it has been hijacked by writers from the Hay Festival, novelists mainly, not discussing ideas, not getting into it, not getting deeply down into it but bragging, mostly bragging about the idyllic locations where they’ve written their latest best sellers.

“I spent a delightful month in Tuscany,” says Sheila De Vinity, author of the A Millpond at Marlborough (Chatsworth & Grimstone) a W.H.Smith recommendation or David Henchman-Trout addressing a sold out crowd in a tent, “I find the pace of Dorset just suits my writing,” and Daphne Soames who you’ll probably know from All Our Mothers’ Sons saying with a contrived world weariness, “Each year my publisher banishes me to a villa in Umbria and tells me not to come home until I’m done.”

Fuck you, I think, fuck you, I shout at my phone. And then I book a fancy apartment in Rome. Because I want to be like them, the writers, the serious writers who don’t seem to have a view on anything, who only seem to have a nice view over something.

Jan Noble, What do you do with a view?

One of Richard Wilbur’s best known poems, “The Writer,” begins in his daughter’s room “at the prow of the house / where light breaks, and the windows are tossed with linden. . . ” For years I thought I knew what that meant, “the prow of the house.” Wilbur’s biographers, who have located the very house and the very room, tell me I am not quite correct, but I hold to my mental image. I live in a house with a prow, and a neighborhood full of such houses. The years I’ve spent writing poetry have made clear to me the hold that these streets and these houses have on my imagination. In the normal order of things, supposing my work is remembered, it might be years before some critic noticed its rootedness in a place. I have the chutzpah to talk about it myself because the place is already beginning to disappear.

In architectural terms, my “prow” is a dormer, projecting from the roof-plane at the front of the house. A gable end with a prominent window can have the same visual effect. On the streets I inhabit, a hundred such dormers and gables jut into the sea of society. In each the containment of the family puts its public face toward the street, propriety and stature on view. These are Edwardian and even Victorian houses, creaky with age but spacious, with dormers that often extend from third stories, looking into the crowns of mature trees. In times past, high windows on these streets would have been tossed with elm; the dying elms gave place to ash trees, now dying in their turn and being more thoughtfully replaced with varied species. Our own tossing is done by maples.

In spiritual terms—that is, from its interior—a dormer of this kind is a place of solitude and protection. As its etymology declares, it’s often a place to sleep. The sloping walls created by the main roof, or by the dormer itself, lean in as if to embrace the inhabitant: sleeping child, daydreaming teenager, adult engrossed in some attic-exiled craft.

Maryann Corbett, Houses, Neighborhoods, Poems

When I arrived, a woman was sitting in the quiet at a side table in front of a laptop, looking pensive over the keyboard. Two people were setting up a table of books for sale. One by one people drifted in, slightly disheveled, many, some looking halt and infirm, then others arriving in twos and threes, more nimble, clutching bags and notebooks, chattering, some, others sitting quietly, men, more women, mostly middle aged and above, some scattered younger folks, one group looked like a parent and an adult child or two. Sneakers, light jackets against the rain shower, some cool glasses here and there. A writers festival, the mountains of northern New York State. I spoke to someone from Vermont, a woman from Texas visiting a daughter. That family I saw turned out to be locals. An old friend was there with his son, having traveled in from two other parts of the north to meet there. Fiction, mystery, romance, memoir, poetry, fantasy, plays, screenplays — all the minds roiling with ideas and the desire to write. In Ukraine, according to the article, the same, but younger, many wearing army fatigues, chatter, hugs, periodic evacuations because of the possibility of incoming missiles, all clutching bags of books, minds full of stories. Physicists are positing that all reality is relational, not material. We are many things, we problematic human species, but we are word lovers, tellers of tales, avid listeners, against odds of geography, war, life’s inherent limitations, large and small, grievous and petty. I am moved by this.

Marilyn McCabe, & time works it out

There’s something powerful about gathering in a room with other people to work on our writing together. There were four of us in the library yesterday, and another six online, and for an hour, all of us were working in silence, except for the scribbling of my pen and the tapping of their keyboards. It’s a pleasantly organic, embodied experience, writing like this; it reminds me of the old days in the newsroom when six or twelve of us were huddled around a large table in one room, working, together. Except in the writing circle, none of us are on deadline, and we’re all there just to support one another in our various writing projects. I noticed, at the end of that hour, that my heart rate had slowed and my anxiety levels were lower.

Dylan Tweney, Five things for June 4

Yeah, I know, Wile E. Coyote isn’t saintly, but all those years ago, watching Saturday morning Looney Tunes, young me empathized with him way more than with the smug, always-victorious Roadrunner. I hereby salute everyone giving creative chase this summer, painting tunnels on rocks, building devious literary contraptions to trap a fleeting spirit, even knowing we’ll take a lot of canyon falls.

I recently revised a brief lyric essay starring Wile E. and Krazy Kat and placed it under submission, along with a lot of poems, as I hunt out which magazines are open during these dog days (Virginia’s humidity blanket has settled on my valley). Oh, Ploughshares, how I’ve tried and tried to snag your attention almost every June for decades now: will I ever catch you? Some of my poetry submissions from earlier this spring landed well, thanks to editors at The Common, Ecotone, and SWWIM Every Day. Thanks, as well, to a few editors for sending me encouraging notes with their rejections. The longer I trudge through the desert, the more I appreciate that kindness.

Lesley Wheeler, Wile E. Coyote, patron saint

Saturday was reading through poems and checking I’m happy they’re ready, then making two lists: one of poems and one of places to send them. I also nominally suggested which poems I might send where but of course I changed this when it actually came to sending the subs (not sure if these were actually good changes, but it’s too late now!). Then the actual subs were split over Sunday and Monday, plus one on Friday night after work. I split them up cos it takes me a long time, I struggle to decide what to send where, and to stay on task, and I have to do a lot of checking to make sure I’ve included/omitted all the things on the instructions; trying to send too many in one day is overwhelming and ends up not happening. […]

It’s time consuming, right, and a bit of a headache. Even with doing all my writing in a 12 point standard font and basic formatting (excluding concrete poems obvs) I still have to read back through and double check all the formatting specs cos they’re slightly different across a lot of places.

