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Best Poetry Articles
Mary E.
•
Jun 29
Dunya Mikail’s poem today seems to echo the words of Etty Hillesum which I read this morning in Daily Meditations with Matthew Fox.
It reads as follows … With so much horror in the world, it is easy to sink into despair. But then we find inspiration in the form of Etty Hillesum, the Dutch Jewish author killed in Auschwitz in 1943. What is amazing about her is that she was able to “stay human” in the midst of the most unspeakable suffering. She was already interned at a transit camp when she wrote the following: The sky is full of birds, the purple lupins stand up so regally and peacefully, two little old women have sat down for a chat, the sun is shining on my face – and right before our eyes, mass murder… The whole thing is simply beyond comprehension.And: Living and dying, sorrow and joy, the blisters on my feet and the jasmine behind the house, the persecution, the unspeakable horrors: it is all as one in me. Etty was somehow able to hold both extremes in her awareness.
I wonder if this is our invitation in this world we find ourselves in today? Can we “stay human” by caring and listening, crying and laughing, comforting and suffering, seeing the beauty and the pain? How do we live with our heart and soul portals open to it all?
Dwight Lee Wolter
•
Jun 29
I do not believe her when she says, “I am sorry
my poem will not save you.” It seems to me that she knows that the poem indeed has the power to save us from indifference, inertia, and the paralysis of analysis.
I reread the poem and changed the line to “I am sorry my poem WILL save you” and it became a clarion call to action.
The leaders in "my community" were my parents. They taught me early, when they saw my older brother being taunted by other kids because of his autism, that the solution wasn't to reprimand the kids, but to engage them directly in a conversation that asked questions about their feelings and behavior. There was no expectation to change them through shaming them, but a pointed attempt to shift the problem away from my brother in a way that made unacceptable the behavior of the abusers but respected the abusers' humanity at the same time.
But this kind of engagement must be brought to bear early and practiced regularly. And takes continual effort.
This model has had a powerful effect on how I view conflict and war.
Everything macro is micro
Everything. And everything has the capacity to be art. It starts with each self and one school yard.
Ongoing conflict and war are so often projections of shame and anger left to fester for too long.
But my parents, whose goal was to ensure my brother's right to live and thrive in his own community as a deeply different being, knew we still live in the dark ages as a humanity, with all the artistic tools within ourselves, even bullies, to choose better ways to live with each other if only we would use them.
Last evening, I fortuitously came upon a YouTube video of singer-songwriter Janis Ian’s 2010 keynote speech at Berklee College of Music. I was moved by it. She spoke about one’s art not just as a gift, but as a calling. She emphasized that artist are born outlaws; they challenge cultural norms and structures. Ian recognized how artists often become commodities in a consumerist system. Ian learned to say “no” to the trappings of fame and fortune. On the artist’s purpose, she eloquently states that artists “transmute thin air into gold,” offering listeners a mirror—showing both who they are and who they could be. She spoke of artists as conduits—holding others' fears, hopes, and emotions, and helping society find redemption through truth. This rings so true to me.
In watching/listening to this video, I would say it has been the artists in my life (i.e., mostly the music-makers, poets, poet-philosopher authors) who have enlightened me to myself and to the world we live in. They have provided me, not false optimism, but true hope in a world which must deal with a great deal of suffering and conflict.
The thing I missed most during COVID was delightful chitchat with strangers and acquaintances -- on the train, in the grocery, out and about.
Talking to strangers has been a lifelong delight of mine (to the chagrin of my children -- though both now, as teenagers, have taken after their mother). I tone it down in Europe, fearful I'll sound like one of those rowdy and overly cheerful Americans, but the practice has led me to some wonderful experiences. To wit:
- on the remote island of Handa, off the northwest coast of Scotland, I laid down next to a woman on the edge of a 1,000 ft. cliff to watch the puffins. She and I got to talking and exchanging life data. Turns out she (a Scot) had been a counselor forty years before at the same camp that my children were attending while I was on vacation! We made a fast friendship and she ended up letting me stay with her the next summer. And her friend loaned me some camping equipment, handing me the key to her shed, saying, "Just put it back when you are done."
- in a different, equally remote part of Scotland a different year, my husband and I chatted with a friendly Glaswegian (redundant phrase, actually) for ten minutes. He and I kept in touch over the year and I have stayed with him on subsequent trips. We are still friends.
