One poem by Fanny Howe has been calling me back to it since I read it in early January. It is short. It is simple. And I have it memorized. (and I think the best thing that this poem urges one to do is talk about our own letters now… today!)
[I won’t be able to write from the grave]
by Fanny Howe
I won’t be able to write from the grave
so let me tell you what I love:
oil, vinegar, salt, lettuce, brown bread, butter,
cheese and wine, a windy day, a fireplace,
the children sleeping nearby, poems and songs,
a friend sleeping in my bed—
You can find more information about the prolific poetess, Fanny Howe, here. And you will find more poetry here… a huge thanks to Bonny for gathering us together today!
A bit of an ironic aside today with a bonus poem… this week, we lost The Reverend Jesse Jackson and that saddens me so deeply. I liked Jesse Jackson very much and I believe his work leveled out the path a bit for Barack Obama. Anyways, way back in 1972 he was on Sesame Street and shared a powerful poem with the Sesame Street kids. It moved me when I first heard him recite it some years later but it is most especially moving hearing him share it with those kids. Thanks to the deep well of YouTube, I am sharing it with you today. The poem was written by the Rev. William Holmes Borders, Sr. Reverend Jackson recited this poem often… I think you will see why:
Greetings friends and I am so happy it is the first Poetry Gathering of 2026!
(although, I am here to tell you that grief brain and aware of time brain are two very different brains…sigh)
So this morning as I scrambled to get my ducks in order and find a poem to share… an eerily fortunate tag drew my attention and upon flipping open to the tagged page… I found the absolutely perfect poem for today. (or at least it was for me… )
It is a poem by Charles Bukowski and is tucked away inside Phyllis Cole-Dai & Ruby R. Wilson’s first Poetry of Presence anthology.
a song with no end
by Charles Bukowski
when Whitman wrote, “I sing the body electric”
I know what he
meant
I know what he
wanted:
to be completely alive at every moment
in spite of the inevitable.
we can’t cheat death but we can make it
work so hard
that when it does take
us
it will have known a victory just as
perfect as
ours.
It seems fitting with how much Renée Good has been on my mind this week. I read in several places that she was a poet as well and thanks to Pádraig Ó Tuama, I have a poem of her’s to share with you all… I first read it on Sunday and have been contemplating it all week and have reread it multiple times since then… here it is for your consideration.
A huge thanks to Bonny for providing a place for us all to gather today.
I had originally planned to post this poem in the November poetry gathering… but then life very much changed and I thought I could banish this poem to the dustbin. But Liz Berry’s words continue to linger (I think you will see exactly why as you read it) and so I am sharing it today.
I leave this poem for you to read and digest as it speaks to you. Its meaning has certainly taken new shape in my days… so Ms. Berry… I hope you realize that your poem has helped me both celebrate and grieve The Republic of Motherhood.
The Republic of Motherhood
by Liz Berry
I crossed the border into the Republic of Motherhood
and found it a queendom, a wild queendom.
I handed over my clothes and took its uniform,
its dressing gown and undergarments, a cardigan
soft as a creature, smelling of birth and milk,
and I lay down in Motherhood’s bed, the bed I had made
but could not sleep in, for I was called at once to work
in the factory of Motherhood. The owl shift,
the graveyard shift. Feeding cleaning loving feeding.
I walked home, heartsore, through pale streets,
the coins of Motherhood singing in my pockets.
Then I soaked my spindled bones
in the chill municipal baths of Motherhood,
watching strands of my hair float from my fingers.
Each day I pushed my pram through freeze and blossom
down the wide boulevards of Motherhood
where poplars bent their branches to stroke my brow.
I stood with my sisters in the queues of Motherhood –
the weighing clinic, the supermarket – waiting
for its bureaucracies to open their doors.
As required, I stood beneath the flag of Motherhood
and opened my mouth although I did not know the anthem.
When darkness fell I pushed my pram home again,
by lamp-light wrote urgent letters of complaint
to the Department of Motherhood but received no response.
I grew sick and was healed in the hospitals of Motherhood
with their long-closed isolation wards
and narrow beds watched over by a fat moon.
The doctors were slender and efficient
and when I was well they gave me my pram again
so I could stare at the daffodils in the parks of Motherhood
while winds pierced my breasts like silver arrows.
In snowfall, I haunted Motherhood’s cemeteries,
the sweet fallen beneath my feet –
Our Lady of the Birth Trauma, Our Lady of Psychosis.
I wanted to speak to them, tell them I understood,
but the words came out scrambled, so I knelt instead
and prayed in the chapel of Motherhood, prayed
for that whole wild fucking queendom,
its sorrow, its unbearable skinless beauty,
and all the souls that were in it. I prayed and prayed
If you want to know more about Ms. Berry, you can find some information here. And, if you want to listen to Liz read this poem to you (and I highly recommend that you do… you will find it here.)
I want to thank Bonny for gathering us all together to share a poem today.
My absolute favorite thing is finding a poem that is so brilliant that it etches itself on my heart and this poem by Hannah Stephenson did exactly that. I first discovered it in the beginning of September but I have reread it dozens of times since.
I picked it for today because it is the perfect poem for me trekking around Presque Isle State Park. There are things that I absolutely love about the poem… you will note there is absolutely no punctuation. It is brilliant and makes me feel like it is actually the trees that have taken over the poem and are breathing it directly into my being.
Today (and every day since I have been here) I will be with the trees, and the water, and the birds… and loving every single moment. My wish for you is that this poem will breathe its way into your being… Happy Thursday, dear friends!
Ancient Language
by Hannah Stephenson
If you stand at the edge of the forest
and stare into it
every tree at the edge will blow a little extra
oxygen toward you
It has been proven
Leaves have admitted it
The pines I have known
have been especially candid
One said
that all breath in this world
is roped together
There are some too many days when the overwhelms of the world are so heavy I can’t even manage to open a book of poetry for a moment of respite. In these moments, the best thing I can do is to step outside for a moment or ten… even in the heat, even in the humidity, even with horrendous air quality… and just sit.
I don’t bring my phone or a book… I leave all distractions inside and just sit on my porch and allow the outside to seep into my inside. It has become a little act of escape that I partake of when everything is just too much.
The poem I have selected for August’s Gathering of Poetry speaks to allowing the outside to seep into our insides.
An Apple Tree Was Concerned
by Daniel Ladinsky
after Hafiz
An apple tree told me it was concerned about
a late frost and losing its gift that would help
feed a poor family close by.
And then there were the jams and lots of
apple butter that could be made in a banner
crop year
when the clouds were generous with what
fell from them and the sun rationed itself
with precision.
They can speak, trees, they can say the sweetest
things, and can even tell a joke,
but it takes special ears to hear them, ears
that have listened to people…with great
care.