Then if it’s a comp you have to make sure your name isn’t on it… some want page numbers in a particular place… some are specific about what they want in the file name… some want you to include a line count in the top right or the top left… some specify spacing…

Some want a separate entry form attached along with your submission, while my favourite (joking, obviously) want you to fill out their online form, make payment through a separate portal, and then email your poems along with transaction/receipt numbers and other specified information in the body of the email. Trying to get all these separate points correct as a neurodivergent is – to put it mildly – absolutely fucking brain-melty.

Rachael Hill, SUBMISSIONS – insert facepalm icon here –

I’m a bit like a hermit crab right now, quietly working on my new books. Trying to make time to stare at big skies, take deep breaths, dream big dreams and patiently birth new worlds. 

Salena Godden, Books & Festivals: Summer 2026

My father is passing
through these last days
like a ghost
he lies in
the nursing home bed
while finite iterations
of him skulk their way
toward the grave.

I am stuck in time
mulling over the past
as though I am
polishing rocks in
my mouth.

Rebecca Cook, Edit A Poem With Me

How can we tell, the ones who will be here only briefly. Is it the eyes, the smile through the unannounced pain. Is it the wandering. Where did you sleep most nights? In a poem for you I apologised, ‘I never knew your address’.

Is it the ones who pass us by like a flash, like a light, brightly. Cast deep into the back of our minds. At one point we all needed a break. Some of us were settling down, as they say. I last saw you from the 38 bus.

All of this in the one single poem I have ever written for you.

Luciana Francis, Map of Our Lives

We went to a different part of the North Carolina mountains, near Boone.  We were there for the wedding of my spouse’s sister’s oldest child.  The wedding was beautiful, of course, but there were other beautiful moments:

–On Monday night, we went to Parallel Brewing in Boone for a rehearsal dinner/party.  Do they brew beer?  I don’t know.  Did I taste it?  No.  I wanted wine to go with the pizza.  Was any of the wine memorable enough to make note of what it was?  No.

–I was much more interested in Huzzah Books, which shares the building with Parallel Brewing.  We could go back and forth, which made the party better–more space.

–I also loved lingering among the books, which seemed to be used books from decades when publishers were more serious about publishing.  I found a book of “best new poetry” published in 1960 or so.  The names were fairly familiar and all male, except for Adrienne Rich.

–One of our younger family members (21 or so) was thrilled to find a book by Jane Kenyon.  I was thrilled that she was thrilled.

–We didn’t do more in Boone.  We spent most of our time visiting with family members on the front porches of our cabins.  If it had been clearer weather, we’d have had a glorious view.

–I did love seeing the fog/mist move across the land, only to vanish.  Once again, I thought about how humans might come to believe in ghosts.

Kristin Berkey-Abbott, Memory Whisps from Last Week’s Travel to the High Country of NC

The author event is good, as it is every year. It’s one of those jobs that I look forward to. I take 1-2-1s with PhD and MA students, helping them in their publication journeys, boosting confidences. In between events I take some time to wander into York looking for a building I’ve heard about but never seen. I walk up and down the street several times until I finally find it – the oldest house in York, tucked down an alley way called Trembling Madness Apartments.

The passageway leads to a courtyard. Within the courtyard are the ruins. An ancient window looks out into the brickwork of the wall behind it, floor joists jut from the wall, holding up air. This is the sort of ruin I like – the juxtaposition of it; the bins against the masonry, the fag ends next to the romance of a 12^th century window trailing ivy like a fairytale. I stand for a while undoing the modern to reach the past, reducing the surrounding buildings to nothing, the minster back to its original wooden structure, the window back to a view of the river, the fields. The woman in my novel would have known this place as a ruin too. It’s possible she walked here. I feel her feet in my feet, as if the building is a pin that sticks us together, holding us in one space.

As I leave, an American couple is talking a photo of the alleyway with its comical name. I apologise for spoiling the picture, and the lady tells me I suit the name perfectly and I laugh and embrace it: I am trembling madness, I am swirling between jobs, I am writer, I am carer, I am menopause, I am slipping between worlds and finding a way back to myself, and I’ve been doing that forever.

Wendy Pratt, Trembling Madness

Recently, I found myself in the middle seat on a turbulent flight, barely able to move without bumping into my seatmates.

You may know that feeling of foreboding that arrives out of nowhere. I can go months without it, and then, somehow, an accumulation of stresses tips into dread.

Anxiety has endless inventive momentum. No wonder so many writers seem to know it intimately.

So, what did I do to calm my body and mind? I used the in-flight Wi-Fi to look up poems about anxiety.

I’d love to hear which poems resonated most with your experience. And if there’s one I missed, please share it in the comments.

Maya C. Popa, The Poetry of Anxiety

7 – What do you see the current role of the writer being in larger culture? Do they even have one? What do you think the role of the writer should be?

Writers are deep observers; I think that quality of being a witness and then writing it is a vital check in society. I’m a yoga teacher and practitioner, and the yoga practice also requires contemplative awareness. I do my best to honor what practicing yoga actually means; according to The Yoga Sutras of Patanjali: yogash chitta vritti nirodhah, essentially translates as “yoga is the quieting of all the changing states of the mind.” The primary purpose of this practice is to clear the lens to be in a state of heightened clarity at the present moment. What better conditions exist for poems to emerge than from the place of sheer presence?

8 – Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?

ESSENTIAL. The right set of objective eyes, (or a few of them), is essential to crafting and refining poems when the poems are ready for that stage of work. This is part of the journey is a wonderful opportunity for self-inquiry, because it allows me to explore my relationship with ego, want, and attachment. Why am I clinging to this couplet? What makes this image so damn precious to me? What happens if I let go and allow the space for possibility beyond what I originally imagined?

9 – What is the best piece of advice you’ve heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?

Last year, I had the opportunity to study with Ellen Bass on her Truth & Beauty retreat in Santa Cruz with Marie Howe. When I was concerned about about what the poem was uncovering about the person and situation it was based on and feeling guilty about putting all of the mess into the poem, she told me, “Give the poem what it needs.” It was such a declarative moment of wisdom. You can go back after and do all the things to care for the humans who’ve inspired the pieces or think about how the audience will meet the piece, but as the poem is coming to life, don’t hold back. When I head into tough territory around family of origin work, I hear this reminder and charge forward, emboldened and reminded to meet the poem where it is and tend to its needs.

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Emily Hyland (rob mclennan)

I don’t write poetry to get reviews or validation but all the same it’s nice when you find out someone likes what you do.