- a young man at the local gas station where I'd get coffee several times a week made conversation with me over books (he was always behind the counter reading something). When he disappeared one day, I asked the owner where he'd gone. He didn't know. It took some doing, but I found out he'd tried to commit suicide and was at an inpatient program. I brought him books at the hospital and now, ten years later, he annually borrows our house for a staycation, taking care of our cats when we go overseas.
My gregariousness is born of an insatiable curiosity for other people and from being raised in Kentucky, where everyone is chatty -- each interaction is like a cuddle or a flirt. Living in New England has its merits, but the people are much less chatty in public spaces.
While trying to recall a positive experience of successful communication, what filled my mind were a couple hundred awkward and anxious social situations. I show my best smile, catch an eye, focus on listening, and manage not to get a word in at all! So I come to this page and challenge myself to share a little something each week. With an investment of time, I am happy when I find just one meaningful exchange to start my week well!
When my kids (now teens) were age 2.5 and a newborn, I took them on a trip back home. It was a great visit with my family, albeit exhausting (and I had undiagnosed postpartum depression). On the flight home (our second), my kids fell apart and I didn't know what to do, which one to tend to first.
A kind woman came to my aisle and said, "What can I do?" Another woman patted me and said, "You'll get through this. I promise."
Without a second thought, I handed the first woman my son, the 3-month -old, saying only, "His name is Henry." And I turned back to my daughter to calm her down. That woman, whose name I never found out, played with Henry for two hours, leaving me to nap with my now-calmed toddler. When I was leaving the plane, a third mom handed me a handwritten letter.
I still wish I could find her to thank her.
You can read her letter here: https://flic.kr/p/2rcmJRG and https://flic.kr/p/2rcmgRs
In the early 1970’s, I was in Chile after their military overthrow. I traveled with friends from Osorno, in the south of Chile, to Temuco by train. We were looking for a place to live and work. After a few days there, we were returning to Osorno by train. However, our train was not departing until close to midnight. Not wishing to sit in the train station for hours and not really having a place to stay we sat down in the Cathedral. Resting in the silence of that comfortable space we had our shoes off. Unexpectedly someone came up along side of us and asked if we were ok. We explained we were just resting before heading to the train station for a late train to Osorno. The man invited us to his house for a meal and offered us rooms to rest. He even drove us later that night to the train station for our train. He was the pastor of that church and over all these years I still recall with fondness his kindness and selfless generosity! I also remember the immense gratitude that filled our hearts for each kindness that was extended to us that day.
Point To Your Joy
This morning, joy was touching my toes repeatedly like one of those toy birds that dips its beak in water. On vacation, joy is the sea breeze scraping the palm fronds together as I belt out a song in a raspy voice. In the Keys, joy is watching the sunrise twice, once up from the horizon then above the strip of clouds stretched over the sea’s ed…
Poetry Yes, YES!
July 19, 2025
Yes, there will be a Zoom poetry reading and discussion Saturday. Click on the underlined link below at the appointed time to join.
Dharma
by Billy Collins.
The way the dog trots out the front door
every morning
without a hat or an umbrella,
without any money
or the keys to her doghouse
never fails to fill the saucer of my heart
with milky admiration.
Who provides a finer example
of a life without encumbrance—
Thoreau in his curtainless hut
with a single plate, a single spoon?
Gandhi with his staff and his holy diapers?
Off she goes into the material world
with nothing but her brown coat
and her modest blue collar,
following only her wet nose,
the twin portals of her steady breathing,
followed only by the plume of her tail.
If only she did not shove the cat aside
every morning
and eat all his food
what a model of self-containment she
would be,
what a paragon of earthly detachment.
If only she were not so eager
for a rub behind the ears,
so acrobatic in her welcomes,
if only I were not her god.
Mar Oliver: A dog can never tell you what she knows of the smells of the world. But you know, watching her, that you know almost nothing.
JUNE Poems of the Month
These poems confess the burning immediacy of love and bow deeply to those who dare to live outside the rules; non-conformity as devotion, as praise, as force.
