One Poem Only

The Belle of Yule Melani Udaeta She walked in the natural belle of Yule,lit up like the glitter upon the trees.Holding a dove waiting for its release in her arms the white bird appeared a jewel.Harmony poured from every molecule, joy rang in and sang of freedom and peace.Flying off fingertips into the breezeits wings carried an iconic symbol.Encompassing each of the Northern Lights her smile grew like the return of the Sun.Sweetening the lips like a candy cane something to believe in rose to new heights.The journey to warmth and light had begun bringing some hope that all year would remain. More from Melani Udaeta ↓@melrose_poetry18 on InstagramHer book, Of Love and Music, is out nowMentioned in this episode:Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem OnlyWrite After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice. We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.#WriteAfterOPO

The Keeper’s Dream Kiki Johnson The ice angel said, “I know you dreamof snowfields with lost fawns & tall pines”There are those of us who look to the callof snow’s powder to warm our souls.The blanket of death to keep us moving.To the call of herding spotted fawns backtoward clearing in deep woodland, wheremajestic papa waits. We are the keepersof the deep-down buried things.We understand beauty’s need to wait inhush & hollow. To wait under fallow groundin the silence of stasis. The first thrustof the plow’s blade can be so horror-heavy.So full of ache & wound. “You scar me”Ground wails. Ice angel yields to we watchersof the fields. As out of these furrowed woundscomes the beauty all our better angels knewwas there. The snowfields become meadows& yields of crops for grown bucks & fertile does.Ground’s marring, the beauty borne of snow.More from Kiki Johnson ↓@kiki_poetry on InstagramMentioned in this episode:Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem OnlyWrite After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice. We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.#WriteAfterOPO

Here’s your recap of this week’s poems plus one new poem to carry us into the week ahead.Dec 8 - Momma Said Be Nice by Chris Kads @chris_kads on Instagram. Chris runs Gut Punch Prompts, a twice monthly poetry challenge on Instagram looking for poems that contain visceral language, raw emotion, and/or thought-provoking political and social commentary. In other words, poems that pack a punch!Dec 9 - when we fall by Paper Trail Poetry @papertrailpoetry on Instagram.Dec 10 - The Graduate by Caitríona Walsh @tone.down.the.blonde on Instagram. Caitríona is a host for Gut Punch Prompts, as twice-monthly poetry contest on Instagram. You can hear me read Two Wishes by Caitríona on Instagram @rembrandts.cure.Dec 11 - The Forest by Maria Beben @em_beewriting on Instagram. Her first poetry book, A Trail of Lost Buttons, is available on Amazon and Etsy. She is currently preparing her second poetry book for publication.Dec 12 - Good Things by Maggie Devers For My Daughter audiobook out soon. Read my debut poetry book, For My Daughter. Follow me on Instagram for more poetry @rembrandts.cure.Dec 13 - Winter Marmalade by Matthew D Albertson @matthewdalbertson on InstagramMentioned in this episode:Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem OnlyWrite After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice. We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.#WriteAfterOPO

Winter Marmalade Matthew D Albertson When the days of midnight sunAre past, a gnawing grows within—A pit of need. Not for want of foodOr drink. No, it is the dark itself I yearnTo eat, grown in gloaming hours—That of thy heart. Whene'er thy sorrowsFruit like sour, violet crabapples, ILust to pluck them all from limb andGround. Those succulent woes, thyNighttime dread, to me is mostPreservative—A nourishing, filling, decadent jam.Oh, let me in thy late autumnal orchard,Ripe with crop and tang and rot;Let me gorge upon thy noxious cropOf melancholia.I thank thee;And take sparingly,Greedily;Yet I’ve left a gift behind, stillWarm upon thy windowsill: aSaccharine, cholicWinter marmalade.More from Matthew D Albertson ↓@matthewdalbertson on InstagramMentioned in this episode:Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem OnlyWrite After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice. We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.#WriteAfterOPO

Good ThingsShe remembers that you get to pick where you want to sit at IHOPAnd she knows exactly where she wants to sit.She notices we are wearing the same outfit Bike shorts and shirts with sleeves that are too big.Two women pick their favorite booth.She clocks their enthusiasm Content to share the experience Knowing the good things in lifeCome easy.More from Maggie Devers ↓For My Daughter audiobook out soon.Read my debut poetry book, For My DaughterFollow me on Instagram for more poetry @rembrandts.cureMentioned in this episode:Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem OnlyWrite After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice. We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.#WriteAfterOPO

The Forest Maria Beben We tasted the achelike a familiar cocktail,one we hopedto never drink again.We took a branchthat posed a dangerand added more kindling,looking around for anything that would burn.We gathered and addeduntil the branch became a forestand we couldn’t see throughto the other side.We felt betrayedand confusedand didn’t understand how we got there.We stood on opposite ends of this forestand felt the weightof a growing terror.But at the exact momentwhen we reached for a box of matchesto burn it all down,we remembered that trees have branchesand began to climb.From the top,in the clear, crisp air,we could seethat the forest wasn’t a forest at alljust a few treesthat we could help each othernavigate through.So we climbed back downand cleared the weedsand made a pathand together,celebrated the trees for what they werebefore walking out the other side —Together.More from Maria Beben ↓@em_beewriting on Instagram@mbeben on SubstackHer first poetry book, A Trail of Lost Buttons, is available on Amazon and Etsy.She is currently preparing her second poetry book for publication.Mentioned in this episode:Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem OnlyWrite After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice. We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.#WriteAfterOPO

The Graduate Caitríona Walsh On the vesper of March I pulsed through the desert, Ever the vagary Clot of the bloodline.Koutoubia's minaret Catnapped before me, Steepled in sandstone–A moonshot missileLullabied by ouds And kittens' Bare-bellied Midnight mewls.Medina mazes Assuaged by Cloud-confetti Orange blossoms–Palls of scent spun In arabesque spells Through souks Keyhole arches.I woke with Muezzin's Call to prayer, Parched, perplexed By Agafay air–Caught in my glottis As cockcrow came–Florid gown gone, No call to cross campusWith tasselled cap Like a gored Rorschach blot, The gashed wattle Of a prize grouseOr a stray tide's Red-stained froth rim–Raked far From shipwreck wraiths.Instead, I conferred With cordial drivers and Spinning-top Sufis In fractured French,Sipped rose-syrup tea In a turquoise courtyard Of a trillion druzy Star-strewn tiles,Bled, in secret, Beneath the furtive folds Of an opalite skirt– Shed my peltMore from Caitríona Walsh ↓@tone.down.the.blonde on InstagramCaitríona is a host for Gut Punch Prompts, as twice-monthly poetry contest on Instagram.You can hear me read Two Wishes by Caitríona on Instagram @rembrandts.cure.Mentioned in this episode:Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem OnlyWrite After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice. We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.#WriteAfterOPO

when we fall Paper Trail Poetry when we fallwe give back to the soilthat nurtured us.seasonally, we are compost, yes,but life-giving nonetheless.when we fallour roots are ruptured;we are bare.decay tightensits cold, rotten grasp,but hope shall not be choked out.when we fallthe way forward is pavedwith opportunityso make room for graceto replant you come springwhere you’ll stretch in sunlight again.More from Paper Trail Poetry ↓@papertrailpoetry on InstagramMentioned in this episode:Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem OnlyWrite After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice. We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.#WriteAfterOPO