The first written response to my collection Poems In The Key Of Aardvark has appeared on amazon (from a verified sale, it says). So I will, quite shamelessly, quote in full:

“Poetry that reads like a mind passed through a shredder, then carefully reassembled by touch: fragmented, intimate, and full of strange little truths that only reveal themselves when you stop trying to read them normally. Difficult to put this one down.”

I like the idea of my mind passing through a shredder. Seems fair.

And sales are trundling along. Mostly, as far as I can tell, to people who aren’t poets. So far, so good.

Bob Mee, FIRST REVIEW OF POEMS IN THE KEY OF AARDVARK

Sitting down with a copy of Bob Mee’s magnificent Poems In the Key of Aardvark is like tackling a giant trifle with a tiny teaspoon. There’s a lot if it. Gobbled at once, you’ll be sick from here to Christmas. But take your time and you’ll be amply rewarded.

It’s a full fifteen years since Bob’s last outing: The Maker of Glass Eyes, and there’s a sense of making up for lost time – both in the urgency and sheer volume of this new collection.

Some of this work is familiar from the blogosphere, where early versions were first aired. But for me, the poems are more impressive on the page, where print rewards the courage of their convictions.  

When you have a writer as prolific and effortlessly inventive as Bob, it’s easy to miss lines – and sometimes whole poems – that truly resonate and sing.

The trouble is, he can do everything. His trick is accessibility; he’ll draw you in with a casual invitation; sometimes a throwaway line, then lead you somewhere totally unexpected.  

Christopher James, Stop making sense – a review of Poems In the Key of Aardvark by Bob Mee

Or many villages. Whole cities. And today, I want to thank them all.

My brother, Harsha, Vani, and Namratha Varadharajan – for reading the manuscript and giving me the courage to take the next step. And, with Madhuri Katti and Prithvi – for being massive sounding boards as the publishing process almost broke my resolve at every step.

My fellow-poets on WordPress and Blogger – for reading the poems when I posted them in 2022-23. You kept me going for a whole year as the series evolved. I went back several times to read your comments and reviews, when I was drowning in imposter syndrome and self-doubt. And especially Rosemary Nissen-Wade – for the idea, the inspiration and the friend that she is.

Folks at Atta Galatta, one of Bangalore’s premier indie bookstores – for letting me write and edit and sulk at one of their tables, whenever I needed a place away from home. And the good people I meet there – for all the positive energy and support.

Fellow Substackers – for your kind words of support. It encouraged me to bring new poems from here into the book.

And those who have lived through the things in the book with me, all these long years – for quietly providing a shoulder or a willing ear or an anchor, whenever I needed it. You know who you are. This one is for you.

For too long, this book has been unwilling to step out into the world. But here it is now. NWH is out on Amazon India . It will take a few more days for the international listings.

‘No Way Home’ is the dark scab on an old wound. I hope you will welcome it gently into your homes.

Rajani Radhakrishnan, Because it takes a village

I was editing the final version of the upcoming collection of poems and thinking about what holds the book together as a whole. Some of it a twisted version of matrimony and domesticity, but also in some ways, the idea of transformation and monstrosity, which is a place I have visited before obviously with previous books and series, but seems important to take into account with this manuscript in particular. Early American vampires. Murdering governesses. Swampy winged women, and, of course, Bluebeard and his wife (and hidden room full of corpses of brides.) Not that I haven’t written about monstrous women before, though they are usually less malicious. The Renaissance dog-girl of PELT, the sideshow women of GIRL SHOW and EXOTICA. The strangeness of the SWALLOW poems and the female body. These women have a bit more bite behind them. A bit more violence.

Kristy Bowen, women and monstrosity

Having had some time alone at home over the past several days, I watched a lot of bad costume television (Bridgerton Season 4), made progress on a new imaginary landscape painting, pulled a lot of weeds, and spent time combing through my computer files to see how many poems I consider ready to submit or have been published yet uncollected in a book. I figured I’d have twenty or thirty.

Reader, I have one hundred and seven.

How did this happen? When the hell over the past several years have I written over a hundred poems that were not in my last two books?

Donna Vorreyer, Aliens, MRIs, Ouija Boards, Outer Space, and Wild Carrots

We’ve all likely been to a show where no one came. In fact, some of my most wonderfully memorable shows as an attendee have been exactly that—such as seeing one of my favorite bands, Jucifer, perform at the Double Door (RIP) in Chicago to a crowd of less than 10, their wall of amps still reverberating so loud that they knocked over my husband’s beer. And for those of us who are poets and writers, we’ve all likely been on that awkward side of the microphone, staring into a room of just a few good friends or fellow readers, but playing and playing (or reading and reading) just the same.

It can sometimes be so hard to explain this to the authors I work with as a publicist. Just because a bookstore is hosting an event for you doesn’t mean people—particularly people who don’t know you—will come. And just because people come to an event, it does not mean they will buy books. Events are rarely, if ever, about sales. You will not sell enough books to pay for your time and travel (says she who is saving all her tour receipts as a tax deduction for her unprofitable writerly “business”)—even celebrity author tours aren’t known to break even (particularly those that require stylists and handlers and make-up artists).

So, why do we it? Why do we, even at Black Ocean, strongly encourage our authors to team up and get out there?

There is no substitute for the author-in-person—hearing their voice, seeing and feeling why the work matters to them, and having the opportunity to engage with the ideas in the moment, in the flesh. This is not just true of poetry (which one could argue should always be read aloud and has its origins in performance) but of serious nonfiction as well. A scholar’s true enthusiasm for their subject and their research can be infectious.

Events are about visibility and profile raising. Even those who live in a different city or can’t attend the event may see something about it on social or in a newsletter. It puts the book and author into the ether. Those mentions build and compound. A good reading may lead to a review or an interview. It may lead to word-of-mouth recommendations. Or an invite to speak to a class. It may even lead to book sales you don’t see online or a library request.

They are also worth doing just because they are fun. For me, they’ve provided the wonderful opportunity to hang with friends (thank you, Nate Hoks, for the road trip conversation to/from Iowa City), read with writers whose work I love but had never heard aloud before (thank you, Tessa Bolsover, Sadie Dupuis, Sara Wainscott, Jordan Windholz, and Anna Zumbahlen), and to make new friends and support writers and publishers I admire (thank you, Teresa Dzieglewicz and Naoko Fujimoto​).

