food, friends, poetry

 Our book club focused on the poet Andrea Gibson last night. So fitting because it is National Poetry Month and we each read one of Andrea's poems out loud and then watched the documentary Come See Me in the Good Light on Apple TV. Of course wonderful food was involved (make your own taco) and we had a spirited discussion about Andrea and their not easy life and death. 

hers was not an easy life

 For some reason I really like this Andrea Gibson poem above, even though it is not the one I will be "presenting" at book club in a few weeks. That one is entitled How the Worst Day of My Life Became the Best. I  have printed it out and am reading it aloud to get the full benefit. 

next book club = poetry!

 A couple of us were recently intrigued with the poet Andrea Gibson who died in 2025. There is a documentary about her (Come See Me in the Good Light) which we will watch after dinner and after a bit of reviewing of some of Andrea's work. I have been enjoying her poetry in this used book I bought, Pole Dancing to Gospel Hymns. I will share a poem or two here later. That's a promise.

today a salute to they/them

 Give Us Your Pronouns

They say,

give us

your pronouns.

So proud

of themselves

for asking.

Give us your

pro nouns.

Tell us how

you would like us

to refer to you,

your pronouns

your for nouns

for people

for places

for things

the proper noun

for you is

your pronoun

which you should

give to us. Give

us your

pronouns. Please

help us

refer to you

correctly.

We don’t

want to make

any mistakes

with your pronouns

which are yours

and you have them so

give us your pronouns

give us

this day

our daily

bread

give us time

give us

a bloodhound

with no sense

of smell.

Your pronouns

your canine

lost

in the woods.

~ Stacey Waite

“Give Us Your Pronouns” from A REAL MAN WOULD HAVE A GUN: by Stacey Waite.
Published by University of New Mexico Press on February 18, 2025.
Copyright © 2025 by Stacey Waite.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission.

from the howl where we begin

Conversation

Amanda Gorman

@TheAmandaGorman

For Renee Nicole Good Killed by I.C.E. on January 7, 2026 by Amanda Gorman They say she is no more, That there her absence roars, Blood-blown like a rose. Iced wheels flinched & froze. Now, bare riot of candles, Dark fury of flowers, Pure howling of hymns. If for us she arose, Somewhere, in the pitched deep of our grief, Crouches our power, The howl where we begin, Straining upon the edge of the crooked crater Of the worst of what we’ve been. Change is only possible, & all the greater, When the labour & bitter anger of our neighbors Is moved by the love  & better angels of our nature. What they call death & void, We know is breath & voice;  In the end, gorgeously,  Endures our enormity.  You could believe departed to be the dawn When the blank night has so long stood. But our bright-fled angels will never be fully gone, When they forever are so fiercely Good.

America is a Gun

 This morning I have some time and I am feeling reflective. I can usually find a poem in the striped poetry box to match my mood. And I did.

America is a Gun

England is a cup of tea.

France, a wheel of ripened brie,

Greece, a short, squat olive tree.

America is a gun.

Brazil is football on the sand.

Argentina, Maradona’s hand.

Germany, an oompah band.

America is a gun.

Holland is a wooden shoe.

Hungary a goulash stew.

Australia, a kangaroo.

America is a gun.

Japan is a thermal spring.

Scotland is a highland fling.

Oh, better to be anything 

than America as a gun.

~ Brian Bilston

The World Since Yesterday

 I have known and loved Will Walker's writing for more than 20 years now. He is part of our Tiapos (This is a piece of shit) and/or Fluf  (Fucking love you folks) writing world and so of course I ordered his newest poetry book from Amazon. Here is one stunning poem from The World Since Yesterday.

Subversive

Because living is a tricky business,

I bless the earth while I can, by morning light, hoping

to emulate the finches flocking in the trellis out back,

an upturned forest of star jasmine and bougainvillea,

shades of green not yet in bloom, where the finches

seem content to perch and sing and fly to another perch

with no pattern I can discern, announcing daylight,

affirming all that has led me to watch them in their busywork,

the instant embrace of any available branch,

the glide through sunlight, the song of no occasion.

~ Will Walker

yay, poems from Margaret

 This amazing woman just published a new book, this time it's poetry. Paper Boat. Let's sail...

The Sidewalk  We’re hand in hand along any old street, by the lake this time, and laughing too at some joke we’ve made and forgotten, and the sun shines or it’s raining, lunch after lunch, dinner after dinner. You could see it as one thing after another. Where are we going? It looks like nowhere; though we’re going where love goes finally, we’re going under. But not yet, we’re still incarnate, though the trees break into flame, blaze up, shed in one gasp, turn to ash, each thing burns over and over and we will too, even the lake’s on fire now, it’s evening and the sidewalk fills with blue light, you can see down through it, we walk on water for a split second before faith lapses and we let go of each other also. Everything’s brighter just before, and it’s just before always. ~ Margaret Atwood

the box and the shelf and the refugees

 I still find comfort in poetry. Reading aloud helps. Of course I need hard copies so I often print a poem out and put it in the striped box. Every couple of weeks I will go through the box and today I select this one that seems appropriate. It is grey here and the news is rough. (The photo on the poetry shelf is my writing group about 20 years ago.)

TRY TO PRAISE THE MUTILATED WORLD

Try to praise the mutilated world.

Remember June's long days,

and wild strawberries, drops of rose wine.

The nettles that methodically overgrow

the abandoned homesteads of exiles.

You must praise the mutilated world.

You watched the stylish yachts and ships;

one of them had a long trip ahead of it,

while salted oblivion awaited others.

You've seen the refugees going nowhere,

you've heard the executioners sing joyfully.

You should praise the mutilated world.

Remember the moments when we were together

in a white room and the curtain fluttered.

Return in thought to the concert where music flared.

You gathered acorns in the park in autumn

and leaves eddied over the earth's scars.

Praise the mutilated world 

and the gray feather of a thrush lost,

and the gentle light that strays and vanishes

and returns.

~Adam Zagajewski