Momma Said Be Nice Chris KadsThis poem was originally published in Blood+Honey Lit mag and is being republished with SHINE International Poetry Series.You don’t expect to serve mashed potatoes and steak for breakfast. Don’t expect to find urine in a tub or to have sympathy for the assaulter who pissed in it. I’ve learned to let expectations fly like ashes. When the men retire so do the rules instilled by their mothers. They’ll swim in the deep end of the pool, tiptoe into the kitchen, sneak a cookie after bedtime. I know now that two things can be true at once. That the mush can be unappetizing and filling. That a room can be full of memories and empty of soul. That you can pity the mousein the trap, while being gladhe can no longer bite.I don’t like the way it all went down. I wouldn’t wish a life behind curtained bars on anyone. But when we finally remove flesh-colored food, scrub stains from the ceramic tub, and open the door for the new resident, I’m happy to see it’s a woman.More from Chris Kads ↓@chris_kads on InstagramChris runs Gut Punch Prompts, a twice monthly poetry challenge on Instagram looking for poems that contain visceral language, raw emotion, and/or thought-provoking political and social commentary. In other words, poems that pack a punch!Mentioned in this episode:Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem OnlyWrite After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice. We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.#WriteAfterOPO

Here’s your recap of this week’s poems plus one new poem to carry us into the week ahead.Dec 1 - Timeline by Quinn Holm @quinnholm.muse and @gratusgarden on Instagram. Quinn Holm on Substack.Dec 2 - my throat makes by atm.itm @atm.itm on Instagram. @atmitm on Substack. They are co-founder of studio somnus: a creative project agency.Dec 3 - “as the ground begins to frost” by esso @esso_overflow on Instagram. @essooverflow on Substack. Her book, when the moon calls, is out now. It features poetry she wrote during the new and full moons. If you feel inspired while reading, esso has left pages at the back so you can add your own poem for each prompt. Listen to me read "the earth whispered to me" by esso on Instagram @rembrandts.cure.Dec 4 - “My poetry has big bones” by Bex @mother_smudger on Instagram. Her book, conflict resolution: a trauma response, is out now.Dec 5 - I dreamt I was in Paris by Jen Booton @jenthepoeta on Instagram. She runs Mística Holistica, a mystic shop and tea house in Avellanas, Costa Rica. There you can find Jen writing custom poems on a typewriter at the weekly Friday night market. And everyday you can access the poetry pharmacy featuring poets from around the world.Dec 6 - Hearthside by Dorothy ParkerDec 7When the Hum Rises Maggie Devers The outrage machine is always on Like the neon in a 24-hour diner,But it doesn’t use electricity, The continual dopamine hitOf finding the wrong in someone else’s rightPowers the nation.We live for the take down,The misstepWe watch the trip and fallNever extending a hand—Not understanding We’re the ones flat on our face.What if we abandon the unending scrollOf false justice What if we suspended judgement Even for a dayWhat if we realize our power can do moreThen keep the lights on.More from Maggie Devers ↓Read my debut poetry book, For My DaughterFollow me on Instagram for more poetry @rembrandts.cure Mentioned in this episode:Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem OnlyWrite After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice. We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.#WriteAfterOPO

Morning Magic Maggie DeversA princess sits at the edge of my bedTelling fantastical stories,My sleepy head tripping over the details But in line with the nuance.She prattles like a caffeinated sage,Wisdom seeping out of jumbled phrases,Bits of stories, weaving togetherHer dreams, desires, realities.It’s all the same,She speaks her life.

Hearthside Dorothy Parker Half across the world from me Lie the lands I'll never see- I, whose longing lives and dies Where a ship has sailed away; I, that never close my eyes But to look upon Cathay.Things I may not know nor tell Wait, where older waters swell; Ways that flowered at Sappho's tread, Winds that sighed in Homer's strings, Vibrant with the singing dead, Golden with the dust of wings.Under deeper skies than mine, Quiet valleys dip and shine. Where their tender grasses heal Ancient scars of trench and tombI shall never walk; nor kneel Where the bones of poets bloom.If I seek a lovelier part, Where I travel goes my heart; Where I stray my thought must go; With me wanders my desire. Best to sit and watch the snow, Turn the lock, and poke the fire.Mentioned in this episode:Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem OnlyWrite After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice. We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.#WriteAfterOPO

Baby BookMaggie DeversI didn’t make my daughter a baby book,I wrote her weird poems instead.I can hear her explaining this to her friends,“There’s no scrapbook full of memoriesBut there is a special poem about me being Athena, and one about my birth, and when I was conceived.My parents named me after a fancy hotel.”Dear God, what have I done?I’m that mom,The unhinged mom that really should know better.We don’t have annual professional photos in matching outfits,Just the ones we take, that stop time at the imperfect momentThe ones that capture life.You can’t get the perfect shot when you’re busy living.Well, you can, but you have to be ready for it.You must listen for inspiration to strike.And when it does you take the picture, write the poem, make the art, make the child.And that’s what we’re here to leave behind, our creation, in its imperfect divinity.

“I dreamt I was in Paris” Jen Booton I dreamt I was in Paris scents of coffee and absinthe wafting as olfactory wind chimes typewriters snug on Boulevard Montparnasse tables peppered with burgeoning authors lost among their own generation but destined to be famous for centuries.Drunk on wine, cigarettes and delusion sturdy as centenarian tree roots that their precious moment in time, after war, was all that mattered, which of course they were right a ripple in the energetic tapestry of life connecting them with me here, 100 yearsLater on a wooden table snug against a Smith-Corona drunk on the belief that this sliver of presence means just as much as it did to them and that maybe it wasn't a dream after all but a memory as we find ourselves over and over again through the timeless echo of ink-drenched words.More from Jen Booton ↓@jenthepoeta on InstagramShe runs Mística Holistica, a mystic shop and tea house in Avellanas, Costa Rica. There you can find Jen writing custom poems on a typewriter at the weekly Friday night market. And everyday you can access the poetry pharmacy featuring poets from around the world.Mentioned in this episode:Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem OnlyWrite After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice. We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.#WriteAfterOPO

Of CourseMaggie DeversHer feet were purple when she was born,The cord pinned between her shoulder and me.Half a dozen extra doctors and nurses had converged in the room moments before,All of me open to all of themAs my doctor, the one I started with so many weeks ago,Back when she told me they don’t use the tongs anymore,Suction cupped her tiny head and yanked,I breathed,And the baby entered this world with a mighty howl.In seconds all the contingency actors vanished.The center of the room, the universe,Was a tiny creature, fists tight, mouth wide, screaming.Of course she was born the only way she lives—stubborn and fearless.