These poems, like most poems, are praises. They guide their creators back to honesty, deliberately confess the urgency of love, worship and thank the queer minded with all manifestations of non-conformist living. They fall in love with language in the eloquence of French jokes, ache (
Free poetry submission! Win $25 and be featured in unusual.poetry
So I am thinking to reinvest all the small profits from this newsletter back into the community.
Somehow 25 bucks is more motivating that a 1000.
HI, I tried to submit today but it's saying the poem is too many characters ("Value should be maximum 1600 characters"). However, when I re-checked the count on my own processor, it said the character count was 1534 with spaces, 1265 without spaces. It still won't let me submit though. What should I do next?
Pen & Page Prompt No. 2
This week: Considering how the life you didn't choose is still speaking
"To the Other One"
Don't get me wrong.
Are we along?
I didn't choose you,
and it suppose to be fun.
I'm not king Kong.
I'm not ding dong.
I don't want to be number one
or someone who never was known.
Life isn't a ping pong.
It is the wheel that I spin.
So, let the steak be well done
and let us sing a new song.
A LAMENT FOR THE PATH NOT TAKEN
To never know the solemn silence of God
Waking while the world sleeps, to sing the Psalms
To never read scriptures, dreaming of Thy rod
To not know my brethren's comforting arms
I curse the path of my oblivion,
damn the need of my loins, robbing my call
Only knowing torments of perdition
and never know the Pleroma, The All
In the twilight of my life I've found
something akin to the path not taken
Each day revolves around silence profound
I wake while the world remains unshaken
While I lament for the path not taken
It seems God has not left me forsaken
Poetry Camera production update: First test assembly complete
Comparing plastics suppliers and dealing with warping
In our last update, we described all the design changes we made to make the camera easier to assemble and use.
Poetry Stories: Mildred's Garden
Chapter 2. Listen.
This summer we’re adding to your Poetry Stories collection (accessible in full to paid subscribers).
A Week In Substack Poetry #24
Join me in discovering 10 poems published on Substack from 30th of June to the 6th of July, 2025! As usual, we have a colorful ensemble of poetry!
Hey Friends! We have an exciting lineup again! Don't forget to ❤️ and share the poems that resonate with you! Your personal connection to the poems is what makes our community so engaging!This post is public so feel free to share it.
POET INTERVIEW: MAX WALLIS
"Ultimately it's about all those drunken high escapades past-Max did in order to survive." An interview on poetry practice with Poem of the Month winner Max Wallis.
Each month, we interview the poet behind Poem of the Month, our competition for the poetry community. For June, that poem was Thinking of how many elevators by Max Wallis about “how desire, grief, and compulsion can collapse into each other”.
FREE VERSE FREEDOM & FORMAL FLAIR: GET THE BEST OF BOTH WORLDS IN YOUR POETRY
Why the form vs. free verse debate is a false choice
Let's settle this once and for all: the great poetry war between formal verse and free verse is like arguing whether a hammer or a screwdriver is the better tool. The answer is "it depends what you're trying to build."
Poetry Bulletin: Summer 2025
15+ deadlines for poetry books, creative resources / residencies / deadlines, and more
Hi poets — I’m trying something new and doing a June/July/August bulletin, to group the (northern hemisphere) summer months together. I hope this is more helpful for your planning, since the rhythm of deadlines, child care situations, revision energy, etc. can vary so much during this season.
Online Poetry Reading Fundraiser on the Theme of ´Hope´.
Sunday 10th August 11 am and 6 pm CET
Wee olive branch sparrow by Colin Thom
CHAPTER SEVEN: Two Poems About Flies
(The Poetry Zoo by Sam Staggs)
“Why, she wouldn’t even harm a fly.” — Tony Perkins as Norman Bates in Psycho
Poetry Competition
Theme: Ice
Poetry Watching
people watching with the express intent of finding the poetry in it all
I don’t really interact with children all that much. A byproduct of working from home & living in a city that’s not super easy to navigate with a child in tow. I see them in the park every day though. Every time I do, they have a way of snapping me into presence.
I can see poetry in your spilled words. This essay inspires me for poetry watching. Thank you for always creating lovely artforms like this 🤍
“I’m enamored by this idea of poetry watching, yet mostly, I forget to keep up with it. I’ve got earbuds in. I’m consuming content on the way to the grocery store instead of consuming my life.”
wow. you, effectively, put it into words (poetry) 🩷
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