Carrie Olivia Adams, Readings & Book Events: Do They Matter?

As I move ever deeper into the third print run of Whatever You Do, Just Don’t, I find myself reflecting more and more on the complete irrelevance and absolute significance of sales figures.

Sales are completely irrelevant to me as an objective or target, but on the other hand their growth brings with it an accumulation of readers, who are by far the most important part of my whole creative process. Without a reader’s enjoyment, my poems would seem self-indulgent.

Then there’s the fact that no favour trading or box ticking are involved in someone’s decision to sit down with a collection, and engage with it. The gaining of a reader is by far the greatest award that a poet can win.

I’ve come to believe that slow-burning word of mouth is the most solid, long-lasting way to build a reputation as a poet. Do you agree…?

Matthew Stewart, An accumulation of readers

San Francisco poet Beau Beausoleil has collaborated with Sebastopol artist Tamsin Spencer Smith in this striking volume published on 24th March this year by FMSBW Press. Smith’s bold and expressive abstract paintings face Beausoleil’s poems of love and rage, observation and empathy, across each two-page spread.

Many of the poems are tall and slender, like the trees that hold the sky in place and entwine their roots … nourish each other setting an example of care and co-operation to our divided human society. Beausoleil’s California is a place where night-ships carry darkness under starlight, and urban landscapes interact with a crumbling coastline – a parking space for dreams. The poet’s eye is drawn to wandering streets and … fog-filled trees, highway signs and the scent of the ocean. The poems are sustained by love and fuelled by a fierce grief at human cruelty and destruction.

Ama Bolton, A new book from Beau Beausoleil

I’ve finally got round to cutting the grass today as we’d been doing No Mow May (How deliberate that was is up for debate), but between that and the state of our new allotment (It’s official now…we have the key and have joined the WhatsApp Group for it…) it’s been a week for wrestling with nature, so it was great timing to finish my reading of Graeme Richardson’s debut collection, Dirt Rich, this week.

Dirt Rich followed his New Walk Editions pamphlet, Last of the Coalmine Cowboys, pretty quickly, that being published in 2024. And there’s often a fear with that sort of turnaround that it has been rushed, but a) I’m not going to review a reviewer (who reviews the reviews of a reviewer, etc?) and b) while the collection contains all but 3 of the poems from LotCC, I think this is more a case of accretion of material over time.

Anyhoo, more importantly, I enjoyed it.

Mat Riches, Hardstanding for the bier

In Thistle Kate Maxwell turns a compassionate focus on daily interactions and familiar scenarios. Her poems don’t judge. She illustrates how vital acts of empathy and humanity are in healing connections with others and how to stop short of overdoing it and becoming overwhelmed. Readers are invited to see a thistle not as a prickly weed, but a sign of endurance and resilience. Something that grew where it wasn’t invited but made the best of a hostile environment nonetheless.

Emma Lee, “Thistle” Kate Maxwell (Recent Work Press) – book review

The full-length poetry debut by Edmonton-based poet, artist, educator, translator and researcher Adriana Oniță is Descântec for my Split Tongue: poems (Windsor ON: Palimpsest Press, 2026), a collection of poems that sits amid and between two languages and cultures, even as the author feels her Romanian slip slowly away. “I should have begun by saying / that I lost my mother tongue.” begins the poem “LIMBA MATERNĂ,” early on in the collection, “I know what you are thinking. / How can you lose something / that lives inside of you, unless / you chose to live languageless? // Forgive me, loss never occurs / on purpose. Think of the way / you lose a loved one, or faith.” Her poems speak of a loss still in-progress, with almost a call-and-response element to a number of these poems: offering a line in Romanian that follows in English translation, almost as a kind of reclamation of her mother tongue, but one that sits aside this more recent English comprehension. The poems work to reclaim and, perhaps, to recontextualize, offering alongside this life built fresh in Canada’s prairies. As the poem “PENTRU A FACE ŞI DESFACE / FOR DOING AND UNDOING” writes:

Fă rai din ce ai.
Make heaven from what you’ve got. 

Grăbeşte-te încet.
Hurry slowly. 

Am carat apă la fântână.
I carried water to the well.

The way her two languages, her translations, are set against each other, it suggests not simply to replicate or repeat in English, but composed and translated in a way attempting to shape and articulate that space where both Romanian and English might comfortably meet, within the comfort of her own divided imagination, perhaps. Accompanied by full-colour collages, including those built with photographs from the family archive, Oniță writes to articulate, to claim, to re-claim, setting up a new foundation from which to finally build. I am curious to see what might follow.

rob mclennan, Adriana Oniță, Descântec for my Split Tongue: poems

In Australia his literary reputation, like the man himself, was big enough to block the sun. But to the poets who grew up in Les Murray’s shadow, it was a reputation also composed of conservatism, royalism and patriarchalism. And so, as a young woman coming of age at the University of Technology in Sydney – the epicentre of a metropolitan, sloganeering conformity in the late 80s and early 90s – I deliberately turned away from Murray and his undeniable talent and originality.

Some of my reticence was understandable. Australia still had a frontier, masculine culture, and at first glance Murray’s poems appeared to inhabit that tradition too comfortably. There wasn’t much there for a young feminist to easily identify with. My mentor, Dorothy Porter, was chippy and dismissive of him, and I found it easy to fall in with her point of view.

Here’s another reason for my initial disdain: Murray was the same age as my father, and from a similar background. Working class and a Catholic convert. I was keen to code myself differently at university: sophisticated, worldly, adventurously atheist. I cringe when I think about that younger self.

But as I got older, I realised that Murray was the real thing, and far and away the most talented and original poet Australia has ever produced. When I moved to a rural property three hundred miles north of Murray’s native Nabiac to raise my young son I gained a different perspective on the rhythm of life in a farming community, and a new respect for Murray’s exploration of masculinity, of the Oz cultural cringe, of the harsh realities of Australia’s violent pioneering past – and how its brutality has affected both incomers and indigenous people. His reportage of what it meant to be a motherless working-class boy bullied at school with only a distant and haunted father to watch over him is deeply moving. […]

I remain captivated by his “Buladelah-Taree Holiday Song Cycle” – an early attempt to create dialogue between Aboriginal and western ballad traditions, at a time when most white writers were either too frightened or politically paralysed to genuinely engage beyond the usual second-hand slogans and bromides. The political and critical response to the ‘Buladelah-Taree Holiday Song Cycle’ over time is salutary. Cultural commentators as diverse as Lisa Gorton (whose review in the Australian Book Review is wonderful), Nam Le, Noel Pearson, Peter Garrett and Clive James all praise the poem. In his excellent essay on Murray in the New York Review of Books J. M. Coetzee calls it an ‘expansive, joyous holiday-season poem’ whose use of the Moon-Bone cycle is ‘a stroke of genius on Murray’s part that is also an act of homage’.