“My poetry has big bones” Bex My poetry has big bones And big ideas tooShe wears vintage lace And she remembers every time she was slipped on... Poetry smokes green in the grass with her lover and dissects the sun for she remembers its inception.Poetry says -"I’m with you in this life and the next, I will eat every piece of you whole, wiping up what's left and wringing the cloth out in my mouth, because my survival depends on your every drop" Poetry is the story that lives in the wooden box on the shelf.Forgotten but not.Poetry is dragging you to the finish lineand has ten thousand ways to say You are necessary.For me - Poetry is how i process -My griefMy loveMy numbness…The monsters under my bed Poetry is how I breathe...More from Bex ↓@mother_smudger on InstagramHer book, conflict resolution: a trauma response, is out now.Mentioned in this episode:Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem OnlyWrite After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice. We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.#WriteAfterOPO

First Blood Maggie Devers I remember the first blood of her,The implant blood they call it.It was possible I was pregnant,We had laughed about it in Malta a few days and half a world away ago,Sitting on our private balcony in a walled city,Drinking a bottle of wine as a cart pulled by a horse strolled by.We’ll call her Xara, we said, for the hotel built into the battlements where she was conceived.The strength of old stone and softness of embossed butter at breakfast were a foretellingOf the child that was now in my womb,Nestling into place with a pinprick of bright, vibrant red.

“as the ground begins to frost” esso as the ground begins to frost we snuggle in heavier cloth to live out shortbread days laden in chocolate, lavender & cedar-smoke hugging hooded hours to soothe broken & healing layerswarm our hands by the fire    —holding safe—as a crackling back-up singerburgeons creases intersecting steely gaze & the blue-flame of fiery humor belting the leadcackles fill—growing darkness  heating our toes from the inside& we'll tear-openmidnight's invitationto keep splitting peas & hairs      over who gets the last piece of chocolate    & the next kissMore from esso ↓@esso_overflow on Instagram@essooverflow on SubstackHer book, when the moon calls, is out now. It features poetry she wrote during the new and full moons. If you feel inspired while reading, esso has left pages at the back so you can add your own poem for each prompt.Listen to me read "the earth whispered to me" by esso on Instagram @rembrandts.cureMentioned in this episode:Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem OnlyWrite After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice. We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.#WriteAfterOPO

For My Daughter Maggie Devers Chop off my head and put it on your shield.I will protect you until the day I dieAnd all the days after that.You think I would let anything harm the perfection that sprang from my body?That force that is me and infinitely you at the same time?There is nothing in the world that could destroy us,Not when a mere glance can turn men to stone.

my throat makes atm.itm corridors into cloth carries shimmering light i have forgotten how fabric can be light as light stitches from hands i have not met rest lightly on my shoulder it is the words hard to say that stick to my mind it is your words that do not know how to die make me sing out wretched and loud i strain them against the current currently shaking into sea salty and rocky my throat feels the bulge of the apple cork stuck inside i hope you’ll still hear me my throat makes sounds i am not your enemy i believe it to be true this belief does not make it so my eyes capture what you left behind footsteps transmuting light we walked never the same are you never the same am i i hope we never meet againthe sameMore from atm.itm ↓@atm.itm on Instagram@atmitm on SubstackThey are co-founder of studio somnus: a creative project agency Mentioned in this episode:Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem OnlyWrite After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice. We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.#WriteAfterOPO

The audiobook of For My Daughter releases 12-12. Listen to a poem a day from the book by subscribing to One Poem Only.

Timeline Quinn Holm I wrote Spring in WinterI wrote Winter in Summerand Fall somewhere in betweenthe changing weatherThe nature in me has its own seasonsI’m not afraid of being forgottenfor my being needs no outside opinionsThings used-to-be and mistakenno longer have a place in my present Long gone was their influence on my emotions I’m now loved and nurtured, every momentThe universe in me creates its own timelineThe inner reservoir in this child’s eyesmasters the healing and grows with pride as my inner light shines through the nightthings soon-to-be have now been realised The hopes and dreams will soon be revivedin this serene world of my own divinebecause it is the life of my own design.(Outro)When you lose what needs to be lostIt is actually a gainYou will see right through that painThat once paralysed your mind With the now blazing self-respect Reflected in those eyes.  More from Quinn Holm ↓@quinnholm.muse and @gratusgarden on InstagramQuinn Holm on SubstackMentioned in this episode:Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem OnlyWrite After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice. We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.#WriteAfterOPO

Here’s your recap of this week’s poems plus one new poem to carry us into the week ahead.Nov 24 - Moonborn by Aura Guerra-Artola @g.a.aura on Instagram. Her book, How to Live with a Cat on Your Chest and a Whale in Your Heart, is out now.Nov 25 - Winter nights, burning cinder. by Sierra sylvie @the_fire_ave on Instagram.Nov 26 - My Son in the Sea by Lisa Zerkle @hag_lore on Instagram. Listen to Lisa on Painted Bride Quarterly's Slush Pile podcast, where the editorial team discusses submissions, editorial issues, writing, deadlines, and cuckoo clocks. You can listen to me read Motherhood by Lisa on Instagram @rembrandts.cure.Nov 27 - Canvas of Uncertainty by Asiyah Yusuf @_.echoesofreality._ on Instagram.Nov 28 - Stuck in the Blue by Tushil Jariwala @tushil_writes on Instagram.Nov 29 - How Clear She Shines by Emily BronteNov 30Drink It InMaggie Devers Someone handed me a latteThat didn’t taste like coffee And I realized why those peopleOn the plane never botheredTo put up their window shadesAfter takeoffWe threw ours open before wheels upIt already went halfway as she chose her seatFor we need to see:Clouds dancing in the sky,Bags on those automatic rampsSwallowed or spit out of the plane,The heat still rising from the hot asphaltAs the sun setsIs there anything more joyous than this wide world around us?We want to know how it tastes without too much cream and sugar But we won’t say no to those either.More from Maggie Devers ↓Read my debut poetry book, For My DaughterFollow me on Instagram for more poetry @rembrandts.cure Mentioned in this episode:Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem OnlyWrite After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice. We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.#WriteAfterOPO

