170+ Upcoming Poetry Events
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This week’s newsletter is brimming with 170+ exciting upcoming poetry events.
Best Poetry Articles
Poetry and Obsession
Because some poems won't let go
Corinne Walsh
•
Jun 20
There's a sweet and painful pop song Missy Higgins sings called WHERE I STOOD. In it she laments the fact that she is obsessing and part of her knows she should let go, for all kinds of reasons. The lyric is something like, "I don't know who I am, who I am without you, but I should." When I find myself writing my same poem, again, I catch myself thinking, I'm not sure who I am as a poet if I'm not writing about that (same) irresistible connection that brought me to writing poetry in the first place --but I should. And when I write the poem that I think I should, . . . well, I'm sure you all know what that feels like and what happens when you write a poem you think you should. Write poems, have no regrets about the poems you write or don't write. The exploration, is the path. Thanks for this post, it gave me the inspiration to reclaim my muse without a second thought (doubt). From "Weeds" by Edna St. Vincent Millay: White with daisies, and red with Sorrel/ And empty, empty, under the sky --/ Life is a quest and love is a quarrel. Can't find another of her poems that isn't exactly that.
Janaka Stagnaro
•
Jun 21
The image of Monet and his seasonal painting of haystacks came to mind. I have no writing ritual, using a pen in a notebook, a journal, or just typing into a computer. Fine article.
Sunday Sharing - You're Invited!
A quiet time to connect with others in the Poetry Culture community.
Poetry Culture is hosting our first Sunday Sharing session on Google Meet!
I can’t see Stockholm Sweden on the list? 🤔
I'm back at the hospital having post cancer treatment scans at the moment. As soon as I am through the doors of the unit I am connected immediately to a collective experience of the people there. We are all ages- young and old- , different cultures with many individual fears and hopes. We are all in a similar space with some being able to share- others not. Above all we are all ' held ' by staff who are sensitive to the individual needs of all of us- even when time constraints are a pressure. It feels like we are living - just for a short while- in a bubble that carries all that is best about being human. How precious these spaces are, where sadness and fear all get mixed in the great melting pot with kindness and the gift of those who support during such times. Thankyou to you all.
At least there are flowers. This past week, what kept me inspired was flowers. On a walk, I came upon a bush laden with luscious pink roses. A day later, some voluptuous deep maroon peonies. I captured their beauty with photos and texted to my friends with an end-of-week encouragement through beauty. I would add the photos to this post for you all, but can’t. So I invite you to seek beauty or to imagine the lovely roses and peonies.
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?
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.
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.
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.
Yes, Poetry, YES!
Spiritual Poetics--July 5, 2025
Yes, there will be a Zoom reading and discussion this Saturday, with an open reading. Click on the underlined link below at the appointed time to join.
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 (
Anniversary
An essay about loss.
Note: This short essay was written for my late friend, and, as a result, reader discretion is advised. While most of our content is uplifting, this one honestly presents grief and loss.
This is so beautiful, Alex. I'm so sorry for your loss.
Sorry for your loss. I too had a friend who took his life. Years later, it’s still a loss and there’s still grief.. it’s just a little different. Thank you for sharing this. It’s a very tender piece and it also reminded me of my dear friend.
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.
submitting poetry
Please send up to three poems in a single Microsoft Word document (which means all poems are in one file, not three separate files)—or in the body of the email.
Poetry Pals Book Club - July '25
Safia Elhillo - Girls that Never Die
Book Club July: ‘Girls That Never Die’
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
A Week In Substack Poetry #22
Join me in discovering 10+1 poems published on Substack from 16 June to June 22, 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.
Should we read more complex poetry sometimes?
'Modern Poetry' by Diane Seuss - Book Club Discussion Post
Crickey, I didn’t go easy on us this month did I?
This was a really interesting pick, Nelly. I’ve not finished it yet - in fact I’m only about a third of the way through - and I too have found it challenging. Mostly in a good way. It’s nice to stretch those cerebral muscles sometimes but, like you, it’s not always a collection I’m excited to pick up and it hasn’t swept me away in the way that others have. It very much asks us to stop and consider…something. Sometimes it felt like I was being asked to consider what the poet was trying to convey, and other times it felt like a challenge to my own thoughts and perspectives: “what do you really think?”