That’s the way I see it: an act of careful, respectful homage written by a man who grew up in a community that was on the very frontier of rural race relations. Where the rubber, along with human skin, hits the road – brutally, and irreversibly: a deeply uncomfortable and heartbreaking place to be, both for indigenous people and the white rural working class; a place of daily experience of the other, while sharing the same environment of poverty and marginalisation; and a very long way from the ‘ought over is’ utopias of the metropolitan universities.

Lisa Brockwell, In the Shade of Les Murray

Just arrived on my doormat is the latest, and second, issue of Free Bloody Birds, a new little magazine ‘printing new poems and essays about poetry’, edited by Alan Jenkins and Declan Ryan. Louis MacNeice turns up several times, which is always a good sign: there he is in Ange Mlinko’s essay on Derek Mahon, in Michael Hofmann’s poem for Michael Longley, and surely he’s somewhere in that fire in Paul Muldoon’s contribution.

And, of course, he’s there in John Clegg’s lovely essay on MacNeice’s London, of which more below. There’s also a superb series of poems by Leontia Flynn (who I wrote about here), an elegy for youth, called ‘Summer’:

Summer is fading
on literary ambition –
on my literary ambition
on the blood-congested drive

to conquer all readers
as not a but the poet,
marmoreal and timeless
to be referenced in every debate;

That first line, which is the first line of each poem, working its way down the page, comes from Larkin’s ‘Afternoons’. Perhaps Larkin was listening to MacNeice too. MacNeice creeps up on you, as I wrote the other day. Here is the beginning of Autumn Journal, the long poem he wrote in 1938:

Close and slow, summer is ending in Hampshire,
Ebbing away down ramps of shaven lawn where close-clipped yew
Insulates the lives of retired generals and admirals…

As FBB’s editors point out, though poets from Belfast and ‘the North’ are keen to claim MacNeice as ‘one of their own’, MacNeice ‘went to school and university’ in England and lived and worked in London ‘almost his entire adult life’. At the same time, John argues in his essay, MacNeice rarely wrote about living in London with the same roving magpie eye for he brought to places like Belfast and Birmingham.

Rather (John writes) ‘MacNeice writes at his best about London — writes, in fact, unforgettably about London — when he is leaving or entering it.’ John’s full explanation is ingenious: I won’t spoil it here. But, as he says, leaving or entering London also means being ‘on the train or on the road’, and MacNeice is the ‘first poet of things seen from that speed’: factories, the backs of houses, rubbish dumps and petrol pumps.

Jeremy Wikeley, Goodbye to London

The extreme musicality of Baudelaire’s “L’invitation au voyage”, emphasised by its very short lines, immediately make me think of Verlaine, but it combines musicality with a robust sensuousness quite unlike Verlaine’s delicate, ethereally elusive effects. In fact it’s above all the sound of the words and the way they make the mouth feel as you say them that makes their images glow so voluptuously in the imagination […]

There’s no point in commenting on the images in detail. Anyone reading the poem aloud or sounding it in his inner ear will both see them and feel how caressingly the poet evokes them in his imagination. The poem unfolds like a song, an incantation that weaves a self-hypnotising spell so that the speaker seems almost to sink into the world he’s imagining. Only almost, though. The refrain both yearns towards this world and accepts its distance. Depending on the emphasis one gives “Là” in reading the poem, this acceptance can seem like something quietly in the background or a sharp reminder of how far the speaker’s actual world is from the order, beauty and pleasure of the imagined one.

Edmund Prestwich, Baudelaire’s L’invitation au voyage

Searching our postings, I was surprised to see that Eliot is among the poets we have mentioned most often in Poems Ancient and Modern — although the newsletter has featured only three of his poems: “Gerontion,” “La Figlia che Piange,” and “Preludes” (partly because not all his work is out of copyright). Somehow, for us, Eliot remains a touchstone, and if his thought dwelt on a poet — John Webster, for example, or George Herbert — we tend to engage that thought.

A sign of age, perhaps? When Sally Thomas and I were young, Eliot’s poetry was the very horizon of ambitious verse, and high modernism the chief claim of high seriousness, both intellectual and poetic. And that was particularly true among literary and intellectual readers with a religious sense, for whom such work as Eliot’s Four Quartets gave an obvious riposte to the oft-heard sneer that believers are undereducated idiots.

As it happens, when I was starting out as a writer, I took a long lance and charged at this use of Eliot, arguing that God in his poetry is more often a device for addressing the crisis of modernity than an object of faith. The essay was overwrought, as young critics’ work often is, although I think I do still hold that Eliot was doing something intellectually and theologically risky when he took the language of mysticism, which expresses the believer’s rising to the vision of God, and shifted it down the scale to describe the non-believer’s rising to belief.

Perhaps similarly, as the years have gone by, I’ve grown less certain of the idea that Eliot’s poems are puzzles to be solved. Here’s a link to a useful hypertext version of The Waste Land, and in the presentation of Today’s Poem, I’ve placed hors-texte links to Eliot’s own notes. But I have gradually come to think that we might be best served by taking The Waste Land as a toboggan ride rather than, say, a step-by-step guide to forensic accounting. You just climb aboard and try to hang on as it shoots down a bumpy mountain run.

Joseph Bottum, Today’s Poem: The Waste Land

Come February, maybe, we’ll embark on a study of the “Terrible Sonnets,” the hard-won late-life achievement of Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844–1889). But right now, in the Northern Hemisphere, anyway, sumer is icumen in, with all its bursting life, and it seems fitting to turn, yet again, to Hopkins’s own summertime of poetic flourishing. In the spring and summer of 1877, as Hopkins awaited the autumn and his priestly ordination, the sonnets we most readily associate with his name, voice, and vision flowed from him in a great surge: “The Windhover,” “God’s Grandeur,” “As Kingfishers Catch Fire” — and Today’s Poem, “Pied Beauty.”