How Clear She Shines Emily Brontë How clear she shines! How quietlyI lie beneath her guardian light;While heaven and earth are whispering me,"To morrow, wake, but dream to-night."Yes, Fancy, come, my Fairy love!These throbbing temples softly kiss;And bend my lonely couch above,And bring me rest, and bring me bliss.The world is going; dark world, adieu!Grim world, conceal thee till the day;The heart thou canst not all subdueMust still resist, if thou delay!Thy love I will not, will not share;Thy hatred only wakes a smile;Thy griefs may wound—thy wrongs may tear,But, oh, thy lies shall ne'er beguile!While gazing on the stars that glowAbove me, in that stormless sea,I long to hope that all the woeCreation knows, is held in thee!And this shall be my dream to-night;I'll think the heaven of glorious spheresIs rolling on its course of lightIn endless bliss, through endless years;I'll think, there's not one world above,Far as these straining eyes can see,Where Wisdom ever laughed at Love,Or Virtue crouched to Infamy;Where, writhing 'neath the strokes of Fate,The mangled wretch was forced to smile;To match his patience 'gainst her hate,His heart rebellious all the while.Where Pleasure still will lead to wrong,And helpless Reason warn in vain;And Truth is weak, and Treachery strong;And Joy the surest path to Pain;And Peace, the lethargy of Grief;And Hope, a phantom of the soul;And life, a labour, void and brief;And Death, the despot of the whole!Mentioned in this episode:Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem OnlyWrite After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice. We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.#WriteAfterOPO

Stuck in the Blue Tushil Jariwala i remember that weekend — the lilac sky,how i smiled at the stars while learning goodbye.i gave you my laughter, my voice, my youth,and you gave me silence, disguised as truth.i thought we were different — the kind that last,but some fairytales burn out too fast.you called it timing, i called it fate,you called me lovely — and walked away late.i’m stuck in the blue, where the quiet won't break,where your name is a whisper the moonlight still makes.i painted you golden, but you stayed untrue,you never loved me — but god, i loved you.oh, i’m stuck in the blue...still stuck in the blue.i stood by your side when the world turned cold,hid every bruise in petals i’d fold.i sang you lullabies nobody heard,and you left me hanging on unfinished words.they asked what happened — i smiled, said fine,but carried your ghost through every line.you ran from the mess that your hands had made,and left me with echoes that never fade.i’m stuck in the blue, where the shadows dance,where the heart still waits for a second chance.i gave you a storm wrapped in skies so new,you gave me the rain — and i called it you.oh, i’m stuck in the blue...so endlessly blue.do you remember the girl who believed in stars?who kissed your wounds and hid her scars?i still write poems with your old name,but now the ink don’t bleed the same.i’m stuck in the blue, where the soft songs ache,where your ghost still smiles in every heartbreak.i held you in ways the world never knew,you never loved me — but i always do.and i’m stuck in the blue...forever in the blue. More from Tushil Jariwala ↓@tushil_writes on InstagramMentioned in this episode:Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem OnlyWrite After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice. We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.#WriteAfterOPO

Canvas of Uncertainty Asiyah YusufWe all wonder what the future holdsA blank canvas waiting, like an unwritten scroll.Brushstrokes of imagination begin to unfold,As hearts find solace in stories yet untold.In the darkness of uncertainty, a light flickers bright,Guiding us gently, where shadows take flight.With each step we take, the canvas starts to fill—With every stroke, our story unfolds.A masterpiece of hope, where love and dreams entwine,A tapestry of moments, timeless and divine.In this work of art, our hopes come alivePassion ignites, dreams soar, and hearts truly thrive.More from Asiyah Yusuf ↓ @_aseey_yahh and @_.echoesofreality._ on InstagramMentioned in this episode:Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem OnlyWrite After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice. We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.#WriteAfterOPO

My Son in the Sea Lisa Zerkle Somehow he knows he can breathe in both water and air. See how he grows piscine,  dull on land, iridescent in the deep.Delicate flesh of my blood and my bone. How many bodies can this world hold?Men want to examine where exactly skin meets scale. You can’t have it both ways,   choose: man or fish? Not a man, say the men.  Don’t listen to them, sing the sirens, preening their feathers (being as they are  part woman, part bird). What will the fish say?Neptune, I’m counting on you in your pearl  and coral grotto, where distinctions are not so brightly lit, where sea horses are not  horses, where starfish are not fish, but stars.More from Lisa Zerkle ↓@hag_lore on InstagramListen to Lisa on Painted Bride Quarterly's Slush Pile podcast, where the editorial team discusses submissions, editorial issues, writing, deadlines, and cuckoo clocks.You can listen to me read Motherhood by Lisa on Instagram @rembrandts.cureMentioned in this episode:Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem OnlyWrite After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice. We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.#WriteAfterOPO

Winter nights, burning cinder.Sierra sylvie As I lie here with eyes that , Glint while the cinder burns each memory softly. As I lie here with  those eyes that , Soar across every memory longing to be embraced.As I lie here with a body , Longing to be worshippedAs I lie here with the body ,Of rusted skin from the torrent of tears .As I lie here with a soul , Suffering from the resentment of an eclipse As I lie here with a soul , striving to cherish the thistle garden of heart.As I lie here with an aching heart , Waiting for a lullaby , only to recite it myself. More from Sierra sylvie ↓@the_fire_ave on InstagramMentioned in this episode:Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem OnlyWrite After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice. We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.#WriteAfterOPO

Moonborn Aura Guerra-Artola I am the Moon’s daughter. Forever shifting roomswithin the skin I call home.My light has crossed the tides, so have my shadows. I leave pieces— memory like bark, fallen between full and hollow.I lay in the hands of the earthwhat in mine has completedits cycle—in case she willsthat it might bloom anewfor someone else. More from Aura Guerra-Artola ↓@g.a.aura on InstagramHer book, How to Live with a Cat on Your Chest and a Whale in Your Heart, is out nowMentioned in this episode:Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem OnlyWrite After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice. We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.#WriteAfterOPO

Here’s your recap of this week’s poems plus one new poem to carry us into the week ahead.Nov 17 -  The Anatomy of a Queer Body by Gokul Prabhu @iamameme_gp on Instagram and @gokulprabhu1 on Substack.Nov 18 - Raindrops by Kunjal Saraswat @_heart_cuddles_ on Instagram.Nov 19 - A Boy Moose Ate My Tulips by Erynne DeVore @poemsprayersandswears on Instagram. She has two poetry books, Discovering Divinity: Poems, Prayers and Swears, and The Labyrinth of Heartbreak: A collection of poetry for the lovers and the heartbroken. You can listen to me read mother all by Erynne @rembrandts.cureNov 20 - Loneliness is a strange dopamine by Dipanwita Dey @iamdipanwitadey on Instagram.Nov 21 - Ode to the Familiar Strangers by Yara Tawk @yara._.writes on Instagram. Her book, Periwinkle Sunsets, is out now.Nov 22 - Fernando by Keana Aguila Labra @keanalabra on Instagram.Nov 23Something Nice for MyselfMaggie Devers New clogs, soft pink suede baby.The stack of pictures, waiting to be hung, leaning against the wallStaring at me like they have for a year since we moved in.I move them around occasionally,Inspired by a new blank place where they will be most at home, but I haven’t been able to decide yetExactly where they need to go.I think I’m waiting for them to tell meThey know, they know.So maybe I’ll cross it off my to do list since it’s really already doneAnd wait for that moment of inspiration to put the hammer in my hand, pencil in my hairAnd count out the inches from the floor.It will make more sense when they’re on the wall,a picture always does and art always does Art always does, but a part of me likes to live in that place between making sense and not,Being real and notWhere anything can happen,Especially if I’m wearing pink suede clogs.More from Maggie Devers ↓Read my debut poetry book, For My DaughterFollow me on Instagram for more poetry @rembrandts.cure Mentioned in this episode:Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem OnlyWrite After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice. We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.#WriteAfterOPO