Despite only being a short way through, I’ve bookmarked a few poems to return to and there are certain lines that really struck me.
In the second poem ‘Curl’, I love the closing:
It seems wrong
to curl now within the confines
of a poem. You can’t hide
from what you made
inside what you made
or so I’m told.
And in ‘Little song’, I found the opening line really powerful:
You can’t stay vigilant and remain alive.
Although this is a slow read for me, I am looking forward to continuing to explore it with openness and thoughtfulness.
This is such an interesting piece. You ask/discuss all the questions I grapple with! It's really good to hear them aired so openly. I'm intrigued by this book now.
(I have written a poem with my own name in it, by the way!! 😁)
Maine Memories: Low Tide and Pink Flamingos
Plein Air Ponderings
Bar Island, Mt. Desert, Maine / July 16, 2024
Remembering Adlestrop
Edward Thomas and names as poetry
Yes. I remember Adlestrop— The name, because one afternoon Of heat the express-train drew up there Unwontedly. It was late June.
It really is a great poem. I think there's something special, too, about placing a proper name at the end of a line. Marlowe does this so often and it always works:
With milk-white harts upon an ivory sled
Thou shalt be drawn amidst the frozen pools,
And scale the icy mountains' lofty tops,
Which with thy beauty will be soon resolv'd:
My martial prizes, with five hundred men,
Won on the fifty-headed Volga's waves,
Shall we all offer to Zenocrate,
And then myself to fair Zenocrate.
Or, similarly, Celan's Todesfuge.
I'm not sure this is a poem about names. I think it's about the way a name (in this case 'Adlestrop') is the magic sound that opens a rich memory, a particular instant. And then he invites you into the memory, which is sensual but not really linked to other particular names. Grass is generic. Birds are generic. And everybody knows what a blackbird looks like (though not everyone would automatically hear its song, as Thomas would have done). Willow is green and willowy, and it doesn't matter what you see for 'willowherb', it's the sound repetition that suggests green and soft, the herb and the willow, and for 'meadowsweet', it's the meadow, and the sweetness. Isn't it the 'feel' of the words that matters here, not the precise image or the particular names? Also the way that sensation (oh for a life of sensations not thoughts!) that opens out into two whole counties, not one named place. And yet one name (Adlestrop) conjures this instant, this moment stopped in time. I've known this poem all my life it seems -- well, at least for 58 years -- and I'm sure I had no idea what willowherb was when I first read it, or meadowsweet either, but I didn't feel the need to look them up. The words just sounded right. And I knew that I KNEW that moment, that Adlestrop moment. I know what the plants look like now, but even so, when I read the poem I don't 'see' them. I'm immersed in the sound and the sensation. It's funny that 'Adlestrop' itself is a clunky word. The irony is that it conjures a magic moment.
Bubblegum Pink or 13 pink objects in your hands
instructions for activation of poem
Hi everyone, this is a poem response to Sophie’s simlish words! It’s also a strange little poem which I wrote as one of multiple parts of this pink project I worked on for my “Thinking and writing through art” grad school summer class with Sheryda Warrener.
Is pink a light shade of red?
The Nymph Will Not Wilt, Poem 1: Youth
Fantasy poetry project
This is the first poem in a fantastical poetry series called ‘The Nymph Will Not Wilt’. It features a mythical nymph-like figure who embodies all the beautiful aspects of nature. Her charm is something that’s admired for its youthfulness and vitality, but as all things touched by time, she, too, will have to face the idea of mortality.
The Work Poetry Newsletter July 2025
CALL YOUR SENATORS: TELL THEM TO VOTE NO ON THE SO-CALLED "BIG BEAUTIFUL BILL" TAX SCAM TO BENEFIT BILLIONAIRES: (202) 224-3121
Join me on July 12 at the Arts Hub for my first drop-in poetry workshop at our new location: https://printedmattervancouver.com/2025/05/21/the-work-poetry-workshop-moves-to-its-new-home-at-the-arts-hub-on-july-12-birdhouse-books-migrates-to-ronald-records/
Related Poetry Substacks