This poem is one of three examples, in Hopkins, of the “curtal sonnet,” a form devised and named by the poet (the other two are “Peace” and “Ash Boughs”), and distinguished chiefly by its abbreviated length, ten and a half lines instead of the sonnet’s standard fourteen. More precisely, it is like a Petrarchan sonnet whose separate pieces have shrunk in the wash, or like a recipe with two ingredients, reduced proportionately. The Petrarchan octave becomes a sestet; the resolving sestet then consists of a quatrain and a fifth partial line. The rhyme scheme is compressed accordingly. The standard abba quatrain doesn’t repeat itself, but gives way instead to a cdecde sestet, with its first two lines forming the end of the initial stanza, broken after the d-rhyme, which is repeated an extra time in the short closing line.

The form’s compression raises the stakes subtly, requiring the poem to accomplish its Petrarchan wind-up/wind-down thought process in fewer lines, with less room at the end to tie that process off. If Hopkins’s primary fascination was with the mathematics involved in this reduction of the Petrarchan sonnet — he went so far as to work out the formula for paring it down with precision — the consequence, in “Pied Beauty,” is something that eludes quantification.

Sally Thomas, Today’s Poem: Pied Beauty

Comprising tightly written found poems as well as persona poems in the form of police “confessions” to the deaths of the African Americans who appeared again and again on our screens, Ligatures [by Denise Miller] draws on the news articles, autopsy reports, and video recordings of and testimonies, verdicts, and sentences in the court cases to establish the undeniable, unsettling, ugly truth of the alternative narratives that Miller offers for Scott and Garner, Rice and McDonald and Steen: systemic racism in the United States, where “black and brown / people’s stories have been spun so quickly and so / thoroughly so that suddenly our lives seem to justify / the ending of them,” exists still. [..]

Just 35 pages long and containing the reported narrative of each death, Ligatures delivers a deserved punch in the gut, restoring what a headline and a hashtag cannot: name, identity, story written by “those people” denied all three.

It is not at all “the child friendly bed time story” Miller acknowledges that some in America wanted then, want even now:

[. . .]

See a picture of a black boy or black girl, a black man
or a black woman, a black person or a black person

and you wonder is she or isn’t she, is he or isn’t he, are they or
aren’t they and each isn’t but each is, you wonder is it another
story of or isn’t it? [. . .]

~ from “Dear Spectators 2: A Bed Time Story” (pp. 33-34)

History — his story, her story, their stories — in Miller’s series of strong and strongly defiant poems is the present we cannot just scroll by. Our shame, Miller makes clear, is so many more names have been, could be, are still being added.

Maureen Doallas, Ligatures by Denise Miller

A poem […] does not make the kind of sense an essay does. The experience a poem invites a reader into—even the experience it leads me through as I write it—is an emotional one; its logic is associative, not discursive. It creates what Susanne Langer calls in Feeling and Form, a “virtual experience,” by which she means that a poem, despite being made from discursive language—syntax, after all, is linear—presents the experience it contains as a whole to be encountered as irreducible to the sum of its parts. “Coitus Interruptus,” in other words, is not a report about my experience with domestic violence. Rather, it offers the reader an opportunity to feel what it was like for domestic violence to have been such an intimate part of my life.

Creating this experience necessarily meant leaving out some details of what actually happened, not because they were unimportant, but because they existed outside the emotional web of that intimacy. For example, not too long after “Mr. Peters” asked me to tape that note to my neighbor’s door, I was telling a friend about everything that had preceded my doing so as we sat talking in my living room after dinner. Suddenly, a male voice came up through the grate covering the space in the wall where my radiator was located. “So you’re the motherfucker who called the cops! You better not let me run into you. You won’t like what happens then.”

Richard Jeffrey Newman, Domestic Violence Has Been A Thread Running Through My Life

I oones fro Westminstir cam,
Vexid ful grevously with thoughtful hete,
Thus thoughte I: ‘A greet fool I am
This pavyment a-daies thus to bete
And in and oute laboure faste and swete,
Wondringe and hevinesse to purchace,
Sithen I stonde out of al favour and grace. –

Thomas Hoccleve (c1420)

The above quote is taken from Hoccleve’s (1368-1420) poem ‘The Complaint’, and it relates a situation that will feel vividly familiar to any member of our contemporary precariat, but especially to those of us grappling for purchase at the ragged edge of End Days Academia. This passage situates the speaker within the unfolding vocational crisis of the late Middle Ages, whereby expanding universities graduated ever more elitely educated clergy, whom the church could not afford to hire into beneficed positions.

There were multiple reasons for this, not least the unscrupulous practice of “pluralism”, where wealthy clerics or papal favourites were allowed to hoard multiple lucrative benefices; hiring out the pastoral overspill to poorly paid and often uneducated surrogates, such as vicars, chaplains, or lesser church officials, while continuing to pocket the juicy tithes. Increased secular interference was also a huge factor. The Catholic church had been greatly weakened (financially and in terms of authority) by the Great Schism; secular monarchs and local lords sought to take advantage of this situation by seizing control over church appointments, selling benefices off to the highest bidder, or simply giving them away to unqualified relatives in order to siphon parish revenue – the bastards.

Reasons aside, the results were clear: a crisis of vocation amongst the clergy, and the creation of what Kathryn Kerby-Fulton in her banging monograph The Clerical Proletariat and the Resurgence of Medieval English Poetry (University of Pennsylvania Press, 2021) calls a ‘clerical proletariat’, forced into ever more various, casual, insecure and undignified forms of labour in order to make a living. This new and highly literate proletariat took lowly positions as civil servants, became secretaries in great houses, office-clerks, jobbing liturgical labourers, itinerant scribes and – according to Kerby-Fulton’s thesis – poets.

I’ll admit, I hadn’t thought about it in these terms before: but this new social class simply saw more opportunities for writing in English because they were working for – and uncovering an audience amongst – the laity. The implications of this, in terms of determining a kind of proletarian poetics are huge: the opportunity to address proletarian themes directly; to carve out for this clerical proletariat a distinct subjectivity and realm of concern, as Chaucer does through his characters – especially the Clerk of Oxenford and the Parson – in the Canterbury Tales; as Hoccleve does through his striking first-person confessional in ‘The Complaint’, and as a roused and radical Langland does through scorching critique in Piers Plowman, with its defence of the poor and its attack on corrupt labour laws and church hierarchy. Fun fact here: the rebels of 1381 are known to have used pseudonyms, including that of Langland’s titular character “Piers Plowman”, so you have a really solid example of the way the poetry of the clerical proletariat is not merely reflecting but influencing/ imagining into being a political and literary proletarian community. Woo-hoo!