Fernando Keana Aguila Labra 2011. Fernando was where we danced with our heels above the sand. A sixteen hour flight with jet lag as we licked the 6am sun. This is where it rises. Where he rises. Six hours before the mysterious Fernando. An hour acquainted with Fernando. Your chin raised, proudly. I did not understand it then, nor did I care. There was only us and our hands and this big house. Buko juice and lechon and mouths only in jovial activity. I married my toes into this land of his and smiled directly at this sun.2006. Fernando was my Ate’s go-to karaoke song. She, sixteen, too young for ABBA, never been in love, yet she sang heart-broken. She sang polished. She sang as if to say, here we are, my love, how did we make it, Fernando? Bugles and rifles and old men with gray hair flooded my imagination. Fernando. Fernando. I was sure Ate cried the first time she sang Fernando. I didn’t know I was clutching my chest until I did.2018. The same chin once upturned and proud is now drooping. His whiskers are no longer brown. His arms know only chairs from the kitchen to the recliner where he sleeps. I ask him where he’s from. Fernando. I beg him to remember the shade and humidity. He is slower to respond. His eyes wide, wanting for rest, but I’m not ready to let go. I plead with him to come back to San Fernando, Cebu. 2021. And he is gone. One hands me a tissue. Another says it’s not about what we deserve. But what of Fernando? San Fernando, where there are ferns and the dirt road? Where is the carsickness and white van and linked arms? Where is the orange laughter? Close your eyes. Fernando. Open your eyes. Fernando. I spell Fernando with my finger onto palm. There are no saints. I can’t remember if I breathed. I whisper Fernando as they lower him into the ground. More from Keana Aguila Labra ↓@keanalabra on InstagramYou can preorder her book to love something you must carry it on your back by Bottlecap PressMentioned in this episode:Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem OnlyWrite After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice. We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.#WriteAfterOPO

Ode to the Familiar Strangers Yara TawkLike a wave crashing down on shore to then melt back into the ocean, I wonder if I too must break to recollect myself in my mother's embrace.Do droplets of rain miss being a wave?Will I ever miss being her child?Where does an unstoppable river go once every ocean has run dry?And what of the lake with no mother to run to, what of the waterfall with no arms to fall back into?Can they call the ocean anything but a stranger?Their beginning perhaps, but not their future.Can I be one's child and yet my own person, a freshwater lake and still of the ocean?I was born into the world as a stranger's crafted goods, a sweet summer tree's sweet summer fruit; yet I feel like a lemon in a vineyard, a sour flavor that smells of winter, and I love my self of citrus and fire, but I wonder if my mother would recognise this stranger. More from Yara Tawk ↓@yara._.writes on InstagramHer book, Periwinkle Sunsets, is out nowMentioned in this episode:Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem OnlyWrite After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice. We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.#WriteAfterOPO

Loneliness is a strange dopamine Dipanwita Dey Loneliness is a strange dopamine.Slowly, steadily, it consumes existence.Under its spell, it traps, strangulates,murders, and extinguishes.The desperate try to defeat it,unleashing the invisible chainaround the collarbones.Feels like a gravitational force,pushing into the darkness of the unseen.Solitude devours the ultimateversion of yourself—the despondency of never being discovered,never being heard,never feeling the warmth of a beloved's touch—evaporates into the captivation.Loneliness is a strange dopaminethat gradually erases felicity.You let it consume, let it burn.The desperation is robbed.It feels dreamy, forever in slumber.It doesn't differentiate,manipulates the foul play with peace.It paints hollowness with serenity,makes silence your native tongue,shadows your permanent companion,darkens your inescapable attire.You begin to forgetyou were once alive—how hope sounded,how touch once anchored youto the trembling realityof being alive.And so, you exist—half-forgotten by your own soul,where even the mirror sighsat the ghost staring back. More from Dipanwita Dey ↓@iamdipanwitadey on InstagramMentioned in this episode:Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem OnlyWrite After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice. We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.#WriteAfterOPO

A Boy Moose Ate My Tulips Erynne DeVore i discovered marbles and obsidian buried in my garden next to the worms after a moose ate my tulips“of course it was a boy moose,” someone joked with mei tried not to wake my daughters scaring him away they woke anyways irony is never lost on poetsmy daughtershave ears and eyes and hearts of their ownthey would’ve seen the evidence in the morningthose tulips were a gift from Mother Earth meant for my pleasure, the flowers that came to me in a dream after i turned my back on the housemeant to turn usfrom innocent and sweetto Victors sometimes i still dream about eating strawberries during a time i could pretend Alaskan fruit has a tastethe tulips were a gift and i blamed nature for taking them from me “the lord giveth and the lord taketh away” scripture gets just enough right we could forget to dig deeperthe moose was just doing what moose do andhad he not consumed what i perceived as minewould i have let the feathers guide me to Goda boy moose ate my tulips and i was pissedas if Divine gifts are mine alone as if i could expect him to be anything other than who and what he is as if God didn’t want meelbow deep in dirtlistening to Their question:what do you want to plant?!girl, CAN YOU HEAR ME?put your face to the earth feel me and ask yourself if just anything pretty deserves to be buried deep inside your home’s fertile ground?the tulips, godthey were beautiful and they picked me but the moosein all of his immature adolescent volatile and majestic naturefreed mefrom my attachment to pretty thingsthat just so happen to be therethe moose released me from all that tied meto roots that were never mine to begin withfreed me to get dirt under my nails anddiscover buried treasure to weed the roots that would no longer strangle alli was planting i prayed to co-createwhich meansgetting my hands dirty  More from Erynne DeVore ↓@poemsprayersandswears on InstagramShe has two poetry books, Discovering Divinity: Poems, Prayers and Swears, and The Labyrinth of Heartbreak: A collection of poetry for the lovers and the heartbrokenYou can listen to me read mother all by Erynne @rembrandts.cureMentioned in this episode:Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem OnlyWrite After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice. We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.#WriteAfterOPO