Why am I telling you this? Because Hoccelev’s despair has often, over the last couple of years, been my own, and because the situation in which he found himself resonates so profoundly with the crisis engulfing academia in Space Year 2026: there are fewer and fewer permanent positions; the universities themselves seek to outsource more pedagogic labour to adjuncts, associates, and sessional tutors. We’re highly skilled and highly qualified, but we will face chronic underemployment/ unemployment as a result of both over-qualification (ahem) and – it has to be said – a raft of unethical practices inherent to a profit driven university system that has chugged the ghastly orange Kool-Aid of business ontology down in one.

I dearly want to find these parallels comforting; to take them as proof that this too shall pass, but how I actually feel about it can be summed up in the rather more sobering assessment that history repeats, corruption endures, and that we learn – that we continue to learn – absolutely nothing. What I do take courage from is precisely the resurgence that Kerby-Fulton’s book identifies. Before resurgence must come recognition: that is, the abandoning of internalised aspirational bullshit; learning to know ourselves (myself) again as a member of the sweaty, striving, vitally alive proletariat. What do we/ I sound and think like when not staging our subjectivity for an elite – downward and outward-looking – audience, but when we are, in fact, talking to and imagining among ourselves? What kinds of speech and formal tactics might be ours? What is the new vernacular? The new idiom? The language of our intellectual laity?

Fran Lock, Hoccleve/ Hedge Schools/ Rude Bootlegs

the bee’s buzz—
another path
into thoughts

embrace by tom clausen

Last fall, one of my poems, “Confessions of a Former Scarecrow,” was featured as part of Prairie Schooner’s Intern Picks series. I’m grateful to have the poem receive that attention and wanted to share it again here as I continue thinking about looking, attention, and transformation in relation to my upcoming workshop.

You can read the feature here:
Prairie Schooner Intern Picks Fall Feature

And the poem here:
“Confessions of a Former Scarecrow”

Here is a stanza from the poem:

I’m not a man but a wariness,
a warning to keep clear of the field.
I stand, friendless—what friends, tell me,
are apple trees, a trail of leaves,
the wasted weather, these apples worn
to a sun-brown, and then just brown,
a rot and musk—everyone reeks
to me, no man, half-made of air.

Returning to this stanza now, I’m struck by the way the speaker looks out from a transformed state. The poem does not simply describe a scarecrow; it lets the speaker become a field of wariness, warning, weather, rot, and air. The act of looking here is shaped by estrangement. The speaker sees from the edge of personhood, or from a place where personhood itself feels unstable.

That feels connected to some of the questions behind my upcoming workshop, “Look / Mira: Latinx/e Ways of Looking in Poetry & Prose.” What happens when looking is not neutral? What happens when the gaze is shaped by memory, body, place, fear, language, or transformation? How might a poem or essay allow us to see from a position we could not otherwise name?

I’m interested in writing that lets looking become more than description. Looking can become pressure. Refusal. Witness. Inheritance. A way to survive. A way to change shape.

José Angel Araguz, three invitations to look

The day after my online book launch, I got up at 4.30am to get a taxi to the airport to go to Cork International Poetry Festival. I was there for four glorious days – and met so many fantastic poets and writers. If I was cast out from Yorkshire, I would probably run away to Cork. It’s one of my favourite places in the world. If any of you are thinking of a poetry holiday next year – and by poetry holiday, I mean those ones where you gather your poetry friends and descend on a poetry festival, then do think about going to Cork. The programme is always amazing, and is truly international – plenty of Irish poets but also poets from around the world. The readings go on all day and most of the night and you could quite safely go on your own and end up with friends for life by the end of the first reading.

I was very excited to be reading with Annemarie Ní Churreáin on Saturday night – she is a fantastic poet, and author of one of my favourite contemporary poems A Hymn to All Restless Girls – now the title poem of her latest collection, published by Gallery Press.

I’d bought thirty copies of the House with me, and sold twenty six books at the reading, and then one for cash in the bar afterwards, so I only had two take home with me!

Kim Moore, More Adventures with the House

I always think I need more time to write and when I have it, it suddenly seems hard to focus. But this week I sketched a poem about students finding my poetry on the internet. They’ve googled me which seems a waste, but  there’s definitely worse things out there. The fact that they chanted lines of my poetry back at me on the last day of school as some kind of taunt just tickled me. I had to write about it. They read poetry willingly, even memorised it. That has to be something to be proud of. […]

My desire to try and get published may be almost gone, but not my love of writing. So in between lesson planning, coursework, piles of laundry, mowing, feeding and negotiating with my kids, I try to write poetry. I play with words and images, I attempt to capture my moments in this world on the page. 

And I don’t press publish on this blog to reach the masses or even a trickle of readers, but for myself. To see the entries sketch my thoughts across the years, to document my highs and lows, my random thoughts, my cycling through the seasons. 

I write to find my way through.

Gerry Stewart, Writing for No Reward

[A] couple of days ago, we visited Luna Parc, which is quite an experience. It is a handmade house, sculpture garden, and studio that Ricky Boscarino has been working on for decades. A Rhode Island School of Design student fascinated by silver-smithing, Boscarino decided early on that he wanted to make a living doing art. He began by making unusual (and sometimes slightly alarming) jewelry and creating art from found objects. He’s also a painter, ceramicist, welder, woodworker…and trying to make his housing needs, studio, and life as sustainable as possible in the wooded region near Stokes State Park in New Jersey. Now, the place is a non-profit that trains students, sponsors art interns, and continues to grow and morph into, well, who knows? He’s devoted his life to art-making. And the place is really fun to explore.

Talk about inventive!

It’s something people need to do, have an urge to do–invent stuff for some purpose, to solve a problem, for enjoyment, or out of a need to play around; we are, as Huizinga says, Homo Ludens (see this post!). Play leads to all kinds of things, piqued by curiosity and that urge to fiddle with things. The patent models at Hagley were behind glass, but I was itching to play with them, like a five-year-old.

That is what I like about writing poetry, too, the play and invention of it–using words, images, sounds, patterns. Earlier today I was messing around with quatrains that used rhyme/slant rhyme line endings, switching off between ABBA and ABAB by stanza. The poem’s content isn’t cheerful, yet puttering with possible patterns was fun and kept me thinking about the topic. Then I went inside and put Bach’s Inventions & Sinfonias on the stereo.

Ann E. Michael, Invention

Working in the arts is tough going, and classes are clear in America. I think it’s hard to understand how much physical and mental labor and hours go into making books. It’s long hours. There are people who look down on those of us who work. Some people refuse to get their hands dirty, and I wouldn’t know how to step into their mindset. I have respect for all kinds of labor, whether it’s medicine, law, building houses, or kelp farming.

I could not walk into a room and pretend to be a lawyer or a stockbroker or an arbitrageur. But neither could a suit walk into our lives and paint or plant a garden or build something. I have painted and gardened and trained horses. My husband and son can do most of the trades—plumbing, carpentry, tile; my son redid my whole bathroom when the floor collapsed. We are in the substance of the world, building culture.

Which is why I want to keep the press going. I like books. I like arguing about them. When friends disagree with my thoughts on a book, I love those conversations, because I’m still in the swim of a story.

It’s late, and I need to sleep. In stress and exhaustion, I am not operating at my best, but when I wake up, the dinosaur will still be in the room—the ridiculous Kate—and what do I do with her? And the press hanging on by its fingernails, and the people who are upset with me, and all the problems I can’t fix.

Kate Gale, Waking Up to the Dinosaur: Finding Our Story of Survival

When we pick and gather, wash, chop,
stir then eat and drink, there’s almost
always a sense of ceremony. From
the holy trinity of onions, garlic, and
tomatoes to the background strains
of gingery broth, bitter greens and
tamarind pucker, any improvisation
is inspired by those who taught us:
before you reach for your portion,
shake some droplets on the ground,
ladle an offering into a bowl.

Luisa A. Igloria, It was

This week the thing that I read which kept me Alive (as opposed to just living) was the transcript of an interview between James Shaheen and Li-Young Lee on Tricycle. Like, dig this:

“For me, there’s only three postures of the soul when you’re writing a lyric poem. They can be summed up as “Oh my God,” “Oh my love,” and “Holy, holy, holy.” You know, when I experience something and I feel, “Oh my God,” I mean, I know I have to write about it. When I experience something like, “Oh, my love,” I have to write about it. Or when I see and feel something that inspires in me, “Holy, holy, holy.” Those three are the postures of awe. Adoration, I don’t know who said it, but adoration is the proper attitude of a soul in awe. And it seems to me that the lyric poem is the greatest expression of awe and adoration, turning about one thing, and that thing is unknown. I feel like I live in those three postures all day long.”

So this is what’s getting me through. Thinking about the three postures of awe. Thinking about adoration. And repeating in my head the words, holy holy holy. Also, he talks about the line of a poem being a form of trembling. When you speak a poem, when you speak, “the vocal cords are trembling.”

Poetry is not going away, awe is not going away, trembling is not going away. The holy holy holy is not going away.

I think, I imagine, what will happen next is that the realms will just get further apart. They were always apart, and I don’t know why. Because why do you want to be a human living in this world, and separate yourself from art, and joy, and beauty, and philosophical thought, and the depths of the creative experience. I think back to taking what now seems like a truly wondrous undergrad degree in the humanities, and how the arts were always pitted against the business and science faculties. That was so weird to me. I always craved more cross pollination, people-wise. Which I guess is why I worked in the science library when I was at university doing my English Honours degree. (Which I received with honours, might I add, because what the hell). My co-workers were largely science and engineering students and we had the most interesting conversations.

We get to pick our posture every day. And the thing to do is to remember. You put on your coat, your shoes. Put on your posture of awe, too. Holy holy holy, oml omg.

Shawna Lemay, Holy holy holy

And here’s a poem from Magnifying Glass which captures a moment from childhood when I was stung for the first time…

STUNG

If it was a wasp
it stung once and fled,

if it was a bee
I didn’t see it die.

I stood naked
gazing at a splinter;
a black spine centred in a pink circle.

I pushed my stomach out to watch what next,

alone and naked in a field I saw
it redden concentrically as I stared.

I held out my arms to the summer air

let my lungs expel their cry.

Sue Finch, A PERSON FLYING THEIR HORSE ON THE BEACH

We had some family stuff that happened that reminded me that life is not steady, that change is the only constant, and sometimes, those changes are not the changes we’d choose. Parents getting older, our worrying about them, and my own body, struggling with what can be several debilitating problems at once, realizing we don’t have forever, and neither do those we love. It can push us into depression or push us to try to make the best of every day we have. It’s also realizing that although right now is hard, we’re not having as bad a time as we had in the past—reading from Flare, Corona always reminds me that I had some of the worst news and the worst health of my life when I wrote that book, and I survived a terminal cancer diagnosis and an MS diagnosis and severe flare almost a decade ago now. We lose things in life—our memories, our ability to run or walk, our balance, money, security, loved ones—and we have a choice, to continue on or to stay in mourning or lament our inability to trust and secure our lives exactly the way we want them to be. Sure, the world can feel like it’s in constant apocalypse right now. But we have a choice in what we do every day with that. What do you do with your last day on earth? Why, write another poem, of course.

Jeannine Hall Gailey, Reading with Kelli in Shoreline, Goldfinches, Hummingbirds, Woodpeckers, and Losing Things

this is my huge giant flower face. this is my
handful of hair. this is my rocket collection.
when i reach the moon i am going to put
my ear to the surface & listen.

Robin Gow, 6/4

a sun sometimes
to ache with
in the afternoon

and by and by
red at night to see
every small thing

we change humour
I become as sociable
as a child

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 7 June 1663.

a mist
in our morning selves

the remains of the soul
in every window

the angel in the churchyard
after drinking the night’s ink

vexed to see nobody
attend to wonder

cries out against so much
gold and suffering

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Saturday 6 June 1663.

make me a road
that will let me see

where they live
but go to my brother’s

taking a passage
in the Bible taking

the story of land
and arson with us

carried within
to turn the garden
to ash

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Friday 5 June 1663.

away in a drawer
my needs should go

some star can make
my mind quiet

as a missing person
spoken of by the horizon

a guest of god knows where
giving ear to the air

Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Thursday 4 June 1663.