Raindrops Kunjal Saraswat Raindrops shine under warm lights.I notice it for the first timeAs I sit here—Two hours deepInto this nightWith the rain.Well, not just the rain.It brings its companions:Thunder,Lightning,Showers,And storms.Tonight, it’s a stormy rain.The wind is wild,And the glass of my balcony shuttersShudders under its weight.I sip my coffeeAnd keep penning my poetry—This one is about sorrow,About giving up,About the reality of life:Death.Behind me, the music swells.The rain’s pattering grows louder,And the glass keeps trembling.My windowIs not strong enoughTo protect me.It doesn’t knowThat I writeWhat I accept in life.I’m a writer.I don’t need protection.A simple hole in the groundIs enough for my sleep.The trembling stops.A smile creeps onto my face,As if I knowWhat comes next.The glass shatters.Large shards fly toward me,Pricking my legsOne after anotherUntil the whole paneIs embedded in my flesh.Still, my pen glides smoothlyAcross the page.My coffeeIs still warm enough to drink.I’m vulnerable now—To the storm,To the ache.Lying here,Wrapped in warm lights.Penning my poetry and having coffeeWith large pricks embedded in my flesh.I feel dizzyAs blood flows down my beige sofaThe stain will last forever.As I reach the final line,My pen gives out—No more ink.And I doWhat any writer would do:Leave behind a masterpiece.I grab my inkpot,Take a feather,And dip itInto my soaking blood.If the stain remains,Let it mark my diary too.I finish my poem.The last line reads:“For as long as it takes,I shall waitFor my beloved—My demise—With a smile.”The feather slipsFrom my lazy hand.And as I shut my eyes,I notice the rain again—And for the first time,I realize:Raindrops shine under warm lights. More from Kunjal Saraswat ↓@_heart_cuddles_ on InstagramMentioned in this episode:Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem OnlyWrite After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice. We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.#WriteAfterOPO

The Anatomy of a Queer Body Gokul Prabhu This poem first appeared In Plainspeak.Please tread gently. This poem has potentially disturbing content.I see death, perched at my window.Sometimes, they even sit on the edge of the bed.Death is my friend now!I am often tempted to draw them into a kiss.They no longer hold a scythe,and are no longer dressed in a cape.They dress like my ex: shabby t-shirt, greying jeans, and sneakers,or whatever those shoes are called in their world.We have a conversation sometimes,or they just watch over me as I sleep.I am often tempted to join them on their journey back to their land,but I think, for now, I shall stay.I hear the cuss words from the neighbour boy as I pass by.“Chakka,” he spat, because I was not like him,looking for pussy constantly to stick his dick into.My existence used to be a crime,but even after the law has changed, I don’t expect acceptance.What a joke. I am craving a good, appreciating word,but I am only disappointed. I am not even hurt anymore;cuss words have become part of my hearing system,the language used to construct my body.I smell the judgementand the disappointmentof my parents as I enter the hall;it stinks of their silence on my sexuality.It doesn’t exist; it will disappear if they deny it.I will become ‘normal’ again.I just need to see the baba,sit in a pooja,eat the medicines that will rip it out of me.Or, oh – they can also beat it out of mebecause I can smell a conspiracythat ends with me being straight or married to some girl.The smells of love and trusthave been overpowered by the stink of hate and distrust,but at least, I have the privilege to be able to walk out.I taste, unwillingly, the cum of a guy I am not even interested in.It has been forced into my mouth, but I don’t say anything.My standards have lowered.Is it problematic to have standards? I don’t know.My type of guy is way out of my league,because my body type doesn’t cut it for them.I am, as they call it, the cunt for everyone,even for the bored-of-girls-want-something-tighter cis straights to use,whether I like it or not.Love is out of the window; I have lost hope.The fear of not having a future togetherunless you can afford to flee to another country.I might be able to, someday, if I am still alive till then.I touch the knife, lightly running my finger along the edge.It’s sharp enough.I can do it, really.No one will miss me;the neighbour boy or my disappointed parents.The peeps who use my cunt will find another the next day.My friends will hopefully understand.I am tired, and I want to go to sleep, and experience my body like I used to.But I know, even after I am gone,my body is death’s best friend,constructed by cuss words and disappointment and fear,the template of the queer body. More from Gokul Prabhu ↓@iamameme_gp on Instagram@gokulprabhu1 on SubstackMentioned in this episode:Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem OnlyWrite After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice. We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.#WriteAfterOPO

Here’s your recap of this week’s poems plus one new poem to carry us into the week ahead.Nov 10 - Signs by Defne Kartal @defnewrites on InstagramNov 11 - Sometimes I feel like writing by Junaid Ali Akbar @the.misfitpoet on Instagram.Nov 12 - "this is not a poem (exactly)" by Tess Ezzy. @themoodyproject_ on Instagram. Poetess Press on Substack. You can listen to me read Cross Roads by Tess @rembrandts.cure on Instagram.Nov 13 - In Another Lifetime by Edyth Grace @edyth_grace17 on Instagram. Nov 14 - The Altar I Didn’t Know I was Building by Elle Zaspel @moonvinegrief on Instagram. She publishes Howl & Hold: A Grief Zine. Issue 1 is out now. Paper copy. Electronic copy.Nov 15 - "A lousy sunday afternoon when The world had gone" by Aliya Narghese @sylphofthought on Instagram and Substack.Nov 16Episode 200Brood Maggie Devers The three hens at my daughter’s schoolAre oblivious to egg pricesConcerned with lunch scrapsAnd the stray termiteAnd their stair perch when the sun dips lowI wonder how they spend evenings and weekends If they miss the sound of childsongOr the Sunday scaries set inI imagine they commune with their comradesOffer jokes and such for tradeMy daughter assures me chickens dislike the mud And I'm inclined to believe herMore from Maggie Devers ↓Read my debut poetry book, For My DaughterFollow me on Instagram for more poetry @rembrandts.cure Mentioned in this episode:Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem OnlyWrite After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice. We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.#WriteAfterOPO

"A lousy sunday afternoon when" Aliya Narghese A lousy sunday afternoon whenThe world had gone, for a momentary slumber Her world fell forever quiet beneath the burning timberAn unwelcome call, a cacophony of cries Looks of pity, soulless sympathyLife that was laid gently into her hands Now a burden far heavy to carry They called her brave, called her strong But she knew they were wrong Met with an incident so vivid Her mind always so lividShe was only a child, Left to pick up the shattered pieces To mend a home, that no longer held warmth The little heart held no remorse, but bottled fear For she learned too soon, Nothing can truly ever stayTime flew, now she a fair maiden Wiser for her age, yet housed a fragile trust Her fury dispersed and fondness overflownStanding before the cold gravel  She whispers a soft greeting "I miss you" More from Aliya Narghese ↓@sylphofthought on Instagram and SubstackMentioned in this episode:Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem OnlyWrite After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice. We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.#WriteAfterOPO

The Altar I Didn’t Know I was Building Elle Zaspel There’s a small bowl on the bookshelf,not meant for anything in particular.But in it: a cicada shell, a rock from a Hamptons beach,a blurry photo propped up beside them.Things I kept without knowing why.Things I wasn’t ready to throw away.Cicadas remind me of him—loud among friends, a little bit silly,as if joy itself made them tremble.They seem forgetful,unsure of when to rise from the earth,but their confusion is only appearance.They know exactly when.He was like that too.His keys are lost,his books—vanished into someone else’s box.Mine are stacked neatly,deliberate, placed with care,as if by tending to my objects,I might still be touching his.There are trinkets from cities he never got to visit.Tiny brass charms, receipts, matchbooksfrom corners of the worldI tried to collect for the both of us.The Douro waits.I haven’t gone.Too afraid the river might hold himmore completely than I ever could.Too afraid it won’t.And then there’s the scent—not his, exactly,but close enough to trick me on a tired afternoon.I catch it when I’m not looking,and my knees forget how to hold me up.The sparkle of his eyes—God, how bright they were—burns now only in memory,a flicker I fan when I’m alone.This shelf,this corner,this drawer of objects I couldn’t part with—they are all fragments of the could-have-been.Of two heartsthat once tried to meetsomewhere between the living and the not.I didn’t know I was building a shrine—I thought I was just trying to survive. More from Elle Zaspel ↓@moonvinegrief on InstagramShe publishes Howl & Hold: A Grief Zine. Issue 1 is out now. Paper copy. Electronic copy.Mentioned in this episode:Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem OnlyWrite After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice. We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.#WriteAfterOPO

In Another Lifetime Edyth Grace To an old friend, wherever you are.......In another lifetime,Where the skies are plastered With soft pinks and bluesand golden huesAnd the grass, softer than your skin I once caressed.In another lifetime,where the air hums the lyricsof the song, we would've rememberedAnd your fingers would've fit minelike the stars aligningin some perfect, forgotten sky.In another lifetime,the clocks would slow their hands,giving us endless moments—no rush, no regret,just the gentle unfoldingof a story written in your eyes.In another lifetime,we would've danced barefoot in the rainwithout fear of the lightning—or the goodbye.And maybe, just maybe,your heart would acheexactly the same waymine still does.In another lifetime,where dreams rememberwhat reality forgets—I’ll find you.And maybe one day,we’ll stay. More from Edyth Grace ↓@edyth_grace17 on InstagramMentioned in this episode:Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem OnlyWrite After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice. We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.#WriteAfterOPO

"this is not a poem (exactly)" Tess Ezzy this is not a poem (exactly)but a leaf-fall of words unclaimed—(dear dirt) how softly youlistenand when wind folds the gumtrees intoparentheses (yes)what survives isbreath—a syntax of birds unsinging        •        meanwhile:Calla walks thru rain’s lowercaseand writes a cloud into her pocket(a sentence of dew)Orion maps stars in the dark of the page,his footnotes wet with ash        •        don’t say hope,say rootdon’t say beauty,say scarclimate speaks in fracture—in murmur,in shiver,in wait        •        the fire is (still) comingbutso ispoem(and what’s the difference,really?) More from Tess Ezzy ↓@themoodyproject_ on InstagramPoetess Press on SubstackYou can listen to me read Cross Roads by Tess @rembrandts.cure on Instagram.Mentioned in this episode:Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem OnlyWrite After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice. We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.#WriteAfterOPO

Sometimes I feel like writing Junaid Ali Akbar Sometimes I feel like writing...Writing words that could shake the earth, But how foolish of me to think, That ink could stop the bloodshed. Sometimes I feel like writing...When I see the corpses of children, Hanging from the rubble, Their bodies too small for the weight of this world, Crushed by the sins of those who never knew their names.Sometimes I feel like writing...When I see fathers cradling their babies' bodies, Their hands trembling as they carry the weight of loss, Bombs ripping apart their hearts and homes, And I wonder, can my words reach where their cries cannot?Sometimes I feel like writing...A poem so fierce, it could shatter the silence, A verse so loud, it could wake the world, But how silly of me to believe, That words alone could open the eyes of those who choose to sleep.Sometimes I feel like writing...But what good are these lines, When the world turns away, When the truth lies buried beneath the rubble, And the ink dries, as cold as the bodies it tries to honour.Sometimes I feel like writing...But I’m just one voice, One heart breaking in a sea of sorrow, And while I write, the bombs keep falling, And the world keeps sleeping.Sometimes I feel like writing...But sometimes, The words are too heavy, And the silence is all that’s left.More from Junaid Ali Akbar ↓@the.misfitpoet on InstagramMentioned in this episode:Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem OnlyWrite After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice. We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.#WriteAfterOPO

Signs Defne Kartal I don’t believe in signs but I doI beg for them daily, and when they arrive -A postcard, a dog, a friend, a group of musicians, a Canadian -i don’t do what I think they’re telling me towhat are signs for?I don’t believe and I don’t know, I don’t know, so I don’t believeInstead, I conjure up an image of youWalking away through the crowd,I follow youEyes closed in my bedI hold youI look in people’s windows, says the poetI always, always, always doLion-faced truth-speakerNothing to see, if I can’t find youbut can anyone prove to me please,show the signs to me, pleaseThat my world has known you,And the world as I know it, still holds youin a corner where I don’t see, there you must be(Here’s a solace: Object permanence)What did you have for dinner today and who did you talk to?You must have gotten my letterdid it break or mend somethingAnd do you - believe in signs, the way I do?ask for them find them hate them love themask for them again, againagaindo you?More from Defne Kartal ↓@defnewrites on InstagramMentioned in this episode:Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem OnlyWrite After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice. We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.#WriteAfterOPO

Here’s your recap of this week’s poems plus one new poem to carry us into the week ahead.Nov 3 -  Naked by Danielle Martin @cosquelle.mind on Instagram. DanielleM on Facebook. Her book, Kissing Shadows: Caribbean Love Poems, is out now.Nov 4 - Poetry Reading by Maggie DeversNov 5 - Her Absence by Katrina Kaye @poetkatrinakaye on Instagram. You can read more of her poetry on her website poetkatrinakaye.com. You can see me read Her Absence @rembrandts.cure on Instagram.Nov 6 - you wrote anyway by Abhilasha Ghosh @abhilaxxa on Instagram. Her bookstagram is @booksandbillis .Nov 7 - Nightmares are dreams too by Dimple Dinesh Lokhande @dimple_writes07 on Instagram. Her poems are featured in the poetry anthology, Words Of Escape, of which she is a co-author.Nov 8 - "Dear death" by Alexis M Levine @alexandrathepoett on Instagram.Nov 9The prompt was to write Maggie Devers A seven word poem about your mother I wrote it in my dream and It had evaporated when I woke up But I did dream of my daughter As a newborn asleep on my chest. The smell at her crown was there, And her little chest rose the same And I was a new mother again. I have carried the feeling all day Thinking how our children hold us close When their tiny hand grips our finger I think of my mother and know For her, seven words are not enough. More from Maggie Devers ↓Read my debut poetry book, For My DaughterFollow me on Instagram for more poetry @rembrandts.cure Mentioned in this episode:Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem OnlyWrite After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice. We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.#WriteAfterOPO

A poem inspired by Emily Dickinson Dear death How can I stay when you, more than life, make me feel seen? They call you cruel, but I have seen the gentleness in your cruelty— the mercy in your ending, the way you unburden bones and hush the screaming thoughts no one else could hear. What if the ones who scream are not cruel, but trying to anchor me to a world they still believe can bloom? And I— have I given everything a chance? Or have I fallen so in love with the idea of not hurting that I’ve forgotten what healing might feel like? Do not rush. But when you come home, come softly. Let me fall like a candle into darkness, like a secret finally heard. But even now, as I write your name with steady hands, something inside me trembles. What if I’m wrong? What if your silence is not peace, but absence? What if the ache I carry is not a curse, but a call— a sign that I was meant to stay, to fight, to feel just a little more? What if the ones who scream are not cruel, but trying to anchor me to a world they still believe can bloom? And I— have I given everything a chance? Or have I fallen so in love with the idea of not hurting that I’ve forgotten what healing might feel like? - Alexis M Levine More from Alexis M Levine ↓@alexandrathepoett on InstagramMentioned in this episode:Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem OnlyWrite After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice. We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.#WriteAfterOPO

Nightmares are dreams too Dimple Dinesh Lokhande In the midnight sky, as breeze passes by, In our sleep, we tend to fly, To a place where dreams seem to lie. Dreams whisper on clouds in silver light, We see in shining armor a knight, Who wields his sword and provides justice to what's right. Dreams are a picture of the future, some blurred, some clear, Where hearts feel safe and fears disappear. But deep beneath those dreamy skies, Lies a darker place where nightmares reside. They steal your breath, haunt your soul, A terror hidden, your body they control. A face unknown with a sudden fall, The night consumes you with shadows' creepy call. But nightmares, no matter how cold and severe, Are born from dreams, the same sphere. Each night comes with stories brand new, This is your reminder that nightmares are dreams too. More from Dimple Dinesh Lokhande ↓@dimple_writes07 on Instagram Her poems are featured in the poetry anthology, Words Of Escape, of which she is a co-authorMentioned in this episode:Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem OnlyWrite After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice. We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.#WriteAfterOPO

you wrote anyway Abhilasha Ghosh july 25th, 2025 you were told writing was a man’s terrain— ink too heavy, thought too sharp for your soft hands. so you wrote anyway. you became george eliot when mary ann wouldn’t be taken seriously. they admired your mind but never called it yours. you were the brontë sisters, signing as currer, ellis, and acton bell— three pens dipped in restraint, writing women with thunder in their hearts. you were ismat chughtai, on trial for obscenity because you dared to speak of women as if we had bodies and stories and agency. you were christine de pizan, arguing with dead philosophers in the 1400s, building a city of women while the world tried to burn it down. you were savitri bai phule, carrying chalk like a sword, spitting in the face of caste and patriarchy with every lesson you taught a girl. you were elisabeth vigee le brun, painting and writing through revolutions, surviving exile with a brush and a spine. you were madame de staël, banished by napoleon for being smarter than he could stand. you turned your exile into a library. you were sor juana inés de la cruz, writing plays and poems in a convent in mexico, hiding brilliance in lace and latin. you gave up writing— they said it was your choice. you and i both know it was surrender in silk. you were marina tsvetaeva, writing poems that blistered like prophecy while the soviet air turned cold around your mouth. you were anna akhmatova, smuggling words through iron bars as your lovers and sons disappeared. you were sylvia plath, and they romanticized your death before they honored your craft. you left poems like razors on every bathroom tile. you were virginia woolf, handing every woman a room of her own, while your own mind became too loud to live inside. you were octavia butler, writing the future because the present refused to hold you. you were nawal el saadawi, telling the truth of women’s bodies and being cast out for it. you were toru dutt, begum rokeya, kamala das,— the subcontinent’s burning pen passed down like a secret blessing. you were too brown, too bold, too bare, too brilliant, too loud, too angry, too strange, too sad, too female. they called you excessive, unladylike, difficult, political, emotional, hysterical. and still— you wrote. in exile, in shame, in hunger, in prison, in the dark, in footnotes, in funeral clothes, in jail cells, in schoolhouses, in shame and in secret. on scraps, on borrowed typewriters, under threat, under pressure, under no illusions. and now— we write because you carved the path with your teeth. and now— we write in the space you tore open with your bare hands. we do not write to please them. we write because you did. we sign our names because you could not. and every sentence we shape rings with your echo— proof that survival, in ink, can be immortal. More from Abhilasha Ghosh ↓@abhilaxxa on InstagramHer bookstagram is @booksandbillis Mentioned in this episode:Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem OnlyWrite After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice. We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.#WriteAfterOPO

Her Absence Katrina Kaye I do not regret the days I spent loving you in her absence. I do not regret your tempered touches as you searched for her skin under my scales or the way your eyes reflected her sharp chin and freckled chest when they fell on my frame. I do not regret the fleeting space we created, morning gestures in the folds of sheet and flesh. Tending your wounds with tongue and time. You found solace with your elbows on my table, your dirty feet in my bed, but she was ever present upon the waves of your thoughts. Your ears keen for her voice, but I heard it first, soft as the buzz of bumble bees on the beach calling you home. I do not regret returning to a solitary balcony above the ocean’s turning point, or slipping inside my bed, still warm in your place. As you kiss my hands in gratitude of my hospitality, my kindness, don’t leave thinking, I am emptied. I gave what I wanted, no more, no less. More from Katrina Kaye ↓@poetkatrinakaye on InstagramYou can read more of her poetry on her website poetkatrinakaye.com You can see me read Her Absence @rembrandts.cure on Instagram.Mentioned in this episode:Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem OnlyWrite After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice. We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.#WriteAfterOPO

Poetry Reading Maggie Devers After Chelsie DianeThis is a rememberingWhen we come togetherAnd read our truth.We have been doing this forever.They have tried to stop us—Burnt us alive, tied rocks to our ankles and threw us in the river, locked us in cages.So many cages.But we didn't stop.We can never stop,We are right where we are.The audiobook of my debut poetry book, For My Daughter, will be released 12/12.In the tradition of a poem a day, starting 11/5, I will be offering a daily reading from the book for subscribers to One Poem Only.You can subscribe on Substack and Pateron.Mentioned in this episode:Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem OnlyWrite After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice. We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.#WriteAfterOPO

Naked Danielle Martin Naked in the truth that she is alone she hugs herself tightly and succeeds in creating the illusion of wellness. Damp eyes close as jaded lips conjure up wide smiles. Damn! Her mind begins to do its own thing again. Briefly, she forgets, as she floats on a magic carpet of memories, smiling, as death did not steal everything after all. Basking in apparent nothingness, she waits. No one knows her thoughts. But her silence, is better left a mystery. As she knows only too well, every beginning has an end. More from Danielle Martin ↓@cosquelle.mind on InstagramDanielleM on FacebookHer book, Kissing Shadows: Caribbean Love Poems, is out nowMentioned in this episode:Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem OnlyWrite After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice. We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.#WriteAfterOPO